And then he died.
My cheek is still on the bed. I feel myself sinking, my thoughts disconnecting. I swim down through layers of sadness and longing, each one darker and deeper. One final thought floats to the surface.
Papa, if you hadn’t left me, I’d never have gone bad.
Chapter 6
“CinderelLAH!”
“WHAT?” I shout and my eyes jump nervously to the cupboard. I hope I didn’t lose magic over that.
Loony’s voice bounds up the attic stairs and bashes into the walls. “Mother wants you right now. So hurry up!” She makes it sound like I’m in trouble.
I heave the half-finished gown onto my bed. Right now I’m in ruffle purgatory. Maybe the dress will be finished by nightfall. But today was supposed to be for Moody’s dress. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.
Before running downstairs, I check to make sure my rats have water in their bowl. They live in the attic with me, two handsome white rats I call Toil and Trouble. They were once gray. But when I first received the white magic, I wanted to test it before using it on myself. So I fed it to my rats and their coats turned white and silky. What’s more, they gained intelligence and seem to understand when I speak to them. I told them never to leave the attic or my stepsisters will kill them. They listened.
They’re the only friends I have.
Stepmother is in her bedroom. Though fully dressed in a stiff burgundy gown, she’s lying on the canopied bed, her brow crouching over closed eyes. She slits them open when I enter.
“Are the dresses done?” she asks.
Is she demented? It’s been one day!
“Not yet, Stepmother,” I say gently. “But I’m working hard.”
Stepmother sighs and shuts her eyes again. Yes I know, I’m so inadequate.
“My head....” She groans. “I need you to run to the pharmacist for a powder.”
“Can Melodie do it? It’s a long walk and I need every minute to finish those dresses.”
Stepmother merely looks at me. She can say so much with just her eyes. No, Cinderella. Such an errand is beneath my precious daughter. And I take such pleasure in tormenting you.
“Never mind. I’m sorry.” I leave the room.
But I have to admit, the long walk is refreshing after hours of sitting in the shady attic. A church bell tolls three o’clock. Sparrows land on the street to pick at crumbs. Carriages roll past me, wheels gobbling over the cobblestones. A nice-looking man smiles at me, someone I’ve never spoken to.
Darn.
I hurry, ignoring the burn in my calves. I’ve got to get back to the dresses. When I return, Stepmother isn’t in her room. I listen but hear only Loony and Moody’s voices downstairs, gabbling about hairstyles. Well, I’m not scavenging the house for Stepmother. Let her find me herself if she wants her stupid powder.
As I open the door to the attic stairs, I catch the tail end of sound that ceased the moment I open the door. But I heard it. Little bumps of wood, like a drawer being jiggled.
Or a locked cupboard door.
I fly up the stairs.
Chapter 7
Stepmother stands at my bed, unfolding a bright quilt. My old one is slung on her arm. “Hello, my darling.” She smiles at me. “I noticed your cover has grown thin so I brought you a new one. The nights are becoming chilly.”
Nice alibi. “Thank you, Stepmother.” My eyes sweep the room. My rats must have taken refuge behind the trunks and broken tables at the other end of the attic. Good boys.
I keep my eyes on Stepmother because I don’t want her to catch me looking at the cupboard. She saunters toward me with a carefully poised smile. “I think you’ll be more comfortable now.”
“That’s very nice of you, considering the awful headache you have.” I say it kindly but hope she gets my meaning. I’m not fooled.
She regards me steadily. “Yes, it lifted just after you left. I notice that’s often the case. But I’d still like the powder to save for next time.”
I hand her the parcel. She hooks her long fingers over it, still staring at my face.
“What happened to your eyes?” she asks softly. “They look different today.”
I play dumb. “Different?”
“Yes, more... blue.”
“Maybe it’s the light-”
“It’s not the light.” Her voice becomes strained, like thin ice under a boot. “And your hair.... Every year it seems to gets lighter. Your father was not so blonde.”
Ah. So she noticed. I was never sure. The changes I made to my appearance were gradual, since white magic always took ages to save. Loony and Moody, I know, never noticed, too dense and selfish to see past their own freckles. But at times I have caught Stepmother looking at me, a question folding a line in her brow.
I shrug. “Maybe the sun did it. All those long walks you love to send me on.”
Stepmother’s eyes narrow and her tone takes a sharper turn. “What’s in the cupboard, Cinderella?”
“What cupboard?”
“Do not play games with me. The one you keep locked at all times.”
“Oh that?” My mind dives for a quick answer. “Nothing. That cupboard has been locked for ages. I lost the key years ago.”
“You mean the key you wear on a string beneath your dress?”
I want to curse. There are times when the key slips out and dangles, like when I’m scrubbing floors or bending to light fires. The old hawk’s eyes are sharp.
I can’t think of an answer. Her lips curl up in the barest smile. “Open the cupboard.”
I meet her frosty gray eyes. “No.”
This surprises her. She is used to docility from me. “What?”
“It’s my cupboard.”
“It’s my house.”
“No!” My hands start to shake. I want so badly to strike her. “It’s my house. Mine and my father’s. You are the interlopers!”
Stepmother looks stung, offended but not hurt. I can’t hurt her because she doesn’t love me. Only the people we care about can hurt us.
“Stupid child. You understand nothing!” She swishes past me to descend the attic stairs.
“Get out of my room,” I say to her back. “And leave me alone so I can finish making these hideous dresses for your foul... hideous... DAUGHTERS!” I screech the last words just as Stepmother closes the door.
Chapter 8
I lunge at the cupboard and open it. The crystal decanter stands tranquil and sedate, but inside the bottle, the surface of the white liquid glitters. I spit a hard curse. The liquid glitters only when I gain magic or lose magic. And my tantrum just now certainly couldn’t qualify as good behavior. I lift the decanter to eye level. It still looks like two inches but I know I lost some. Probably a few spoonsful.
I growl and lock the bottle in the cupboard. No more tantrums. Finish the dumb dresses, make your own, go to the ball, win the prince’s heart, move out of this house, become queen, find a nice cliff to drop Stepmother off of. That’s all.
Sigh....
I sew until the sun is long forgotten, until my candles sputter down to stubs. Until my heads flops around like a homespun doll’s, until the night is silent as a cave. Even my rats are asleep.
Done with Loony’s gown. Cutting the pieces for Moody’s. Tomorrow is the ball. What time will it be? Seven? Eight? I can’t remember. The stitches are blurred and I can’t bring them into focus. I prick my finger with the needle again and suck a drop of blood into my mouth. It makes me thirsty.
My body slurps out of the chair. Fine, I’ll take some magic. But just one spoonful. I have to keep sewing.
Four tries before I manage to aim the key at the keyhole. I droop against the wall and fill the silver spoon. “Awake,” is all I can say. I’m almost too tired to swallow it.
The warm sparkles sink into my body, then rise up through my head. And I’m awake. Not bouncy or cheerful, but I can think now. And sit straight. I pick the pieces of Moody’s gown off the floor and flop into the chair a
gain. Get it done. Get it done. Get it done.
Chapter 9
Moody stands on a footstool in her bedroom while I pin up the hem. It’s nearly eleven o’clock on the morning before the ball. I almost don’t care. The white magic has worn off and I’m so desperately tired I could sleep a hundred years.
“Why is her dress so plain?” Stepmother asks. She’s standing behind me, stern as a palace guard.
I chose a simple design for Moody’s gown because that’s what she likes. But it’s nice. Periwinkle blue with a smooth skirt, a swirling pattern of silver beads sewn across the bodice. It’s tasteful, unlike Loony’s riotous ruffles.
“It’s fine, Mother.” Moody says. “I just want to get this over with.”
“Bad attitude!” Loony’s sitting on the bed in her petticoat and swinging her big feet. She’s smiling. Probably thinks her chances for the prince are better if Moody doesn’t care. She might be right. If the prince wants a loud-mouthed tomato for a wife.
Stepmother taps her chin and frowns at Moody’s dress. “She needs some pin tucks in the skirt to give it more lift. And put some padding into the bodice to fill out her bosom-”
“Motherrr!” Moody whines.
“What? It’s no secret you’re flat as a floor.” Loony cackles while Moody throws a murderous look. “At least my chest doesn’t fall on my lap when I sit down.”
Loony frowns. “Are you calling me fat?”
“Well, if the shoe fits-”
“Come, come, girls,” Stepmother says. I’m glad she stopped them. I’ve seen my stepsisters fight before and it’s like cats, all clawing and hissing. I don’t care if they go to the ball with red scratches on their faces but they could ruin Moody’s gown.
“You can take it off now,” I say to Moody. “I’ll make the changes quickly.” I also have to make adjustments to Loony’s gown, the waist and shoulders proved too tight. Stepmother blamed my measurements rather than face the fact that her daughter gained another pound in two days.
“What will you do while we’re dancing with the prince, Cindy?” Loony smirks at me. I gather Moody’s dress into my arms. “Sleep.”
Loony laughs. “Well, that’s all you’re good at.”
“Oh, that reminds me, I gave Cook the night off,” Stepmother says. Cook is the only servant she kept besides me and thank goodness for that. I don’t know how to toast bread. “She wants to help her niece prepare for the ball and of course I understood. She intended to harvest the pumpkins today and place them in the cellar before the nights get too cold. I told her you would take care of it.”
So after long days of sewing with practically no sleep, Stepmother wants me to spend the evening hauling heavy pumpkins indoors. There are no words for how much I hate her.
“And before you make those adjustments, Cinderella,” Stepmother goes on, enjoying herself, “I need you to run down to the cobbler’s and pick up my daughters’ dancing slippers. They should be done by now.”
Another long walk. Then the dress alterations. And before the ball tonight, I have to get a little sleep. My own gown is still a bundle of cloth, a black mummy on my bed. For the first time, I wonder if I’ll make it to this ball at all.
Chapter 10
They look nice, Loony and Moody. At least as nice as it’s possible for them to look. Their hair is up, adorned with flowers. The gowns fit, the colors suit, even Loony’s loud purple. She looks pleased with herself, a horse groomed for a parade. And I have to admit there is grandeur about her. Moody looks sulky but that’s normal for her. I pinned her flat, dark hair into a tight roll above her neck and if she slouched a little less, she could be graceful.
Oh well. Not my concern.
Stepmother wears dove grey silk with a black lace shawl. I can see she approves of her daughters but won’t voice her admiration so long as I’m present. I don’t deserve even an indirect compliment.
The hired coach arrives. My stupid steps rustle out of the house, Stepmother murmuring a reminder about the pumpkins. I slump against the doorframe and watch the coach drive out to the gate. Night is spilling into the sky, staining the clouds purple.
Six-thirty. The ball will start at seven. And my dress is not made.
I climb the stairs to the attic with bones like iron. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. If I use the white magic, I won’t have enough for the ball. But I guess I’m not going to the ball.
I move the bolt of black cloth off my bed and onto the chair. The thought of sewing one more stitch makes me want to hurl myself out the window. I can’t. Could the white magic make a dress for me? I’m not sure. And I still need shoes, a coach and horses, a driver, and the other enhancements I planned. Two inches of liquid. No, it’s not enough.
I lie on the bed and shut my eyes. It’s no use. I’ll never be anything but an unwanted orphan. I just wanted to be special. Admired and honored and loved. It doesn’t matter. If I don’t sleep now I will die.
Mmm.... How wonderful that sounds.
Chapter 11
I snap awake. The attic is nothing but dark shapes and shadows. I was dreaming about Papa. He was shaking my shoulder and laughing. “Get up, Cinder-lazy, it’s time to go!” His smile warmed me through, like broth on a winter evening.
I roll out of bed and check the window. The stars are out thick but I spot a stray carriage turning up a nearby street, and two old women talking on their doorstep. It can’t be too late.
I load my arms with the bundled cloth, the decanter of white magic, the silver spoon, and a candle to see my way. I hurry down the attic stairs, smiling because I just saw my father. As real and touchable as my own skin. He believes in me. He wants me to go.
“I can do this, Papa,” I say. “I know I can.”
I check the time on a standing clock in the hall. Just after nine. All right, so I’ll be atrociously late. But I’m going! If Papa thinks I can, I’ll have enough white magic to do it. Right?
I bustle out the door that leads to the courtyard behind the house. I’m so excited I feel like singing. Before Papa woke me, I was having an odd dream about riding to the ball inside a pumpkin which my rats pulled behind them like a coach. Weird, of course, but it gave me a wild idea.
Let’s see if this white magic is worth its mettle!
The courtyard is long and narrow, one end open to the street behind us. The pumpkin patch lies to the right, behind a short iron fence. A tangle of vines and curling leaves crawling around the bright orange pumpkins. I pick the largest I can find and carry it to the yard, brushing off the dirt before I set it down on the cobblestones.
Transportation comes first. It won’t matter how fabulous I look if I can’t go anywhere. The palace is six miles away, too far to walk on foot. And I’m sure every rentable coach has been taken by now.
A pumpkin it is.
I crouch beside the pumpkin and clink the top off the decanter. I pour out a spoonful of white magic and tip the spoon over the pumpkin. It pools into the depression created by the stalk. “A magnificent carriage,” I say. And wait.
Nothing.
I blow the air out of my cheeks. “Darn.” I pour another spoonful. “A magnificent carriage!” I say louder. The white liquid rises a bit higher in the hollow.
Still nothing.
Hmm.... I’m not discouraged yet. I trust the white magic, it has never failed me. Maybe I should leave off the word ‘magnificent’.
“All right. Just a carriage.” I add a third spoonful and the white liquid runs down the grooves of the pumpkin. It begins to sparkle....
I jump back in joyous anticipation. The pumpkin glitters, swells, turns white as a pearl – and stops.
I start to laugh. “What?” I’ve got a big, white pumpkin, half my height, with a little door in the center. But it’s working. It’s working!
Three more spoonsful – “A magnificent carriage!” - and the pumpkin blossoms into the most beautiful white coach I have ever seen, complete with gold embellishments, cushioned benches, and a high s
eat in front for a driver. It’s amazing. It fills the whole courtyard and almost seems to glow. I just stand there gaping at it before I remember time is precious.
Horses, that’s next. I dash back to my attic and scoop up Toil and Trouble. As I’m rushing down again, I explain what I plan to do and promise to change them back as soon as I can. I can’t say they look thrilled about it but they don’t try to wriggle away from me.
In the courtyard, I lower the spoonful of magic to their tiny mouths. They sniff at it, whiskers quivering, before reluctantly lapping it up. When one spoon doesn’t work, I feed them a second and then a third and then a fourth. The rats twinkle and before my eyes grow into gorgeous white stallions. Even with bridles! They paw the ground awkwardly, as if testing their long legs and hooves. I pat Trouble’s cheek. “Thank you, sweetie.”
I check the crystal decanter. Oh dear. A whole inch of white magic is gone. Only one inch left. I hope it will be enough.
A driver.... That’s going to be hard. For one thing, I don’t have another animal. And the thought of creating a human from an animal sounds absolutely creepy... and somehow forbidden.
Let me think on that. In the meantime, I’ll use a little magic on myself. I need the enhancements I planned. Qualities I hope will make me irresistible to the prince.
I pour myself a spoonful. “Charming,” I say and swallow it. I take another spoon for good measure. One never seems to be enough.
Two more spoons for “Graceful.” Two more for “Alluring.” And finally, I swallow three spoonsful and say, “Whatever the prince desires most.”
The vagueness of this worries me. I’m not sure if the white magic is capable of knowing what I don’t. But the sparkles buzz warm in my chest which means it must be working.
Not much left in the bottle now. Maybe two spoons left? That won’t be enough for a coachman. Maybe I can grab a fellow off the street and pay him from my meager wages.