Free Instead of Three Wishes by Megan Whalen Turner Page B

well,” she said, “you can just imagine how surprised I was. It had never occurred to me that my friends must have had paintings of their own. All of my days with Olga came back in a rush. I dragged my fiancé through as much of the museum as was open, telling him the story as we went. He was able to suggest likely painters for each subject, but no others of my friends were here. Later, I pagedthrough art book after art book until I found them all.”
    She tugged at my hand, and I followed her out of the gallery.
    â€œI badgered the curators here at the National Gallery and donated pots of your great-great-grandfather’s money so that this museum could acquire the portraits of each of my friends, I even found the Canaletto. You’ve seen it. It’s the painting at the top of the stairs at home.”
    One by one, she showed me all of her friends. We walked across the main hall to look at Lady Caroline Howard painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The hat on her head did look like a small wedding cake. She was reaching out with one silk-gloved hand to brush the petals of the rosebush beside her.
    Antonio was in the galleries at the other end of the museum. His nameplate said only “A Youth,” but he had the chestnut hair that my aunt had described. Around the neck of his shirt was a thin collar embroidered with the same deep black as the velvet on his cap.
    â€œSee the tassels on his hat?” Aunt Charlotte asked. “I always forget those tassels until I see them again.” They were tiny tassels, marked by just a dash of gold paint.
    Rannuccio was not on display. My aunt led me by the hand through a door marked “Museum Officials Only.” Behind it were cement corridors lit by bare lightbulbs. In a windowless office we founda man who was expecting us. He took us to a room filled floor to ceiling with racks of paintings. He slid one painting from the racks and carried it to an easel. Then he left us alone to admire Rannuccio in his fancy clothes.
    Afterward, we went to the café. We sat in silence, Aunt Charlotte sipping her coffee while I drank my soda. Finally I had to ask, “Is it a true story, Aunt Charlotte?”
    Aunt Charlotte looked at me without saying anything for a while. Then she said “I’ve told you my story. What you believe is up to you, Marguerite.”
    What you believe is up to you.

Instead of Three Wishes
    S elene and the elf prince met on a Monday afternoon in New Duddleston when she had gone into town to run an errand for her mother. Mechemel was there to open a bank account. He had dressed carefully and anonymously for his trip in a conservative gray suit, a cream-colored shirt, a maroon tie. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carried a black leather briefcase. Selene hardly noticed him the first time she saw him.
    He was standing on the traffic island in the middle of Route 237 when she went into Hopewell’s Pharmacy and was still there when she came out again. She thought he must be cold on a November day with no hat and no gloves. He looked a little panicked out on the median by himself. The traffic light had changed. The walk sign reappeared, but Mechemel remained on the island, rooted to the concrete, with his face white and his pale hair blown up by the wind. Selene walked out to ask if he needed a hand.
    â€œYoung woman,” he snapped, “I am perfectlycapable of crossing a street on my own.” Selene shrugged and turned to go, but the light had changed again and she, too, was stranded. While she waited for another chance to cross, the cars sped by. The breeze of their passing pushed Selene and the elf prince first forward, then back. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. When the walk sign reappeared, she was eager to get back to the sidewalk and catch her bus for home. A few steps into the crosswalk, she noticed that the elf prince still had not moved.
    Rude old man, she thought, I should leave him here. But she