She picked up the framed print of the smiling Prince that she kept in her room – the picture Rose had once laughed at her for, even though nearly all the girls in the kingdom had one – and climbed into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She stared at the handsome smiling face. How could he have kissed Rose’s hand? It must have just been politeness. Yes, that was it. He’d kissed all the girls’ hands, isn’t that what they’d said? There was nothing special about Rose.
She blew the candle out and lay back on her pillow, the picture face down on her chest, and tried to calm down. Yes, she hated that Rose had gone to the castle when she hadn’t, but maybe tonight’s ball going well wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe if Rose got married off to some horrible old Earl like her mother had been, then surely their family would be respected enough for her to be invited? Just once. Just once. How she wished for it.
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift into the familiar fantasy.
She’s standing in the castle and the ballroom is full of men and women dressed in their finery. As her name is announced at the top of the stairs, all eyes turn her way, and although no one knows who she is, they’re dazzled by her style and beauty. She dances with the most handsome men, but all the while her eyes are locked with the Prince’s until eventually he comes to claim her as his own. As they whirl around the room, they only have eyes for each other and she knows that he’ll love her forever and she’ll love him forever and they’ll never stray. The music slows and he pulls her closer, his strong arm tight across her back. She can feel his body heat and every inch of her skin is aching for him to kiss her. Eventually, he does. His lips brush hers, teasing her until she can barely breathe and then his tongue touches hers and stars explode in her head.
Her fantasy shifted, as it always did, and it was their wedding night. The party was over, although in the streets it would continue for hours, and they had retired to their bedchamber. He was standing close to her, his lust so clear in his hazy eyes, and his hands undid the strings of her shift leaving her naked before him. Her hand slipped into her nightdress and teased her right nipple as if it was his fingers and then mouth. She gasped slightly, lost in the moment, her head filled with experiences she could only imagine. His hand in her hair as he kissed her. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he pushed her to the bed. Feeling him pressing against her as they lost themselves in their passion. Her hand moved further down, sliding between her legs and exploring the wetness there.
Her hand was his hand, and then, as her own touch moved into a rhythm, he was inside her, moving with her, his mouth on her neck, his own moans coming louder, her arms over her head and pinned down by his hand as he possessed her. They moved like frantic animals, growing rougher with each other as their needs grew more urgent until finally, in her small bed in the merchant’s house, Cinderella’s back arched and the stars exploded bright behind her closed eyes.
3
‘A Bride Ball . . .’
‘Their boy’s gone missing in the woods.’
‘The baker’s boy? Jack?’
‘They didn’t send him alone, did they?’
‘No, young Greta was with him. She came back. She must have had a fever though, because she was full of wild stories.’
Cinderella was on the edge of the huddle outside the tiny store where a tired, red-eyed man had just sold her a small loaf. She’d wondered why he hadn’t given her a wink and a smile as normal, but she’d just put it down to the terrible cold that rushed in every time a new customer opened the door and the fact that she wasn’t in the best of moods herself and maybe that showed. But now she knew and the icy wind was nothing to the cold at the pit of her stomach. Jack was a good boy. He had his father’s cheerful disposition and worked hard. Nothing bad could have happened to Jack? Surely not.
She listened to the low chattering voices around her.
‘What do you mean, “wild stories”?’
‘Well,’ the old woman leaned in closer and her friends did the same. Standing just behind them, Cinderella couldn’t help but feel that the subject of their conversation was obvious to the poor grief-stricken man on the other side of the window. But still she stepped a little closer too, in order to hear them.
‘It was preposterous. Obviously she just couldn’t cope with whatever had really happened, but she said that they’d stayed on the normal path, just like they’d been told to and just like they’d always done, but that the woods had moved somehow – the path had changed – and then before she knew it they were lost in the dense trees. They walked through the night—’
‘But that can’t be right!’ a thin woman with a crooked nose cut in. ‘She was back within a few hours, that’s what my Jeannie told me and she lives near Greta’s family.’
‘Like I said, she must’ve had a fever or something. But this is the story she told, and that’s the one you wanted to hear. Right?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘Then be quiet and listen.’ The speaker pulled her shawl tighter round her shoulders and sniffed before continuing. ‘So, they walked through the night and then they found this clearing. Right in the centre of it is a house. Made of cakes and candy according to Greta.’
A few snorts of derision accompanied this but any thought of laughter died with the next words. ‘There was an old lady there. She invited them inside. Greta said no, but Jack went in. When he didn’t come out, Greta went round to the back of the house to see if there was a window with the curtains open that she could see through.’
‘What did she see?’ They might have laughed originally but, just like Cinderella, the old women were being drawn into the story.
‘Nothing. She saw what was piled up at the back of the house and she turned and ran back into the woods. She said she ran and ran until somehow she found her way back to the path.’
‘Don’t be a tease, Gertrude. It’s freezing out here. What did she see?’
‘Bones,’ the woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Small bones. Children’s bones.’
There was a long pause after that.
‘Pah,’ the thin woman said, eventually. ‘The boy got eaten by wolves and the girl got a fever. That’s what that will be.’
‘They need to do something about those woods.’ The words were out almost before Cinderella knew she was speaking. ‘They need more soldiers guarding them. We can’t have a whole generation of children growing up scared to go into the woods. We need the woods.’ She was repeating what Rose had said even though when her step-sister had spoken, Cinderella had been bored by it. But now she knew one of the children who’d vanished and that made everything different. Rose’s words, much as it irked her, made sense. The three women turned to stare at her.
‘It’s true,’ Cinderella stammered on. ‘Someone needs to talk to the king about—’
Her sentence was cut off by the thunder of horses’ hooves and the burst of a herald’s horn as the two men in livery clattered into the street. She stared at them. The Royal Crier? The baker’s boy and his terrible fate were forgotten, and even the baker came out to join the throng who hurried to gather and hear the castle news. Royal Criers were rare in this part of the city – not enough noblemen lived here – so whatever the news was, it would be of some great importance.
Cinderella pushed her way to the front of the growing crowd.
‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’ The young man on the white horse was wearing a tunic of red and gold without a speck of dust on it, and his perfectly styled brown hair shone almost as brightly as the leather of his riding boots. ‘His Majesty the King announces his intent to hold two Bride Balls two weeks from Saturday for his royal Highness the Prince. All young ladies of noble birth and their chaperones are invited to attend. The Prince himself will dance with each, and by the end of the two balls he will have selected his bride.’
A rush of gasps and excited babble ran through the crowd as women and children clapped their hands together excitedly and men smiled and slapped each other on the back.
A royal wedding meant extra holidays and feasting and the king could be very generous when he wanted the people to celebrate with him. Pigs would roast on street corners and ale would flow. There were good times ahead.
Cinderella almost dropped the shopping she carried. The prince was having two Bride Balls and she wouldn’t be invited. She wouldn’t be, but Rose and her step-mother would. It was so awful she couldn’t bear it. Worse still, she was going to have to put up with hearing about it for the next two weeks. As if reading her mood, the sky darkened, and as she reluctantly hurried home an icy rain began to fall.
Steps were hard to manage when you were a mouse and it took him two whole days and nights to reach the top of the castle tower. It was a long, long way up at the end of an already long journey and he was exhausted. At least the forest had been kind and given him a clear path and the leafy canopy had protected him from the cold nights. A hare had carried him part of the way, letting him sleep in the warm fur of its back as it bounded through the night and he wondered once again at magic and nature and fate and how bound together they all were in the forest.
He had been surprised by the city. The first clues that all was not well had come when he passed the mines. The songs that hummed in the air, as if the mountain itself was singing, were melancholy and ached with tiredness. The hardy dwarves were finding no pleasure in their toil. At the edge of the woods were patches of dead ground as if the bushes and trees which had grown there had simply given up and slumped into a pile of rotting mulch.
It was winter across all the kingdoms, and those in the East were always gripped harder and for longer than the rest, but he had not expected what he found here. Black ice was slick across the tracks and roads and the sky raged in grey and ragged darkness whatever the hour of the day. Ravens covered the rooftops.
He had kept close to the buildings as his tiny feet carried him, fast as they could, towards the castle at the city’s core. It grew colder with each step and the wind blew harder. The castle, it soon became clear to him, was the eye of the storm. This was an unhappy city, a bitter sadness spreading like a pool of blood from the wound at its heart.
It was also a city in mourning. In each house he passed colourful drapes had been removed and replaced with the customary black, and all were pulled shut. Many shops were closed, only those selling the necessities of life allowed to trade, but still their windows had been blackened and there were no cheery greetings or hawking of wares.
The little mouse paused in his quest and squeezed through a gap in the wall of a house, eavesdropping in the warm for a while and, as well as stealing a few breadcrumbs from the floor, he learned what had passed.
The king had died in battle. His body had not yet been returned home.
It did not come as a surprise to the mouse. Kings liked battles and brave kings often got in the midst of them. And in the midst of every battle sat death, making his camp in the melee and gorging on life until his hunger was sated. All life was equal. Kings died as easily as other men.
So now the queen and her magic were in charge, and although the woman who chattered as she sewed seemed convinced that the winter storm was just the icy queen’s expression of grief for her lost husband and vanished step-daughter, the mouse thought that perhaps the rest of the city was not so kind in its judgements. They thought perhaps, as could be seen in the nervous glances up at the ravens, that the queen was not so sad her husband would no longer be returning to her bed. That the queen had what she’d always wanted; a kingdom of her own. None of the nobles would challenge her rule, even though, by the laws of the land, they had every right to. Magic and bitterness could be a terrifying combination. Kings might die in battles but politicians chose theirs more wisely. This second wife was not to be challenged lightly.
She didn’t see him for a while. She was lost in her reverie, her knees pulled up under her chin, curled up in the single throne at the centre of the tower. Around her the life of the city so far below played out in the mirrors, the bewitched ravens’ eyes showing her everything they saw. She wasn’t looking though. Her beautiful face was dark and drawn and lost in places that belonged only to her.
He squeaked.
She jumped.
She swore under her breath, a crude word entirely out of place in one so high in society, and raised her hand. Sparks glittered at her fingertips and then she paused and frowned, leaning forward to take a closer look. He stood up on his hind legs as she loomed over him, her pale face an enormous moon against the black night of the walls that were fractured with red lightning. There were fresh lines around her eyes and her cheekbones were sharper. But then, he thought, and if a mouse could smile he would have, they’d both changed since he’d taken her on this cool marble floor.
She stared at him for quite a while and he stared back. He was banking on her curiosity getting the better of her, rather than destroying him at her feet. His future happiness as well as his life depended on it. Finally, her fingers sparkled again and a tinkling sound filled the air as the glittering light coated him with its warmth, and the world shimmered and shook and trembled and so did his insides.
He was a man again.
He was also dressed, which came as something of a relief. For a moment he felt quite dizzy, strange to be tall in the world after such a long time, and there was a strange sensation in his gut which let him know he wasn’t free of her curse but had only a temporary reprieve.
He did not waste time flirting with her. Whatever moment of lust they had once shared was long gone for both of them. Instead, she poured two glasses of wine and they sat on cushions on the floor and talked long into the night. Finally a pact was made, an agreement of sorts, and she told him how his curse could be lifted. It was the way of all curses and it came as no surprise. Until then, however, she would half-lift it so they could help each other. As deals went, it could have been worse.
It was only when morning came and he was a mouse again did he wish he’d thought to go back down all the stairs before the change had been once again upon him.
It was a long two weeks between the announcement and the commencement of the Bride Ball, and throughout the city there was an air of excitement, even among the common people who would never in their lifetimes get through the castle gates. All day long dressmakers hurried from one noble house to another, each trying to come up with unique designs that would guarantee to catch the prince’s eye and his heart. No expenses were being spared and the tradesmen were happy. Jewellers, hairdressers and haberdashers were bringing the sinking economy back to life and butchers and bakers were also busy, as many of those who had no chance of a royal invitation planned their own parties at home. Bride Balls were a rarity and everyone wanted to enjoy the weekend of festivities.
Except perhaps Cinderella. The days dragged by endlessly as teams of experts traipsed in and out of the house. There was a woman to teach Rose deportment, there was another to manage her eating as her mother insisted she must lose several pounds if she was to shine and not look like a ‘brood mare’ compared to the glamorous young ladies of the court. A man came to teach her how to engage in court conversation, another how to dance all the latest fashionable reels. They arrived like an army before it was light and they often kept working her until it was very nearly midnight.
Cinderella moved quietly around the house doing her chores but all the time watching and learning. Alone in her room she’d easily manage the moves Rose found so difficult, twirling this way and that, so naturally elegant compared to the girl who spent most of her afternoons thudding across the floor, trying to dance in the heels she’d been bought especially to practise in. It wasn’t fair, Cinderella would think, for the hundred thousandth time. It just wasn’t fair. She almost wept with envy when the dressmaker came bearing swathes of beautiful silks for Rose to choose from. Ivy was paying for her sister’s dress and cost was no object, and her mother was holding her to that.
Rose was pinched and pinned and squeezed and tutted at until two suitable desig
ns were chosen and then the exhausted girl was sent to bed with no supper in order that she might just fit into her gowns by the night of the first ball. Cinderella heard her sobbing through the wall one night and almost knocked on the door but decided against it. What could she say? Rose knew how much Cinderella wanted that invite herself. She could hardly pity her step-sister for being the one allowed to go. But still, though she might be terribly, achingly jealous of the event, she was no longer jealous of Rose.
The preparations were endless and her step-mother had become relentless in her determination to turn her daughter into a girl to rival those of the best houses of the kingdom. Cinderella wondered if perhaps, underneath all the laughter and reminiscing of her youth, that first ball hadn’t been too kind to her. Had she been the subject of a few barbed remarks she hadn’t told Rose about? Did she have a few scores to settle at the castle?
For the first time Cinderella gave some proper thought to her step-mother’s life before this one. How very different it must have been. And how very difficult it must have been to go back into that castle where so many people would remember what she’d done. It made Cinderella feel strange. She didn’t want to feel sorry for either her step-mother or Rose, but somehow she did. Her step-mother had become obsessed with regaining her place in court life and Ivy and the Viscount weren’t enough. The Viscount was a nervous man and preferred to spend his time with his new wife in the privacy of their estate rather than wrangling in court matters, and so now all her hopes were pinned on Rose to secure her position.
‘If you can make the prince fall in love with you, Rose, just imagine . . .’
Cinderella had lost count of the times she’d heard those words from her step-mother by the time the night of the first ball finally drew close. There was an edge to it. A nervous anxiety. Cinderella might want to go to the ball, yes, but she was very glad she wasn’t Rose. Rose was exhausted and her step-mother was on the verge of madness as far as she could see. It must be madness if she thought a man as wonderful as the prince would ever think of marrying a lump like Rose. It was impossible. And Rose, Cinderella suspected, knew it.