Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories Page 11

  “Marius!” a voice cooed as they entered. The queen was drowning in a sea of blankets and pillows, smiling like a child at a candy-cart. She was small, with papery white skin that could flake away at any moment. It was a wonder she wasn’t a pile of dust. She had Marius’s eyes; or rather, Marius had hers. Her hair floated about her head in a wispy gold cloud that echoed the glorious waves adorning Marius’s head.

  Her haunting eyes rested on Rosalind. “Who is this?” she cried delightedly. “Come closer, darling.”

  Rosalind and Marius approached at the beckoning of her spindly fingers; as soon as Rosalind reached her bedside, the queen snatched up her hand. For such a frail woman, she had a strong grip.

  “This is my fiancée, Mother,” Marius announced. “Her name is Rosalind.”

  “Rosalind,” the queen repeated. Her face glowed. “What a pretty queen you’ll make. How soon is the wedding?”

  Marius shrugged. “Soon, I think. As soon as you like.”

  “This is all so wonderful but—” The queen paused and glanced between her son and Rosalind. “Do you love her?”

  Rosalind wished she could yank her hand away and run.

  “We’re going to be married,” Marius replied slowly. “Aren’t you happy? Isn’t that what you want?”

  “But you don’t love her.”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is—”

  “Your father is making you do this, isn’t he? Because I want to see you married before I die.” The queen’s eyes glittered with tears.

  “I admit I don’t know Rosalind very well. But over time, that can change.” Marius added a reassuring smile. “Really, Mother, I will be happy.”

  “You won’t. Not like this . . .” Her eyes and voice drifted away from them. “I’m tired.”

  Rosalind finally found words to say. “Then we’ll let you rest, Your Majesty.” With a gentle tug, she freed her hand from the queen’s grasp and led Marius from the room. He dropped onto a windowsill as soon as the door closed.

  “My life is miserable,” he groaned. “I can never please them.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t do things for them,” Rosalind said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Do something for yourself.”

  He looked up at her. “Like our plan?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  7

  From the exterior, the Sevrays’ house was a mirror image of Rosalind’s and all the others on the street. Soft memories ached dully in Henry’s heart as he knocked on the door. It was almost the same color as the Coppers’. How quickly the sweetness of that fragile romance had faded! Yet the pain was faint, far fainter than Henry would’ve expected.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and his fist rapped harder against the wood. A moment passed. Then two. Rosalind had always sent a servant to answer the door much more speedily than this if, having spotted Henry from the window, she didn’t hasten to answer it herself. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe this was none of his business. Did he really want his brother to marry a cinder-girl, anyway?

  His indecision grew firm roots tying him to the doorstep. He had almost conquered it and was about to leave—

  The door opened.

  The maid standing across the threshold stared dully at him. “Lady Sevray was not expecting visitors.”

  You’re the king’s son, Henry reminded himself. Use that power. Gathering all his courage, he drew himself up to his full height and showed the girl his signet ring.

  “I am Prince Henry. I wish to speak to your mistress on a matter of business.”

  The servant’s filmy grey eyes widened. “Oh yes, um, of course.” She scurried back, motioning him to follow. “I’ll take you to her right away.”

  Henry trailed after her with firm steps, though she stumbled up the curving staircase. A bucket and sponge lay neglected halfway up the marble monstrosity. No expense had been spared in any corner of the house, from the avant-garde gold-laced carpet to the garish butterfly-print wallpaper. The maid stopped at a pair of double doors, mumbled something to Henry, and slipped into the room.

  A cold voice snapped beyond the doors. “The prince, here to see me? Which one? Never mind. Show him in and then finish the mopping!”

  Stammering a thousand “Yes ma’am’s,” the girl opened the door for Henry. He gave her a sympathetic smile before entering.

  The room and its occupant wore the same mask of finery as the rest of the house. Lady Sevray rose from her chair, fully armored with the necessities of beauty. Pins and spray and fine little glittery baubles helmeted her hair; layers of powder and a good dose of blush protected her face. All these were as nothing when compared to the starched conglomeration of fabrics, lace, and pearls fitted so snugly to her slim figure. Yet these precautions proved useless against the assault of age, for Henry saw through her mask. She was old.

  Nevertheless, like any gentleman he kissed her extended hand and accepted her offer of tea.

  “Your Highness,” she said while pouring his tea. Her voice reminded Henry of the low hum of factory machinery. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m making inquiries about a certain young lady I believe you know.” Henry paused, noticing a shift in that carefully powdered face. “In fact, I believe you are her stepmother.”

  Lady Sevray stiffened but continued to smile. “Are you referring to Evelyn?”

  “Yes.” Now came the hard part. Henry fidgeted with his signet ring, wishing it could magically fill him with confidence. He was a prince, after all. These things shouldn’t be impossible.

  “Have a biscuit?” She extended the plate with a polite smile.

  He declined with equal politeness. Even the thought of food nearly made him choke. “I do not wish to be blunt, madam, but I can think of no other way to say this. You live quite comfortably in your house, and yet your stepdaughter works as a cinder-girl in a factory. Why?” His own words filled him with enough courage to look her in the eye.

  Her eyes narrowed. “That was her decision.”

  He set down his teacup. “To sell herself away? And why didn’t you stop her?”

  “She felt it would compensate for her guilt.” Lady Sevray glanced indifferently out the window. “And I am not the hard-hearted sort of woman who would forbid a girl from satisfying her own conscience.”

  “And why was she guilty?”

  “Your Highness,” she said with a kind smile, “so many questions! Might I ask why?”

  The smile was the final straw, the final layer of her masks and makeup. “Whatever you may say, Lady Sevray, I believe your stepdaughter has been wronged. I looked into her eyes and saw—”

  “You spoke to her?” A laugh erupted from her painted lips. “She puts on quite the act, doesn’t she? Making herself seem like such the repentant little daughter.”

  Henry simply folded his arms and stared at her. “Will you please answer my question? I think we both want this to end as soon as possible.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” Lady Sevray seemed to shrink a little in her chair. “It was her father, actually. He dearly wanted her to accept my daughters and me when we married. But the girl couldn’t stand me. She threw such tantrums and locked herself in her rooms.” She sighed. “It destroyed him. To lose his first wife and then his relationship with his daughter . . . He worried day and night, overworked himself. He had a condition, you know. Some sickness of the lungs or another delicate part of human anatomy. He died.”

  “But how does this relate?”

  “My dear prince, have you missed my point entirely? She caused him to sicken and worry himself to death. The selfish child! And when he died, she came weeping to me, asking how she could fix it. I told her she was a disgrace to her father and his house. She asked me where she should go. I told her I didn’t care. I’d give her what she needed, as she was my stepdaughter. But then she got the notion into her head to become a cinder-girl. So you see it was entirely her decision.”

  Henry drew in a deep breath to keep his emoti
ons from spilling out. “Thank you for your time and for the tea, Lady Sevray.” He rose from the chair and motioned her to stay. “I’ll see myself out.”

  8

  “A ride through the country?” The king stared at his son over the morning newspaper. “But it’s such a wilderness! People get lost and never return! The next substantial city isn’t for a hundred miles. Whatever possessed you with such an idea?”

  Rosalind, seated beside her intended at the breakfast table, slipped her arm through his. “Oh, but I know I’ll be safe with Marius. And he’s so anxious to show me around the wilder parts of his future kingdom! To prove to me that he’s the strong prince everyone says he is.” She squeezed his arm and showered him with smiles, then glanced shiftily around and leaned forward, her necklace nearly trailing in the butter dish. “Even though I already know he is,” she whispered loudly to the king and giggled.

  Still grinning, Marius drew her toward him. “You’re overdoing it,” he murmured in her ear.

  Rosalind cast him another fawning glance, leaned against his shoulder, and whispered back, “Just play along, dimwit.”

  Henry watched them, picking forlornly at his food. Rosalind stifled the prick of her conscience at his melancholy expression, telling herself it was all for the greater good. And pretending to be giddily in love was rather fun. I should do this more often, she thought.

  The king finally spoke again. “You shouldn’t go alone. It wouldn’t be proper. Perhaps Darcy would be willing to tag along?” He gave his middle son an encouraging smile.

  “Yes. I’d be delighted.” Darcy smiled back. Rosalind couldn’t tell if he was choking on his egg. But he gave her a subtle wink. It was all going according to plan, of course. Darcy had been very helpful—far more helpful than moping Henry.

  Henry kept glancing from Marius to Rosalind, his eyes widening. No, no, no! Rosalind let go of Marius’s arm and clasped her hands together in her lap. She wanted to scream. I don’t love Marius! I’m doing this to help us.

  But part of her wasn’t so sure about that anymore . . .

  A look from Marius seemed to settle the conversation. He would talk to Henry and make certain he was aware of all the most updated details of their plan. Good. The orderly part of Rosalind’s mind settled back down again, allowing her to finish her toast and tea in peace.

  The machinery of the factory slowly ground to a halt. Evelyn’s feet joined the scuffling train of cinder-girls. She watched the cold little coins fall into the other girls’ hands.

  “Are you sure—”

  She didn’t even look at the floor master. “Only on Fridays. You know the routine.”

  He stood aside for her to pass. “Suit yourself. If you want to starve.”

  Every day he asked the same thing. And every day she gave the same answer. There was a time when she had taken a week’s wages; but that was before she encountered her stepmother while Sunday thrift-shopping with the other cinder-girls.

  “You seem rather well-off,” her stepmother had said coldly. “Have you forgotten so soon why you chose to work at the factory?”

  And with that, the guilt Evelyn tried so hard to fight off had come crashing down upon her all over again. Her decision to give up her wages relieved some of the pain; the money she earned was better spent feeding the orphans of factory workers, anyway. But the floor master had insisted she take one day of wages at least. A dead cinder-girl would do the factory no good, he’d said.

  A cold, gloomy mist had settled over the street. Evelyn clutched her bare arms, her body accustomed to the blazing heat of the factory. She kept her eyes on the pavement, avoiding the disapproving stares of other citizens. She turned into the alley that led to cinder-girl housing; it was a short cut to the back entrance. But instead of making the last dash to the door, she collided with something—or someone.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  She backed away, staring wide-eyed up at the young man. Sadly, it wasn’t Henry.

  “I know who you are,” he continued in his soft voice. “And where you were a couple of nights ago.”

  Evelyn allowed herself to hope for a moment. “Did Henry send you?”

  The man laughed and his dark eyes glittered. “Ah, Henry. I knew he’d talked to you. Always the kind-hearted soul.”

  Evelyn shrank away from him and hugged herself tighter. “What do you want with me?”

  “Just some information, never fear.” The stranger gave her what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. But his mouth seemed incapable of forming a friendly expression. “Where did you get the glass slippers?”

  Her heart sank. “I can’t tell you that.”

  He stepped closer. “I think you can.” He paused, examining the alley around them. “Your life is miserable, Evelyn. Anyone can see that. But I can make it worse.” He gave her that awful smile again.

  “I don’t care about myself.”

  “What about Henry? I can ruin his happiness with a snap of my fingers. So tell me, where did you get the slippers?”

  Evelyn’s shoulders sagged. Another promise she’d have to break. Another failure. But she couldn’t ruin Henry’s life.

  The house had been difficult to find, but no secret was too well-hidden for Darcy. Very little magic remained in the kingdom of Arcadia. Genies, fairies, and sprites had been relegated to children’s tales. Few took the time to care about magic anymore; few believed it existed. But Darcy knew where to look.

  The decrepit building crouched in a dark alley, wedged into a row of equally ramshackle structures. The street was empty except for a few rats and a couple of lowlifes loitering in the shadows. But their presence didn’t bother Darcy. If anything, they made him feel more at ease.

  He raised his fist and knocked hard, but the door creaked open with the slightest touch, revealing a short hallway and curling staircase.

  “Hello?” he called, stepping inside.

  “Come upstairs,” a voice replied.

  The voice was female, as he expected; it was young and had a cloying lilt, rather like the smell of perfume mixed with the sound of bells. He climbed the stairs, a dim light slowly stealing away the gloom the farther up he went. At the top, he pushed aside the curtain in the doorway. Candles, faded silk, and the faint smell of vanilla filled the room before him.

  A young woman sat in an old, tattered chair. She stood up and smiled. “Hello there! How may I help you?”

  “Many ways,” Darcy replied. She appeared to be the flighty, vain sort of girl that would hang around Marius in court. Her loose golden curls bounced as she walked, and her blue eyes were framed with dark lashes.

  “Then I suppose you’ll stay for tea.” A teacup appeared in her hand. “Would you care for some?”

  Darcy shook his head. With a shrug, the young lady flicked her wrist; Darcy wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen, but the cup fell to the ground and smashed to pieces.

  “Bother,” she grumbled. “That’s the fifth broken teacup this month.” She waved her hand again and the shards of china disappeared. “Please, sir, do be seated.”

  With an amused smile on his face, Darcy waited for her to sit then settled himself into the chair across from hers.

  “I see you have . . . abilities,” he began carefully, as knitting needles and yarn materialized in her hands.

  Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled back. “You could say that.”

  Darcy watched her fingers fumbling with the needles and yarn. “That scarf won’t be for you, will it?”

  She paused in her work. “No.”

  “You can’t use your abilities for yourself, can you, Ophelia?”

  The needles slipped from her hands, clattering to the floor. She huffed, frustrated, but turned the huff into another brilliant smile. This she flashed at Darcy. “It’s not customary for my type to serve ourselves. How did you get my name?”

  “From Evelyn Sevray. You helped her, didn’t you?”

  Ophelia’s smile faded into a slight, uncertain fr
own. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your help. I’m pretty sure you can do that.”

  “Possibly,” she replied, twirling a bit of yarn around her thumb. “What do you need?”

  “It’s complicated.” Darcy laced his fingers together. “I need you to hide someone here.”

  “Hide someone?” Ophelia raised an eyebrow. “That sounds terribly exciting. Why?”

  “The reason doesn’t concern you,” Darcy said, stiffening. “You’re supposed to help people, aren’t you?”

  She pulled the yarn so tight that it snapped. Her eyes were guarded. “And you seem to know a lot about me. But I can decide not to help you—I can force you from this building if you threaten me.”

  He sighed and gave her a smile, all threats melting into charm. “Forgive my manners. I’m used to dealing with very difficult people. But you seem like a kind-hearted soul. What do you say? Can you help me?”

  A moment passed before she answered. Then she snapped her fingers, and the fallen knitting needles floated up from the floor back into her hands. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll do what I can.”

  9

  The day of their appointed ride dawned sooner than Rosalind expected. For the last week Marius’s words had kept nagging in the back of her mind. “Your spell is wearing off.” But she persistently pushed that thought aside.

  Darcy had done all the hard work with the steam carriage and the explosives. Rosalind would have three minutes to get out of the carriage before it blew. Marius, of course, would make some excuse to get out earlier. The lever was simple enough to turn to get the device started. Thanks to Darcy, none of the accompanying servants were aware of their plans and all were stupid enough to be fooled.

  But King Cygnus still looked unconvinced as he saw them off. “Have a nice ride,” he called, his tone implying that he very much doubted this was possible.