Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories Read online

  “I told you I’m clever,” Alis said with a forced laugh and darkened eyes. “I murder a man and escape with the body but leave behind my own shoe.”

  Before he knew what he was doing, before he'd thought to be gentle, Auguste grabbed Alis's ankle and wrenched the slipper from her foot.

  She cried out and grabbed her leg. “You brute!”

  “I promise that hurts much less than a hangman's noose.” Several emotions rioted in Auguste's blood and throbbed in his temples. What a choice he was for the throne; he couldn't even fake his death without bungling it. He hefted the slipper in his hand then drew back his arm and hurled it into the brush.

  “That was my slipper,” Alis protested with a steaming glare.

  He glared back. “And your death sentence, my lady.”

  She drew herself tall and slipped from the saddle onto the ground, bobbling a bit on her hurt ankle. The passion withdrew, leaving Auguste feeling winded, regretful. Had he hurt her so much?

  “If you're going to ruin my things, at least do it properly.” She hobbled into the bushes and returned with the slipper in hand and her brows arched in black authority. “Like so.”

  Without flinching, Alis slammed the slipper onto one of the rocks sunk in the mossy roadside. It shattered with bell-like song into a pile of crystalline shards. She sprinkled handfuls of leaves over the glass to hide them then turned to him with her fists buried against her hips in the folds of satin.

  Auguste's stomach flipped. “Do you think this will help?” he asked. Mechanical words in his mouth; he knew it was useless. “How would they know it was you? Won't they think we were both kidnapped? Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm sorry, Alis.”

  Relenting all at once, Alis came to him and pressed her forehead to his thigh, which was as high as she could reach when he was still mounted. His awkward, lovely bride.

  “William followed me,” she said. “And you know there was only one woman’s foot in Ashby that would fit those spectacular gravy boats, which were, I will remind you, crafted to my specific measurements. I'll be missing, you'll be missing, and William will know the truth. Besides, your parents know I have returned and want the throne.”

  Auguste wondered if it was any use cursing. “They’ll be one jump behind us then. God’s my witness, I wish we’d let napping dogs lie.” He jumped from Feather-Fellow’s back, hoisted Alis up, and handed the reins to her. “You go on. I’ll meet them, and you’ll be safe till it all blows over.”

  “I won’t leave you to face the mobs yourself. They’ll kill you just as easily as me once they know you’re an imposter.”

  Alis looked as determined as his father—her father—ever had. Auguste tugged his eyebrow and wondered if either of them would survive this night.

  “Checkmate it is, then.”

  She clasped his wrist as he climbed into the saddle again, then passed him the reins. Turning Feather-Fellow about, they started back toward the smatter of golden lights on the purple horizon, toward the wreckage of their slapdash scheme.

  Six distinct figures barreled down the white road in pursuit of the one who had killed their prince. Capes flying, cries ringing, swords drawn, they encircled a foaming horse and its rider. Riders. The captain of the guard stared for a moment, then swore softly. Here was the prince, looking quite whole, and before him a tall woman with the face of their king.

  Something, the captain thought gravely, had gone monstrous awry.

  13

  “Lady Carlisle, have you anything to say in your defense?”

  The judge’s glare was hot on my head. I cleared my throat and stood in the defense box. Any words guttered before they came as I realized that I was living the game I'd played so many times in the orchard at Cock-on-Stylingham. Everything—William and the shoemaker in the witness stand, the lords and ladies at court, Auguste on the front row—everything was just as I had dreamed.

  Only for once my audience was human, not a band of rooks.

  The familiar script caught in my throat, though I knew it verbatim: I swear before the Court of Ashby: The birth certificates were switched.

  If I said this, Lord Humphries would back my tale. He would be able to produce evidence that I was the lawful heir to the throne of Ashby. But to do this, I would have to expose my mother and father as fraudulent rulers, makers of the very chaos they acted to avert. Surely this was just action on my part, and no one could blame me for making the claim. Surely I had a right to overturn the carefully kept secret in order to save my life. I knew the penalty for treason.

  A faint stir at the back of the courtroom caught my eye. My stepmother and her daughters entered the room and took places on the bench. The girls made faces and giggled at the sight of me, handcuffed and mud spattered. But it was Laureldina’s face that struck me. The cold beauty had left her features, and I saw nothing but a frightened, damaged woman who knew I held her reputation in my hands and expected no mercy from me.

  “Lady Carlisle, your defense, please, or we shall proceed to the hanging.”

  My attention snapped back to the judge and jury. Time, motion, breath, life paused while I weighed my next words.

  Then I smiled. “I have no defense, my lord.”

  My father, the king, started up in shock from the front row, and I cracked a half-smile. Laureldina sank, pale and relieved, into her seat.

  “None, my lady?” the judge asked.

  “None.”

  “You staged the murder, kidnapped the prince, and have no defense?”

  I yawned and shook back my hair. “What makes you think it was I?”

  “Your skirts are speckled in blood, madam, and one of your slippers, you will realize, was recovered at the scene.”

  The judge motioned for a page to come forward. He bore on a red velvet pillow the offending object.

  “Lord William Stylingham said he followed you outside last night when you claimed illness and that you seemed shaken. The shoemaker assures me that it was you fitted for those slippers in his shop.”

  “Where is the other slipper?” I asked.

  The judge bridled. “You would know.”

  “Would I?”

  Hackles of stubbornness arched along my back. I would not tell the jury I had kidnapped their precious Prince Auguste because he so much despised the throne he’d do anything, even feign his own death, to be free of it. I would tell them nothing.

  “You may try the slipper,” I cried out. “If it fits, you may hang me. Of what value am I?”

  The judge motioned for the page to come forward and the people of the court held their collective breath.

  Auguste sprang out of his chair and in a few steps cleared the space between us. “Your Honor, I will fit the shoe on Lady Carlisle.”

  The judge smoothed his eyebrow, chuckling. “A man who fights his own battles, hmmm? Very well.”

  Auguste took the shoe from the page. It looked strangely small in his rough hands. “Alis,” he murmured, “please come forward.”

  I left the witness box and came to him on the floor of the courtroom, gathering the soiled shreds of my ballgown in my arms so all might see the business with ease. I did not know what Auguste planned to do, but something told me my trial would not end at the gallows.

  I sat in a chair provided for me. Auguste knelt, and I raised my foot. He had only to tip the shoe and it would slip over my foot as if enchanted; the glass slipper could fit no other. Our eyes met for a sliver of a second, but he tossed all his love into that look. My heart slowed peacefully.

  Auguste halted and stood again, the mate to my shattered shoe cozied in his hand like the apples I had thrown at the rooks long ago. I had half a wish he might sling it at the judge's head, but that would seal my fate.

  My legs cramped and I stretched them before me; how ironic, being once again barefoot and throneless.

  “Your honor, who was kidnapped?” Auguste asked.

  The judge blinked, appearing a bit disappointed the slipper had not yet been tried. �
�Why, you, my liege.”

  “Was I? I find myself hale and hearty this morning. Rather hungry now that it comes down to it, but present in this courtroom. And who was murdered?”

  “You . . . my liege?”

  Auguste moved toward the judge. “Hit me, please.”

  “What?”

  The courtroom leaned forward. Had Auguste lost his wits?

  He flicked his big hands. “If I've been murdered, I am a ghost. I should like to know if I am. Hit me.” Auguste presented his face and the judge recoiled.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot—”

  “Then you will take it on my authority that I am unharmed?”

  “I . . .” the judge swallowed. “I will. I must.”

  My prince stepped back and tossed the slipper up and down in his hand. “My good people of Ashby, do you see me before your eyes? I am not kidnapped. Do you see me in the flesh? I have not been murdered. The case against Lady Alisandra Carlisle, then, is delicate.” He tossed the slipper higher, spun, and caught it on his index finger low to the ground.

  The crowd gasped.

  “Delicate,” Auguste said, tossing the shoe backward over his head and catching it behind his back with the other hand, “as the evidence.” He grabbed the slipper and waved it over his head as a cat might wave its tail. “If the slipper fits Lady Carlisle, what does that signify? That she has feet? My, my, what is the world coming to, that women should have feet? Even large ones!”

  “But, Your Majesty,” the judge protested.

  “You will say it is custom-made, and far be it from me to disappoint the trust of the people of Ashby in our justice system. I will try the slipper on her foot. If it fits, you may do with her what you will. I will be ruler of Ashby one day: I realize the people's way is the king's way.”

  I froze. He had defended me bravely, but the shoe would fit and there was nothing for it. Auguste backed toward me, brandishing the shoe. Just as he turned to kneel, his foot caught on my outstretched leg, tripping him. His arm flung out, and the slipper flew from his hand. An explosive crystal sound deafened me for a moment. When I was brave enough to turn and look, I saw the slipper—what remained of it—wrecked beneath a marble effigy of some long dead Ashbian royal.

  My body shuddered. They would think I had done it on purpose; they would think I had tripped Auguste to destroy the evidence. I would be hanged without delay. I cast an agonized look at Auguste.

  But his eyes were laughing. Only then did I realize he had tripped on purpose, knowing full well my legs were stretched out behind him.

  My love winked and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to the stunned courtroom. “That was unfortunate.”

  Someone—Lord Humphries, I presume—dared to laugh, but the others stared at their prince, wary. They had been cheated of a scandal. There would be no hanging. A beehive hum sprang up as the people of Ashby began to whisper among themselves.

  “My lords and ladies of the court, listen to your future king.” Auguste's voice rang out strong and bold, stilling the hum of the courtroom with its authority. “If but one of you speaks, I shall lose my temper. Now then: every party must have a pageant. Tell me, is this not the custom?”

  The people of Ashby exchanged glances, and my eyes found Lord Humphries in the corner, twitching as if to stifle laughter.

  Auguste winked at me. “And as for kidnapping, a far worse crime is a woman’s thievery of a heart, which, I grant you, she has committed. You demanded a bride, a future queen. You asked for a splendid occasion and a grand speech. This is the grandest oration you’ll receive, for no fairy attended my birth to give me a gilded tongue. Furthermore, last night I gave you your pageant with all its trappings of blood, daggers, and forgotten slippers, which many of you understandably took for reality.”

  The hum rose louder. My heart soared.

  Auguste raised me and brought me to his side. “And now, O people of Ashby, look well. For here I give to you the Lady Alisandra Carlisle, my bride, your queen. She has committed no crime . . .” and in a lower tone, meant only for me: “for indeed, she has saved the throne.”

  After this, I remember a thrum then a kiss, warm and passionate. I remember applause and exclamations, and Auguste turning what should have been another kiss into an outburst of laughter next to my ear. I remember my real parents rushing forward and making whispered reparation, and Laureldina fading in and out of my sight like a specter that could haunt me no more.

  I was incandescently happy in our wholeness. Then came a surreal, ironic, quiet thought that made me bury my head on Auguste’s shoulder: Heavens, what a mother-in-law!

  Someone dropped a paper crown on my head, interrupting this terror, and I looked up to see Lord Humphries. “How now, little Alis?” He nodded at Auguste. “All well with your fairy prince?”

  I ran my fingers through Auguste’s wild hair, kissed his rough brown hand, and winked at my godfather. “Lord help you, sir, look at him! Prince, yes. Fairy? Never.”

  Lord Humphries beckoned me aside to where Auguste had slain the glass slipper. My godfather stood behind me as if to ward off anyone who would approach.

  “I'm going to write out your story for posterity,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear. “The Cinderwench: from rags to riches by way of her tongue. And you can't stop me. The world needs a bit of amusement in its old age.”

  “Never, dear Uncle,” I cried, turning to him. “You'll have it all wrong. I know you will. You'll probably say we lived happily ever after and thwart any possibility of further adventure.”

  His eyes narrowed with scathing amusement. “You're sincerely worried.” He stepped to the side and ground bits of the glass slipper under his heel, absently. “To your own attempt then, Madam Literary.”

  And I knew in that moment that I really meant to write the tale down; if only, I thought, to live again on the windy side of care.

  RACHEL HEFFINGTON is a Christian, a novelist, and a people-lover. Outside of the realm of words, Rachel enjoys the Arts, traveling, mucking about in the kitchen, listening for accents, and making people laugh. She dwells in rural Virginia with her boisterous family and her black cat, Cricket.

  In February, 2014, Rachel released her debut novel, Fly Away Home, and is excited to collaborate on Five Glass Slippers with her fellow authoresses. She hopes to release her second full-length novel and first mystery (Anon, Sir, Anon) in autumn 2014. For more on Rachel, her current projects, and writing in general, visit her on her blog: www.inkpenauthoress.blogspot.com

  To Christian, with many thanks for making days in the cubicle farm enjoyable.

  1

  In its glory days, Aschen had been a gas giant. Circling too near its sun, it was a roaster—a hot Jupiter—locked in tight orbit around a red giant star. Gradually, over many years, hydrodynamic escape had stripped the planet of its atmosphere, leaving only the metal-rich core behind.

  Elsa skimmed her miner’s coach low across Aschen’s molten surface, her eyes flicking from the heat-resistant controls in front of her to the carefully darkened viewscreen protecting her from the sun’s intensity. The planet’s fast rotation and proximity to its star meant that each miner spent a hefty portion of each shift on Aschen’s blistering-hot dayside.

  A deep, gruff voice came through the comm line inside her helmet. “Watch yourself, Elsa. Reading a lot of activity in the pumpkin patch to your left.”

  “Copy that, Bruno,” she told the older miner. “I’m watching.”

  Through her viewscreen, Elsa eyed the patch of bubbling lava warily. Pumpkin patches, so named because the superheated lava puffed out in large bubbles, were notorious for blowing up without a moment’s notice. Any sane person would want to get as far away from them as possible.

  Of course, any sane person wouldn’t sign up for a job as a cinder in the first place. The pay was good, but the life expectancy left something to be desired.

  The work was necessary, if perilous. Aschen had made its debut on the galactic scene as soon as long-rang
e mining scouts determined that the planet’s volatile outer atmospheric layers had boiled away sufficiently to allow the deployment of mining teams. The big mining companies sniffed at roasters like hungry dogs, waiting for their moment to harvest the planetary dregs.

  And few worlds were so ripe for the harvest as Aschen.

  The substance that put hitherto-ignored Aschen on the map was cendrillon. Strong enough to withstand the tidal forces of planets and light enough to manipulate even in standard gravity, the material could be found only in the forged remains of a chthonian planet, a gas giant compressed and drained of its atmosphere. From such planets, named after the denizens of the Greek underworld, came the cendrillon to build better space stations, starships, and weapons. The galaxy could hardly spin without the stuff.

  Pity it lurked in the hottest, most inhospitable corners of the worlds, Elsa thought. She maneuvered her coach closer to the pumpkin patch, avoiding the hottest spots, her eyes glancing from the heat sensors to the spectroscope on her console and back again. The patches harbored large concentrations of cendrillon. The temptation of a big ore haul lured many cinders to brave the dangers of explosive magma.

  Her machine picked its way daintily over the lava flow, and Elsa edged the coach right up to the perimeter of the patch. Her spectroscope chimed obligingly. A lovely concentration of cendrillon lay just beneath her. Elsa deployed the collectors, watching as the arms descended from the body of the coach, plunged elbow-deep into the lava, and scooped up the heavier cendrillon beneath.

  Dripping liquid fire, the collector scoops emerged again, dragging their burden into the body of the coach. Elsa’s gloved fingers hovered over the thruster controls as she kept her gaze on the heat sensors. She couldn’t stay in this position much longer. The first of the heat alarms sounded quietly just as the scoop arms completed their retraction. Time to go.

  She slapped the thruster controls, and her coach leapt into the air. The pumpkin patch exploded in a fiery splash, the superheated magma splatter just missing the underside of Elsa’s coach.