Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories Read online

  “So that’s why they didn’t come,” Evelyn murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Then, seeing the question in Henry’s eyes, she hastily said, “I didn’t take them. A friend gave them to me.”

  “Did your friend steal them?”

  Evelyn’s eyes drifted to the floor. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “What is your friend’s name?’

  Evelyn’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I can’t tell you. I made a promise.”

  Henry exhaled loudly. “I appreciate that you want to keep your word, but you must know that this could be the only thing standing between you and your happy ending.”

  Evelyn felt her cheeks burn as a strange mix of shame and guilt swirled in her head. “But I promised,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  She almost jumped when he reached out and took her face in his hands. Gently but firmly he raised it until their eyes met. His voice was sweet but urgent when he spoke. “I’m here to help you; and I won’t stop trying.”

  Then he let go and stepped away. “Look around you, Evelyn. Do you want to stay like this? Do you want to be a cinder-girl?”

  Letting her gaze wander around the factory, Evelyn took in the familiar sights. The stinking, smoking furnaces, the grind of the machines and the screech of the conveyer belts—all controlled by workers who had become more machine than human themselves. She felt a spark of discontent in her stomach, but a stronger feeling rapidly crushed it.

  “No,” she whispered. “But I deserve to be one.”

  4

  “I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  Rosalind didn’t look up from her sketching to acknowledge Marius’s presence. He’d taken his sweet time to finally speak; for the last few minutes Rosalind had felt him looming over her chair like lightning ready to strike.

  A crackling fire and several strategically placed candelabra lit the king’s private drawing room. It was King Cygnus’s after-dinner tradition to coop all his family up in this posh little room. To Rosalind, having all the royal family together was an overdressed grenade ready to explode. The queen could never join them, however. Apparently she was too ill and kept to her room most of the time.

  Rosalind was the only one drawing in the drawing room. Everyone else had their noses in books. Of course, Rosalind did enjoy reading. But Marius disliked drawing, particularly the scratching sound of pencil against paper, so Rosalind enjoyed drawing even more.

  King Cygnus dozed in his chair, and a dark shadow curled up in the window seat. That dark shadow happened to have a name, which happened to be Darcy; but nobody really notices dark shadows, even named ones. They have a habit of lurking about. People learn to ignore them after a while.

  Across the room from the king, Rosalind scratched harder at her paper. “Hmm. And I suppose I’m responsible for the bad start of our relationship?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  With one fluid movement, Rosalind raised her head and delicately tossed the hair out of her eyes. “What are you getting at?” she demanded. “I’m trying to draw, and you are standing in my light. So either start talking or get out of the way.”

  “I’ll block your light as long as I like.” Marius crossed his arms. “It’s technically my light, by the way.”

  The pencil snapped between Rosalind’s fingers. “We’ve been over this,” she hissed. “It’s your father’s palace. Your father’s light. Can you stop avoiding my question?”

  “You were the one changing the subject.”

  Half of the pencil sailed from her fingers and smacked him squarely between the eyes. “Ow!” he cried, rubbing his forehead. “What was that for?”

  “Figure it out, genius,” she grumbled. “By the way, that was your pencil.”

  His fingers curled into fists. “How I’d love to smack you . . .”

  “You’re scared of hitting me.” She smiled sweetly up at him. “Aren’t you?”

  Marius let out a groan and clutched his head. “This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “We’ll kill each other before our honeymoon is over.”

  “I think you’re being a little too optimistic,” Rosalind replied. “What would you like me to do with the other half of your pencil? Stick it up your nose?”

  “Stick it up your own nose, I don’t care,” he grumbled. “Or throw it at Darcy. He probably deserves it.”

  From behind his book in his dark corner, Darcy glared at them and mumbled something clever. But they didn’t hear him, of course.

  “What I’m trying to get at—”

  “And doing a poor job of expressing yourself,” Rosalind cut in.

  “Because you keep interrupting me!”

  “I’m making clever asides,” she sniffed. “There’s a difference.”

  “Well, be like Darcy and mumble your clever asides. As I was saying, I want to help you. And myself.”

  “What? How? By spontaneously combusting so that I can marry Henry? Most considerate of you!” She continued to smile sweetly at him. “Or do you have other suggestions?”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Marius lowered his voice. “If we work together, we may be able to get out of this somehow. Does that sound all right? I’ll tolerate you if you tolerate me.”

  Rosalind thought for moment and then extended a hand. “It’s a bargain,” she said.

  Darcy watched them shake hands. He glared. But shadows go unnoticed.

  Dull embers glowed in the fireplace, casting more shadow than light across the king’s private sitting room. Sitting up, King Cygnus yawned and rubbed his aching neck, realizing that everyone else had disappeared, possibly hours ago.

  “They’re conspiring,” Darcy said quietly, melting out of the darkness behind his father’s chair.

  The king jumped. “Good gracious; you’ve got to stop lurking about like that,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Who are conspiring?”

  “Rosalind and Marius. To undo the engagement.”

  “Just keep an eye on them, won’t you?”

  Darcy leaned against the fireplace mantel, draping one arm across the wood. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Henry found the real girl.”

  Cygnus’s eyes narrowed. “And who is she?”

  “A cinder-girl.”

  A dark expression passed over the king’s face; it might’ve been the shadow cast by his son, but it would be hard to tell with all the shadows skulking around them.

  “Then you must watch them with even more care. I will not have a cinder-girl for a queen.”

  5

  In the library, a notebook and a tray of tea things rested on a table between the two battle-camps. This no-man’s-land was the meager sign of a precarious truce.

  “So, what are your marvelous ideas?” Rosalind swirled her spoon in her teacup, the soft tink of metal against china echoing around the room. “Have you even got any?”

  “I thought I’d leave the planning to you,” Marius said with a wink. “Isn’t your father a brilliant businessman?”

  Rosalind’s spoon clanged louder. “And isn’t your father the king?”

  Marius growled and slumped in his chair, chin in his hand. “You win,” he muttered into his palm. “But that means you have to come up with the first idea.”

  “Isn’t there a fairy godmother in the city? We could ask her for help.”

  “No. She’ll cause far more trouble than she’s worth. Fairies are always muddling things around. Turning you into frogs, stealing your shoes, getting you lost in the forest with a household of dwarves. And anyway, I doubt any fairy godmother would help the royal family of Arcadia since . . . the fountain.”

  “The fountain?” Rosalind took a sip of her tea and gave him a questioning look. “Do elaborate.”

  “Don’t you remember? I’m not so many ye
ars older than you, but I remember it distinctly.” Marius sat up a little straighter, eager to pontificate. “Arcadia had a treaty with the city Lucernis, which is, you could say, the capital of magic. The city sits on the last spring of magical water. Whoever drinks the water—”

  “Gains magical powers; yes, I know that,” Rosalind cut in.

  Marius glared at her. “Other cities, such as Arcadia, paid tribute to Lucernis to have connecting wells dug in their town centers. That way they could have a share in the magic. Arcadia’s fountain resided in the palace courtyard under heavy guard.”

  “So where’d the fountain go?” Rosalind asked. “Last time I looked, there was no fountain in the courtyard.”

  “About twelve years ago, Lucernis started demanding higher tribute. But they didn’t stop there. Their city leaders, some of them the most powerful fairy godmothers, wanted a say in our government, and in the governments of other cities benefitting from magic. They wanted heirs to the throne, such as me, to be schooled by them. Indoctrinated, my father explained to me.”

  “They were trying to take over,” Rosalind concluded.

  Marius shrugged. “That’s what Father suspected. But their official reason was ‘to stop the misuse of magic and ensure that rulers do not abuse their power.’ Father didn’t like the sound of that.” Marius leaned forward in his chair. “So he destroyed the fountain. He blew it up. Arcadia severed all ties with Lucernis and has been on the brink of war many times.” He gave her a superior look. “I can’t believe you don’t know about any of this.”

  “I seem to remember hearing something about Lucernis and magic,” Rosalind said. “But I was only six then and didn't pay much attention to politics.”

  “What did you pay attention to, dolls and tea parties?”

  She glared. “Actually I preferred tin soldiers and wooden swords.” Then she sighed and set down her teacup. “You’re right, I suppose; that puts the fairy godmother out of the question. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “Well, I was thinking . . .” He glanced around the empty library and leaned closer. “We could fake your death.”

  “What?”

  “Shhh,” Marius hissed, startling forward in his chair and hastily putting out a hand to cover her mouth. “Not so loud. We don’t want the whole of father’s court to know, do we?”

  Even after he removed his hand, she scowled at him. “So how do you want to kill me?”

  “I was thinking you’d get lost in the woods. We’d inform Henry, of course. You two could run off to the next kingdom.”

  “And what would stop your father from finding us?”

  “I’d totter home, bloody and bruised, telling him that we were attacked by an evil fairy. The foul creature dragged you back to his lair—”

  “Stop. Please.” Rosalind set her teacup on the tray and fixed Marius with an incredulous stare. “That’s much too dramatic. No, I think the steam carriage should blow up while we’re taking a ride in the country.”

  “With you in it?”

  “No, you biscuit-face! I’d get out first!”

  Marius held up his hands. “Sorry. Just wanted to clarify.”

  “Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

  “I probably shouldn’t answer that question.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. Unless I can tell you how stupid you are.”

  They could have continued in this vein for some time. But just then a new voice spoke, startling both Rosalind and the prince so completely that they jumped.

  “So how are you going to get the steam carriage to blow up?” Darcy leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb, hands in pockets and mouth twisted into an amused expression.

  “Darcy,” Marius growled. “What are you doing?”

  “I can hear you arguing from my room.” He sauntered into the library, still smirking.

  Rosalind picked up her teacup and lifted it to her lips. “And now you can leave,” she said, and took a sip of tepid tea.

  Darcy raised one brow. “But I want to help.”

  Both Marius and Rosalind stared.

  “Look.” Darcy lowered himself into a chair. “There’s going to be no peace in Arcadia as long as you two are engaged. So I want to help. I know where to get explosives and how to arrange everything so that our attendants see only what they need to see. Details are my specialty, not yours, Marius.”

  Marius shrugged and looked to Rosalind. “Unless you can make the steam carriage explode by touching it, Rosalind, I think this is our next-best option.”

  Rosalind narrowed her eyes at Darcy, uncertain how much she trusted the elegant smile he turned her way. But then, what other choice did she have? “Fine,” she said, setting her teacup down in its saucer with a decisive clang. “But we need to inform Henry.”

  Henry was forthwith summoned to the library. But he received the scheme they related to him without the expected cheer. At least, so Rosalind thought.

  Indeed, he sat stiffly on the overstuffed armchair, strangely quiet and unenthused throughout the explanation. His silence was simultaneously insulting and confusing to Rosalind. The tea in the cup she’d poured for him had long since grown cold. He always drinks the tea I give him, she thought. Just one more thing that seemed off about Henry.

  If Marius noticed any change, he didn’t show it. He lounged in his usual chair, which he had dragged over beside the settee on which Rosalind perched.

  “What do you not like about the plan?” she snapped.

  Henry shrugged. “Everything? Anyway, I’m busy for the next few days.”

  “Busy with what? Do you have something more important to do?” Marius laughed. “This is your future hanging in the balance.”

  “There’s probably a better way.” Henry shrugged, offering a lame smile with no spirit whatsoever behind it.

  “Like what? Talking to your father again?” Rosalind gave him a condescending look.

  “We could try that.”

  Rosalind folded her arms. “And we could try kissing a frog.” She gave her head a small shake, and her voice became sweetly persuasive. “You will cooperate, won’t you?”

  Henry hesitated before rising from his armchair. “I’ll see what my schedule can manage.”

  Rosalind’s perfect little mouth hung open as he strolled from the room.

  “Your spell over him is beginning to wear off,” Marius whispered.

  6

  “Here to see the floor master again?”

  Henry smiled nervously at the receptionist and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Um, yes.”

  She squinted behind her spectacles. “And the girl?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Good.” With one swift motion, the receptionist swiveled around to the wall and flipped a complicated series of switches before speaking into a receiver. “Mr. Jones? A gentleman is here to see you. Yes, the same one.” A few wisps of her mousy hair escaped her tight bun as she turned back to him. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  She continued to stare at him, picking up a pen and tapping it against the desk. The gray dullness of concrete walls around him began to oppress. “You disturb the schedule,” she said suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t make appointments. You barge in and upset the rhythm of the factory; Mr. Jones isn’t pleased.” Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. “What does one cinder-girl matter to you?”

  Henry was saved from answering this question when the door to the office flew open. “You again,” Mr. Jones huffed. His hand shot out automatically to shake Henry’s, but there was no warmth in the gesture. “How can I help you?”

  “I need more information about the girl I talked to last time: her family, her background, anything.” Henry squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “It’s rather urgent.”

  “Is that so? Well, Agnes,” Mr. Jones said with a glance at the woman behind the desk. “Give him anything you have.”

  “Thank you,�
�� Henry said with a warm smile. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  “No, I don’t,” Mr. Jones agreed blandly. “But it apparently matters to your brother; he came to the factory asking about you.”

  Henry’s mind whirled as he accepted the papers from Agnes. “Which brother?”

  “Said his name was Darcy,” Agnes cut in. “Have a nice day.”

  Thus Henry found himself ushered out of the office with a handful of answers and a mind full of new questions.

  Once again, Rosalind sat in the library. It had become a refuge to her, though not quite as secluded as she had first anticipated. Indeed, she was as likely to meet Marius here as not, for he had a way of barging in rather often.

  He barged in now, interrupting her perusal of a suspenseful gothic romance. Even as she was about to read the mysterious, tortured hero’s declaration of undying passion to the piquant young heroine, Rosalind found herself obliged instead to look up into Marius’s decidedly un-mysterious and non-tortured face. “Yes?” she demanded.

  “It’s time you met Mother,” said Marius. It was about as far from a declaration of undying passion as a man could get.

  Rosalind felt anything but piquant. “I rather forgot you had a mother.” She sighed, closing her book. “Do I really have to meet her?”

  “Yes,” said Marius. “She’s sick and kind of dying, so it would be the thoughtful thing to do.”

  Rosalind gave the gothic romance a regretful look, wondering if she’d ever learn the haunting secrets of the hero’s past. But she set it aside and rose. “Now?”

  “Why else would I waste my precious time bothering you?”

  She waved him dismissively towards the door. “Lead on.”

  The queen resided in just the sort of place one would expect: high in a tower, surrounded by pillows and posh finery. Everything bubbled over with lace and light pink. Rosalind spotted upwards of five cats lounging on various windowsills and chairs. Finally, at the last door in the hallway, Marius paused with his hand on the latch and gave Rosalind a solemn glance she couldn’t quite interpret.