Balanced in a one-armed handstand, Cinderella slowly scissored her legs, concentrating on maintaining her balance. Suddenly, a cackling laugh shattered the peaceful silence of the house. Startled, Cinderella wobbled for a moment before catching her balance, and then stepped out of her handstand.
Her stepsisters, Agatha and Gwendolyn, were home.
She pulled her navy skirt back on over her pantaloons and draped her bibbed apron on top, wrapping the grayed ties twice around her waist before smoothing her hands down the coarsely woven fabric.
The heels of her stepsisters’ shoes thumped a hard rhythm above her, making the floorboards groan.
“My feet are killing me.” Gwendolyn’s shrill voice carried through the floor.
“Mine, too,” Agatha said. “Cinderella! Oh, Cinderella!”
Cinderella took a sip of her water.
“Cinderella!” both sisters shouted at once, and the floorboards above her head shook again.
She gave Max one last scratch under his chin before starting up the rickety wooden stairs. Stepping into the parlor, she found Agatha and Gwendolyn sprawled on a pair of matching brocade chairs in front of the fireplace, the mantel of which—like every other surface in the room—was covered with her stepmother’s collection of glass animal figurines. Cinderella wasn’t entirely convinced that some hadn’t once been live animals, and hoped she wouldn’t one day find Max sitting on this shelf.
“There you are.” Agatha, the younger of the two sisters, wrinkled her nose as she spoke. “Help me with my slippers. They’re pinching my dainty little feet.”
“Certainly, Sister.” Cinderella tried hard not to laugh. Agatha’s lush red curls and smooth, peachy complexion were undoubtedly beautiful, but her feet were anything but dainty. Agatha’s feet matched the considerable height she’d inherited from her equally statuesque mother.
Agatha’s dark red satin dress fit her perfectly, and the ivory ribbon at her bust complemented her pale skin nicely. But any pride Cinderella felt in her own skills as a seamstress was outweighed by resentment. How could she be fully proud of something she’d been forced to make? Especially when she didn’t possess one nice dress herself. The only clothes she had, she was wearing.
She silently admonished herself. Envy wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“ Take mine off first,” Gwendolyn said, lifting her silk-covered arms above her head.“You put the wrong size slippers on my poor feet today.” She tugged on one of the deep brown ringlets dropping down from the elaborate hairstyle Cinderella had spent an hour on that morning, and then stretched her long, lean limbs forward on the white rug to reveal her huge feet, bent and pinched into pink slippers two sizes too small. Both sets of her sisters’ shoes were coated in filth; Cinderella’s gaze followed a muddy trail across the room.
More floor scrubbing would be one of her next chores, and it would take hours to clean the muck out of the rug—not to mention the shoes.
She knelt down before Gwendolyn to tackle her first assignment. She searched in vain for one clean spot on the silk shoes that would take hours of meticulous work to turn back to their previous pink, but could find none. She tugged at the heel.
“Careful.” Gwendolyn kicked her in the shoulder and Cinderella fell onto her bottom.
“Do you think we’ll be invited to the royal ball?” Agatha asked her sister, ignoring Cinderella.
Cinderella pulled herself off the floor and turned her back to Gwendolyn to gain the necessary leverage for prying the shoe from her stepsister’s foot. More dirt scattered onto the white rug.
“Of course we will, silly.” Gwendolyn’s knee bumped Cinderella’s back. “Get out of the way, you stupid, ugly girl. Why aren’t my shoes off yet?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Agatha said. “Prince Tiberius needs a wife. Any fine family with unmarried daughters is sure to be invited.”
“Especially those families whose daughters are both unmarried and beautiful, such as us,” Gwendolyn said, and both girls giggled.
Goosebumps rose on Cinderella’s arms. Yes, her stepsisters were beautiful, but what husband would want to live with their ugly laughs?
Cinderella smiled at her own joke as she pulled Gwendolyn’s shoes off, and then removed Agatha’s. After bundling the shoes into her arms, she stood.
“Cinderella, where’s my tonic?” Gwendolyn screeched. “You know if I don’t take my tonic soon after my evening meal, I suffer from indigestion.” She burped loudly. The strong stench of onions and gas made Cinderella feel faint. On the nights her family ate out, the lack of table scraps meant Cinderella didn’t eat a single morsel.
She glanced to the carafe of tonic sitting on the side table not four feet from her stepsister. Would it kill Gwen to stand and pour herself a drink? “I’ll fetch your tonic as soon as I take these shoes to the cellar for cleaning.” Cinderella started for the door.
“Get it now, you lazy girl!” Gwen stood and pulled Cinderella’s blonde hair, yanking her back.
“Ow!” Cinderella dropped one of the shoes and more dirt scattered onto the carpet.
“You clumsy thing.” Agatha kicked the shoe out of Cinderella’s reach just as she was about to retrieve it and looked up to Gwen, as if seeking approval.
“Clumsy and lazy.” Gwendolyn kicked the shoe again. “This room is filthy—look at the trail of mud—and I still don’t have my tonic.”
Cinderella dropped all the shoes to the floor. “It wasn’t me who tracked mud in, it was you. And the tonic’s right there. Pour it yourself. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Busy?” Gwendolyn stood, indignant. “You ungrateful brat. How could you possibly be busy? You stay in this house all day long. Your only responsibility is to do a little tidying, while Agatha and I are tasked with all the important duties.”
“Yes,” Agatha added. “We do everything.”
Towering a good eight inches above Cinderella’s diminutive frame, Gwendolyn shoved her. “You have no worries, no serious duties to perform. You have no need to shop, or pick out an outfit each day, or ensure your handbag matches your slippers.”
Cinderella bit her tongue. Her stepsisters had terrible taste and relied on her to select their clothes each day. Not that Gwen was likely to admit it out loud.
“Goodness knows she never does anything with her hair,” Agatha said, and smiled at Gwen.
“Why bother?” Gwendolyn sneered. “That straight, stringy stuff? It looks like straw.” Cinderella fumed as Gwendolyn patted the deep brown hair that Cinderella had spent hours twisting and coiling that morning.
She couldn’t help it if her own hair was limp and straight. If she stole a fraction of the time she spent on her stepsisters’ hair each morning for herself, her own hair would show a great deal of improvement. The one time she’d managed to sneak some of her stepsisters’ hair soap and use hot water, her hair had shone like gold when she passed through a sunbeam.
“Speaking of grooming”—Gwendolyn’s lip curled into a sneer—“does she even bathe?”
“Oh, Gwen, you’re terrible.” Agatha lifted a hand to her lips.
Gwendolyn smiled at her sister. “At least the soot on her cheeks almost covers those hideous freckles.” The two stepsisters giggled.
Cinderella drew deep breaths to calm herself, remembering her ninja training. Sticks and stones, she thought. Sticks and stones.
“No wonder she’s never asked to attend the endless luncheons and teas and banquets and balls we frequent,” Gwendolyn said.
“I wish I could stay home all day.” Agatha plopped back onto her chair. “We have so many obligations.”
“She has no idea how hard we work.” Gwendolyn crossed her arms and glared at Cinderella.
The deep breathing was not working for Cinderella and she wondered if ninjas ever had to deal with people as horrible as her stepsisters. Agatha and Gwendolyn wouldn’t recognize work if it stepped up to shake their manicured hands.
“How ungrateful.” Gwendolyn picked up one of the shoes and threw it at Cinderella. “In spite of your plain looks and utter uselessness, our mother has generously put a roof over your head.”
“This is my house,” Cinderella muttered under her breath.
“What did you say?” Gwen stepped forward and towered over her much shorter stepsister.
“This house belonged to my father.” Cinderella stood her ground, bracing for whatever might come. “I was born in this house.”
“Yeah, and killed your mother in the process,” Gwendolyn snickered.
Cinderella’s throat caught. How dare Gwendolyn be so cruel as to bring up her mother’s death? She’d died during childbirth. Her mother’s absence weighed like a stone on Cinderella’s chest, and the loss had broken her poor father’s heart.
“Your father hated you so much for killing your mother”—Gwen examined her nails—“that he had to find new daughters. Better daughters.” She smiled at Agatha.
“That’s not true!” Cinderella’s cheeks flushed. “He was sad, but he didn’t blame me.”
Had he blamed her? She fought to keep her lips from quivering. Her stepsisters had gone several steps beyond mean. “My father loved me. If he were still alive—”
“But he’s not, is he?” boomed her stepmother in a deep voice as she entered the room.
Oh, great, thought Cinderella. As if this day couldn’t get any worse.
The tall, dark-haired woman strode in, wearing a bright blue gown, a scarlet velvet jacket, and a menacing scowl.
“Your father is dead, Cinderella. Get over it already.”
Cinderella’s insides shook, and she tried not to let the tremors show on her face.
Her stepmother took off her long, scarlet gloves. “It’s bad enough the man inconsiderately left me with the costs and responsibilities of maintaining this property. He also saddled me with you.” She snapped the gloves against one hand. “Child or not, the day of my thoughtless husband’s tragic fall to his death, I should have put you out for the wolves. Perhaps I still should.”
“Then do it,” Cinderella muttered as she picked up her stepsisters’ shoes. “Let me go, please.” She hated her stepmother for putting the image of her father’s broken body back into her mind.
Her stepmother pursed her lips. “Cinderella, as I’ve told you many times, you may leave when you learn to behave.” She strode up to Cinderella and glared down at her. “Or when you give me what I want.”
Cinderella clamped her mouth shut and lowered her gaze. Years ago, she’d given up trying to convince her stepmother that she didn’t know where her real mother’s wand was hidden. She truly had no idea, but her stepmother’s continued suspicion that she did was likely the only thing that was keeping her from throwing Cinderella to the wolves.
The tall woman circled Cinderella like a mountain lion teasing its prey. “Besides, I can’t toss you out. That would be cruel. A girl like you, with no skills, who’s lived a sheltered life under my protection—you wouldn’t survive one day in the real world.”
Cinderella drew a deep breath to keep herself from saying anything. She’d talked back enough today. Provoking her stepmother never paid—it cost. Over the years it had cost Cinderella burns and bruises and, three times, broken bones.
And what her stepmother said about her chances of survival outside this house? They had to be better than her chances of surviving in it.
She might not know the ways of the world, she might not have been blessed with great beauty, she might not be able to break a strong wizard’s entrapment spells or get past vicious wolves, but she had a secret weapon: determination. If obeying her stepmother didn’t earn Cinderella her release, she was determined to obtain a wand—somehow, someway—and with it, master enough magic to burst out from under her stepmother’s crushing grip.
Her stepmother looked down. “Cinderella, why is there dirt all over these floors? And why were you chatting with your sisters when clearly there’s work to be done?”
“She hasn’t fetched my tonic yet,” Gwendolyn said. “And I asked her for it ages ago. She’s so lazy.”
“Lazy, ungrateful girls need to be taught a lesson,” her stepmother said as she pulled her shiny black wand from its sleek holder strapped around her waist.
Cinderella braced herself. Would she spend another night as a mouse? Last time that happened, she’d had to hide behind a cupboard to ensure she didn’t end up as Max’s dinner.
Her stepmother strode around the room, her wand raised high. “When was the last time this room was dusted?”
“Two hours ago.” The words had barely left Cinderella’s mouth when a thick blanket of black dust landed on every surface except a small circle surrounding Agatha and Gwendolyn, who laughed loudly when they saw Cinderella’s new predicament.
“I see you’re a liar, too, Cinderella. Either that or you’re highly incompetent and should take more care, have a little pride in your work.” Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed and darkened, and a chill fell over the room. “And if I find even one of my precious statues cracked or broken, you’ll pay with a few breaks of your own.”
Cinderella’s muscles tensed as she glanced around at the hundreds of glass figurines it took her hours to dust each day.
Her stepmother flicked her magic wand and a life-sized parrot sculpture with lifelike feathers etched into crystal tipped off the edge of the stone mantel.
Cinderella leaped straight over her stepsisters in a gravity-defying hurdle, and snatched the delicate sculpture before it smashed into the stone hearth. She barely had time to rise up on her tiptoes to set it carefully back on the mantel before a life-size glass statue of a wolf teetered back and forth on its wooden stand on the other side of the room.
She vaulted over Agatha’s brocade chair, narrowly missing Agatha herself, and set the wolf gently on the carpet.
“Clumsy girl.” Her stepmother’s voice was hard and sharp. “I’ll teach you to be more careful with my things.”
Cinderella scanned the room, wondering what her next challenge would be. An ornate sculpture of a vulture, with drops of red glass dripping from its beak—one she’d always hated—shifted toward the edge of its pedestal high above the floor.
She raced toward it.
“What a fool.”
Her head spun at her stepmother’s voice behind her to see her real mother’s vase, a simple, elegant, clear glass vessel, hovering in the air.
Cinderella’s heart pinched and the air whooshed from her lungs. The vase was the only thing left in this house that once belonged to her mother. If the vase were to fall . . .
The vulture slid another inch, started to tip, and Cinderella sucked in a ragged breath. Her ninja acrobatics could take her only so far. Her speed and agility wouldn’t let her save both the vulture and the vase, and her magic skills were too weak.
Even if her magic were stronger, she couldn’t let her stepmother know she’d inherited even a tiny amount of her powerful mother’s skills—at least not yet.
She lunged to save the vulture, and as she caught it, its sharp-edged beak pierced her hand. She winced in pain and set the vulture on the floor, and bright red blood dripped down her arm.
The sound of her mother’s vase smashing into a hundred pieces assaulted her ears and penetrated her heart. Grief grabbed the inside of Cinderella’s throat, and she dropped to her knees. Agony gripped her belly, her chest, the backs of her eyes, but she swallowed the instinct to cry. She could not show her stepmother how much she hurt.
“I’ll take my bath now,” said her stepmother, her voice cold and sharp as an icicle.“And this mess had better be cleaned up by the time I am done.”
After cleaning dust and mud from every surface in the sitting room, scrubbing everyone’s shoes, and ensuring her stepsisters had at least two clothing choices for the next day—each with perfectly matched slippers and handbags—Cinderella set a half-filled watering can at the edge of her small vegetable patch.
All around the edges of the garden, red eyes glared at her through the darkness.
“Go away, wolves!” she shouted to the vicious animals that encircled the property and kept her from escaping through the woods behind the back garden, or down the road that led to the village. At least her stepmother had enchanted the edges of the property—or perhaps the animals themselves. The wolves never took a step past the edge of the trees, and after a few terrifying escape attempts during which she’d narrowly avoided being eaten, Cinderella had never again stepped into the woods. Without a weapon, her ninja skills were no match for a pack of hungry wolves, and her fledgling magic skills certainly weren’t.
Cinderella turned away from the woods and studied her watering can, heavy and glinting in the moonlight. Earlier, she’d used magic to lift the empty container off the ground. It couldn’t be that much harder to lift it partly filled, could it?
But she soon found that it was. And after a few unsuccessful attempts, Cinderella was so exhausted she could barely see straight.
She looked up at the moon. Only four hours before she had to rise and draw the water for the morning baths and make breakfast. Her sisters rarely rose before the sun was high in the sky, but her stepmother was less predictable, and Cinderella knew she’d pay a steep price should her stepmother’s porridge not be ready at the very moment she called for it. She’d pay an even steeper price should she dare taste a spoonful before the rest of her family had taken their fill.
Max nudged against her leg and meowed his encouragement. If he weren’t a cat, she’d swear he was coaching her.
“You’re right, Max.” She crouched to stroke his back. “If I can clean up that mess in the sitting room in only two hours, I can do this.” She rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and lifted her hand.
Concentrate. Concentrate.
The watering can lifted slowly from the ground, an inch at first, then two, and then three inches. Her mood also lifted with each inch it rose. Every nerve in her body tingled and the feeling trailed out to her fingertips as the watering can continued to rise. Once it reached a foot off the ground, she shifted the angle of her hand and the can tipped. Just another few inches and the water would pour out onto the delicate lettuces below.
A rabbit raced across the garden.
The wolves howled.
Cinderella lost her concentration, and the watering can tumbled into the dirt, spilling water into a puddle.
She sighed, but Max jumped into her arms and licked her chin. “Thanks, Max. I did do better this time.”
Most nights it felt as though she’d never develop the skills to escape. She was a puny, untrained, inexperienced girl, lacking even a wand to amplify and hone what little magic she’d inherited from her mother—no match for a powerful and evil wizard like her stepmother. But every day, she became more sure: if she didn’t escape soon, her stepmother would eventually kill her.
“Is that dirt under your fingernails?” Gwendolyn’s upper lip sneered in disgust as Cinderella stood behind her in front of the ornately carved vanity mirror.
Cinderella glanced down to her hands, holding the ends of a complex pattern of interlocked sections of Gwendolyn’s dark hair. It had taken her nearly an hour to get to this point, and if she so much as shifted her hands now, before she fastened the final sections with pins, the entire hairdo would fall apart and she’d have to start over.
“I asked you a question!” Gwendolyn shrieked angrily. Although Gwendolyn was pretty, with her deep brown hair, rose-tinted skin, and flashing green eyes, she could certainly twist her face into expressions that argued with her beauty.
“I’m almost done.” Cinderella tightened her hold on the complicated plaits and twists, readying it for the first pin. She wiggled one hand out to grab one.
Gwendolyn yanked away. “Ow! You pulled my hair.”
Cinderella’s hands dropped to her sides and she drew a deep breath. “Gwen, it was you who pulled away. Now I need to begin again, and if we don’t start quickly, you’ll never get out of the house today.”
“You’re not touching me with those hands.” Gwendolyn’s nose wrinkled. “My hair is filthy now. I need another bath.” She shuddered in an exaggerated manner that befit her status as a drama queen, and Cinderella withheld the impulse to roll her eyes.
“My hands aren’t dirty.” Cinderella looked at her nails. There was a tiny line of dirt under the nail of her left index finger. How in the world had Gwendolyn even noticed?
She slipped her hands behind her back. “If you like, I’ll scrub them again, but there’s no time to rewash and dry your hair. Not if you want it woven into a butterfly pattern today.”
Agatha poked her head in from her adjoining bedroom. “Cinderella, what is taking you so long?” she demanded.“Help me with my makeup.”
Even with her shiny red hair up in curlers, Agatha, with her lovely, peachy complexion, was genuinely pretty, yet she insisted that Cinderella line her eyes with kohl and adorn her skin with the finest of creams and powders each morning.
“In a moment.” Cinderella backed toward the door.“I’m just running down to the cellar to scrub my fingernails.”
“What?” Agatha burst into the room, and her hooped pannier frame, without the weight of a dress draped on top, bounced ridiculously with each step. “How could you possibly be so inconsiderate?”
“Inconsiderate?” Who was being inconsiderate? Her stepsisters were wasting her time and a small bubble of irritation rose in her chest. There was no chance that even a speck of dirt had landed on either of her sisters this morning. If her ten minutes with the nail brush before she’d gone to bed last night hadn’t dislodged it, no way had working on her sisters’ hair or skin done it.
Agatha strode forward and the cagelike undergarment bounced again, almost making Cinderella laugh. “How can you dawdle on a day like today?” Agatha stuck out her lower lip in a serious pout. Toddlers had nothing on the younger of her two stepsisters, who typically followed her older sister’s lead.
“What’s special about today?” Cinderella asked.
“Idiot! How can you ask such a thing?” Gwendolyn reached forward and poked Cinderella, her long nail nearly piercing the skin just under Cinderella’s collarbone. “ Today is the most important day of my life.”
“Why?”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and backed up from her stepsister. “You stupid girl. Today is the day. I can’t possibly risk not being seen in the village today. What if I’m forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” Cinderella’s curiosity grew in spite of her irritation. All this discussion was dragging out the morning dressing ritual even longer than usual.“Who could possibly forget you?” She felt her scant breakfast rise a little in her throat, but flattery was a tool she pulled out of her box of tricks when the occasion warranted.
“Whoever’s handing out invitations to the ball, you idiot.” Gwendolyn picked through her hair as if she might find evidence of a speck of dirt.
Cinderella furrowed her eyebrows. Last night, while she’d been trying to keep the mud on their shoes from grinding into the white rug, her stepsisters had been muttering something about a ball and invitations and the prince, but Cinderella hadn’t paid them much attention.
Agatha sat on the edge of Gwendolyn’s bed and sank into the feather mattress. “Wouldn’t it be dreamy to marry Prince Tiberius?”
“I guess.” Cinderella didn’t see the immediate appeal, yet felt somewhat excited for her stepsisters if they really thought he’d pick one of them.
Excited for herself, too. If one of her stepsisters became a princess, her stepmother would gain all the power she could possibly want and might even give up on trying to get Cinderella to reveal where her real mother’s wand was hidden.
Even if Cinderella knew where the wand was—which she didn’t—she’d never give it to her stepmother. With the wand’s reputed powers, her stepmother could terrorize not only her, but the whole kingdom.
She refocused on her stepsisters. “You expect the prince to propose marriage today?” Cinderella was pretty sure her stepsisters had never even met the young man.
“No, silly.” Agatha leaned back on her elbows, and the hoops rose up around her as if she were lying in a barrel. She kicked her feet, like two huge duck flippers, in front of her.
Gwendolyn spun from where she’d been playing with her hair. “Do you not pay attention at all? He’ll propose at the ball, the day of the magic festival. We told you last night.”
“There’s a magic festival?” Cinderella wouldn’t have forgotten that.
“Don’t interrupt.” Gwendolyn waved a long, slender finger at Cinderella. “The important part of the day is the ball. The prince will choose his bride from among the young ladies in attendance.”
“Cinderella,” Agatha said as she stood, thrust out her breasts, and ran her hands along imaginary fabric. “You have to sew me the best dress ever, because I plan to be that young lady.”
Gwendolyn leaped up. “Well, that’s going to be impossible, because he’s going to choose me.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I hear he has a preference for dark hair.”
“You don’t know that,” Agatha challenged her sister. “Brown hair is so boring. I’ll bet as soon as he sees my rich, red curls, he’ll fall instantly in love.”
Cinderella tapped her foot on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. Every moment spent dealing with these two was a moment she couldn’t spend doing her chores and then training. “So,” she interrupted their bickering, “I’m still not sure why today’s so important.”
“Fool.” Gwendolyn returned her attention to her hair. “We need to be seen in the village to be sure we receive invitations.”
“Also,” Agatha added, “we should buy up all the best fabrics before the other girls get a chance.”
Cinderella’s eyes ached from the effort of not rolling. Her stepsisters had the worst taste in fabrics, which was something else they’d inherited from their mother. They’d need to purchase every bolt in the store to up their chances of finding the best ones.
“Cinderella, you must help me pick fabrics.” Agatha raised her hands to her bust. “I must have the most beautiful gown ever. What do you think would go best with my hair and show off my eyes? A cherry red, perhaps? Lemon yellow? Lime green?”
Gwendolyn stepped in front of Agatha and said, “No, Cinderella, you must reserve the best fabrics for my gown.”
“Girls, why are you dawdling?”
Cinderella spun, wondering how long her stepmother had been standing in the doorway. “Agatha and Gwendolyn were just telling me how they’ll need new gowns for the prince’s ball.”
“Of course they will,” replied her stepmother. Her tone and expression made it clear Cinderella had made the most idiotic comment ever, but Cinderella refused to react. She knew an opportunity when she saw one.
She stood very still, clasped her hands behind her back, and lowered her head slightly, feigning deference. “I should get started on the gowns immediately.”
Her stepmother didn’t respond.
“Perhaps it would be most efficient if I were to accompany Agatha and Gwendolyn into the village to help select fabrics.” It was a long shot, but it was worth a chance.
Cinderella hadn’t been into the village since she was nine years old. Back then, she’d enjoyed slightly more freedom. She should’ve taken advantage when she had the chance, but at the time, she’d been far too fearful to flee.
“Oh, yes,” said Agatha,“Cinderella does have good luck picking fabrics. Without her, we usually have to bring home ten or fifteen different bolts of cloth before finding one that’s perfect.”
One that was passable was more like it, Cinderella thought to herself.
Gwendolyn curled her lips as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Agatha does have a point. Cinderella might be useless at so many things, but she does make beautiful gowns and has an eye for fabrics. If I’m to snag the prince, I need the best dress possible.”
When her stepmother didn’t immediately reject the idea, Cinderella’s hopes inched upward, but she kept her head down and her expression neutral. If her stepmother realized how badly Cinderella wanted to go to the village, she’d never let her go.
“Agatha, Gwendolyn,” Cinderella said,“thank you for the compliment, but you give me too much credit.” She kept her gaze down. “Your fabric selections are always beautiful.”
She thought it would be best not to specifically mention some of her stepsisters’ previous purchases, like the hideous yellow-and-scarlet upholstery fabric with teapot patterns that Agatha had brought home the last time she’d needed a gown.
If Cinderella played this correctly, she could make her stepmother think it was all her idea to send Cinderella to the village. Even she relied on Cinderella’s taste in fashion and would realize that sending her stepdaughter to choose fabrics was the best and most efficient way to ensure her real daughters shone at the ball.
Silence filled the room, and Cinderella realized she might have gone too far by hinting at the need for a trip to the village. Her stepmother’s hand hovered over her wand, and Cinderella braced herself for whatever punishment she might be forced to endure.
The gong at the front door sounded, and everyone’s head turned to the source of the noise.
“Well?” asked her stepmother after no one moved for a few moments. Her voice sounded full of venom.
Cinderella moved her gaze from the wand to look into her stepmother’s face.
Her stepmother sneered. “Do you expect the door to answer itself?”
“No, of course not.” Feeling slightly giddy that she’d dodged, or at least delayed, whatever bullet had been coming her way, Cinderella skipped down the main stairs in the vaulted front foyer to the door.
She opened the heavy inner door that led to the small entryway separating the main rooms from the outside. It was unbelievably annoying that whoever was outside could easily open the outer door to come in, yet she couldn’t open it herself because of her stepmother’s entrapment spells.
She stepped forward, determined that this would be the day the front door would not only open for her, but that it would also be the day she’d be able to cross its threshold and leave. She grasped the huge iron handle and, for extra insurance, braced one foot on the stone wall beside the door. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated and pulled.
Nothing happened. She pulled again, and the muscles in her upper back felt as if they were about to tear off her body. It felt pointless to keep trying, but trying was all she had.
She dropped her foot, opened the tiny window in the door, and saw a young man dressed in a suit of burgundy and deep gray velvet; an ostrich feather stuck out jauntily from his floppy black hat. He was undoubtedly a messenger from the castle. She had to admit she was somewhat impressed by his fine uniform.
“The door is unlocked,” she told the messenger.“Just give me a moment to back out of the way, and then you can enter.” If she were standing within six feet of the door, the spell would prevent its movement.
“You want me to open the door myself?” the messenger asked.
“Yes, my hands are full.” Although visitors to the house were rare, she’d worked up a list of excuses over the years.
Even if the cook and grooms employed by her stepmother could see her—which they didn’t seem to be able to do, likely the effect of another dark spell—she couldn’t ask them for help. If she ever told another soul about the entrapment spells, both she and the person she told would be turned into stone.
The messenger opened the door and stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling a surprising amount of the door’s width. His black hat was tilted forward so that it shielded his face from the light and made his features hard to discern. He was tall, and although the uniform was slightly worn and baggy, Cinderella could see the young man had a strong form beneath his broad shoulders.
“Your hands aren’t full,” he said as he stepped forward.
She stepped back. “I put everything down.”
He walked past her into the foyer, glanced around, and, not spotting any evidence of baggage, looked at her curiously. “Where?”
Caught in her lie, Cinderella squirmed under the gaze of his bright blue eyes. Moths fluttered in her belly, as if she had a light in there to which they were drawn.
Mentally swatting the moths away, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Excuse me, but I expect you came here with a purpose. Now that you’ve barged all the way in, would it be too much to ask what that purpose might be?”
He tipped his head back, as if startled at her question, and she caught another glimpse of his handsome face. Her moths started up again.
He removed his hat and bowed toward her. “My apologies, Miss. This is your home and I’m an intruder. Forgive me.”
“Certainly.” Her cheeks burned. She hadn’t expected him to bow. Men bowed to her stepmother and stepsisters, but not to her. She was nobody.
He straightened and the light struck his smooth cheeks, crisply angled jaw, and blond hair that—now released from under the hat—hung about his face like unruly golden corkscrews.
She sucked in a sharp breath. The messenger, not much older than she, was far more handsome than any man who’d come to their home before. In fact, she hadn’t realized this particular combination of ruggedness and good looks was possible in a human being. But it wasn’t his looks that struck her most; it was his smile and the glint in his eyes as he studied her with what almost looked like admiration.
An entirely new kind of fluttering started up in her belly.
She swallowed hard before saying, “No, it was I who was rude.” It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t open the door to her own house, and he’d borne the brunt of her frustration.
His grin widened, revealing dimples on his cheeks. “Shall we put it behind us?”
“Yes, please.” Relief flooded through her. “How may I help you?”
He cleared his throat. “Other than yourself, how many unmarried young women reside here?”
“I live here with my stepmother and two stepsisters, Agatha and Gwendolyn. Perhaps you have heard of them. They tell me that their beauty is renowned.” She swallowed the shame she felt for poking fun at her stepsisters, even if the messenger might not have sensed her sarcasm. They were pretty, sure, but it was boastful of them to constantly say so.
“Renowned beauties, you say.” His eyes flashed mischief. “I’m afraid I’ve yet had the pleasure to make their acquaintance, but if they’re half as beautiful as you are charming, their beauty must be renowned indeed.” He stepped back, executed another half bow, and Cinderella’s stomach lurched.
She steadied herself and grinned. At least he had a sense of humor.
“Oh.” He clasped his hands together. “What a lovely smile.”
His voice was soft and deep and reminded Cinderella of how she’d felt the one time she’d tasted chocolate. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe she was beautiful like her stepsisters. She wasn’t ugly, she knew that—just plain.
Enough of this, she thought. He was teasing her and eventually her stepmother would expect her back upstairs; there was no sense risking another punishment. “Beyond false flattery,” she asked, “do you have a purpose for your visit?”
His body stiffened, and she felt badly that she’d spoken so sharply.
He reached into the leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder and handed her four envelopes. “The king and queen extend their invitation to you and your family and hope you’ll attend a ball given in the prince’s honor.”
She accepted the envelopes, which were made of fine linen paper with gilded edges. Imagine, all that gold used simply to adorn letters.
“Will you attend?” he asked, another smile spreading on his handsome face.
Oh, thought Cinderella with a sense of urgency, he wanted a response now. Should she respond on everyone’s behalf? “I’m certain my stepsisters will attend.”
His smile faded. “Not you?”
Cinderella let out a short burst of laughter, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands.
He looked almost hurt or offended. Ashamed of her outburst, Cinderella cast her eyes down at the floor. He didn’t know his suggestion was ridiculous. In fact, he couldn’t know why it was, or he’d turn to stone. “Do you need our responses right now?” she asked. “Because I can call up to my stepsisters and—”
“That won’t be necessary.” He returned the cap to his head and tucked all his loose golden curls back under it. “But I do hope you’ll come.”
Cinderella stammered. “I-I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“What’s not possible?” her stepmother said from the top of the stairs.
A chill invaded the room and Cinderella backed away from the messenger. There was no need to drag him into whatever horrible punishment her stepmother might have in store. She braced herself.
“Good morning, Madam.” The messenger bowed again, this time toward her stepmother. “I am here to extend invitations from the palace for you and your three daughters.”
Her stepmother smiled, and Cinderella cringed. “For my three daughters, you say?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I understand there are two other lovely young women at this residence?” The messenger’s expression had changed, and so had his voice. It had grown more formal and distant. It was almost as if he could sense the danger that lurked behind her stepmother’s smile and upturned lips.
Fighting to keep her hand from shaking, Cinderella climbed a few steps and extended the invitations toward her stepmother. She regretted that she hadn’t tucked the fourth one inside her apron. Even if she could never go to the ball, it would’ve been nice to keep the invitation to serve as a reminder that the possibility of something better lay outside the grounds of her home.
Her stepmother took the envelopes and fanned them out. As she watched and waited to see what the woman might do, it felt to Cinderella as if hours passed. She didn’t fear for herself. She was accustomed to her stepmother’s cruelty. It was the young messenger she worried about. He didn’t deserve to be punished for delivering an extra envelope.
Her stepmother raised her head. “Thank you,” she said, her tone making it clear that the messenger was dismissed.
When he bowed a second time to her stepmother, he tossed a quick glance at Cinderella and winked. She raised a hand to her mouth to cover her smile.
As soon as he was out the door, her stepmother dangled one of the invitations between her index finger and thumb, as if it were poisonous. “Well then, Cinderella,” her stepmother said, an evil glint in her eye. “It seems you’ve been invited to the ball. Would you like to attend?”
If you were Cinderella, what would you do?
OPTION A: It must be another of her stepmother’s tricks, but what has she got to lose? And on the long shot that her stepmother’s question isn’t a cruel tease, there’s a chance the prince might choose Cinderella to be his bride—her ticket out of servitude. Besides, marrying a prince sounds dreamy. If you think she should say yes, go to section 2: Crystal Clarity (page 39).
OPTION B: Even if her stepmother is serious, what is there to gain from going to a ball? How boring. Not to mention, even if marrying the prince would get Cinderella out from under her stepmother’s spell, she’d be trapped in a royal marriage with all its pretentious customs and ceremonies. When she chooses a husband, it’ll be for love, not money. If you think she should say thanks, but no thanks, go to section 3: Hard Work Rewarded (page 73).