from Section 1 of Cinders
The prince hosted many balls—one a week for the first month after the wedding. There was always dancing and food and beautiful gowns. Cinderella liked it until she discovered how much work it was. First she had to bathe. That took a lot of effort with a lot of servants, and it was always cold no matter how warm they heated the water. It was the middle of winter, and they liked to comb her hair dry by the fire, counting as they went, one two three four five six…one hundred and two…until she wanted to scream stop! But she spoke softly and smiled at them as kindly as she could. She knew what it was like to be in their position.
They pinned up her hair in elaborate fashions, gently tucked in the prince’s shells, dusted her face and chest, applied the rouge, tied up her corsets, fluffed her skirts, rubbed rose oil on her temples and ankles, and asked if she wanted to wear her fur shoes.
“No, no, they don’t fit properly. I might lose one,” she’d laugh, her voice echoing off the stone walls. She wondered what would happen if she lost one; they were the only thing left of the old woman who’d given them to her. Everything else had vanished.
“But they must be warm,” Cinderella’s lady-in-waiting, Amie, remarked.
“Yes, but the ballroom is stuffy.”
And it was, terribly so. Most of the time, Cinderella found herself drifting to an open window to breathe the fresh cold air. Sometimes it would be snowing, the flakes falling in slow succession, gathering in layers across the frozen moat. She imagined the fish moving along the bottom, their bellies as cold as the ice, their eyes seeing nothing in the darkness. Sometimes she felt the same way, especially when she danced with the prince and everyone watched. She’d close her eyes and see nothing, only the smell of candles reminding her that this was real, that he held her close because he loved her, that his lips on her cheek were warm and kind.
Sometimes she forgot about the other man, the stranger she’d met long ago, long before she was given fur shoes and knew there were such things as magic and spells.
___________________________
from Section 2 of Cinders
The next morning the kitchen smelled of blood. It was splattered on the wood countertops and splashed across the floor. Cinderella watched thin red streams trickle between the stones.
Rowland’s hunting party had done well: fifteen ducks, three pheasants, and eight rabbits hung on a long, thick wire in a corner. The red liquid dripped steadily from their limp bodies swaying back and forth in the cool breeze from an open door. The larger kills, which Cinderella had overheard consisted of five deer and an elk, were apparently being gutted and bled by some of the male servants outside. Fortune seemed to find great joy in taking care of the smaller kills. She raised her cleaver and brought it down with one smooth movement of her muscular arm. Thwack!
“I am surprised at you, Christina,” she said with a deep laugh as she tossed the severed duck head into a basket near the counter where she worked. She had only recently started calling Cinderella by her first name at Cinderella’s constant requests. “His Highness the Prince came down here after one of his hunting parties. He wanted to see what we do to his kills. I think the boy went and threw up. Turned as pale as a leek!”
Cinderella leaned forward in her chair—an elegant padded one that a servant had brought in from the dining hall, despite Cinderella’s protests. “I used to do this, Fortune. I used to chop heads off like that. I used to get blood all the way up my arms. Rose liked her meat extra fresh, so she hired a hunter to bring it in instead of buying it at the market. So who had to clean it and skin it and gut it? Me.”
Listening to herself, Cinderella laughed inside, mostly because she was not required to do those things anymore. Still, a part of her hated to let it go completely. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her feet to stretch her calves. She was tired from her night of wandering the castle.
She had found the prison, but only near dawn, and the guard, his eyes widening at the sight of her, had told her she wasn’t allowed in that part of the castle. Only with permission from the king and queen could he allow anyone to enter, even her Royal Highness the Princess. His meaty fingers tightened around the hilt of a sword. His eyes glinted with what Cinderella could only guess was fear. She imagined Marion’s orders given to him in her deep voice and commanding, heavy-bodied presence.
Thwack! Thwack!
Fortune tossed two duck feet into a shallow water-filled bowl. The other cooks in the kitchen bustled behind her. Some came in and out of the doorway, either heading to market or coming back with armfuls of leafy greens and vegetables and sacks of soft white flour only the rich could afford. Some of the food was grown on the castle grounds, but not in the winter when it was carted in from the southern, warmer part of the continent. By that time, many of the vegetables had wilted, but the cooks revived them in bowls of cold water and vinegar. There were such bowls along one long counter, green leaves spilling over their sides. Cinderella liked to stare at the bowls. Something about life spilling over their sides comforted her.
She liked the order and familiarity, the smell of the vinegar and spices that reminded her of her mother who had never needed to cook. In those days the house was filled with servants and luxuries for the family—but, like Cinderella, she found pleasure in working with her hands, creating magic for the palate.
“There you go again,” Fortune said as she leaned across the counter to grin at Cinderella. “Getting that look on your face like you’re drifting in a dream.”
Cinderella smiled and remembered Fortune saying something about Rowland’s face the color of a leek. “I think he has a delicate heart,” she said, imagining his disgust at shooting an arrow through an animal, but doing it anyway because he was a man and a prince and it was expected. But, whenever he held her close there was tenderness in his touch that she guessed did not exist in most men.
“Delicate heart, yes,” Fortune said, grinning as she picked up a smaller knife and slid it down the duck’s back. “He must have the most intelligent sort of heart to have picked you, my dear.”
“A lucky accident,” Cinderella laughed. She leaned forward again, wishing she could slide out of her heavy dress and put on the peasant clothing most of the servants in the kitchen wore—the simple earthy browns and creams faded and threadbare on the edges from repeated washing. Fortune’s billowy white sleeves were pushed up her arms as she worked. She was large, like a man, but her rope of braided hair was as bright as a young girl’s.
“Accident, hah!” Fortune peered at her through milky-grey eyes. She wagged her bloody knife in the air. “You have yet to tell me the story, Christina. You know the castle is still ablaze with gossip about you and your Prince Charming. You know that old woman in the prison keeps saying your name. Nobody knows what really happened.”
“I heard she practices dark magic,” one of the cooks said as she approached with a sack of barley in her arms. She stopped to lean close to Cinderella’s face. “I heard,” she said, lowering her voice, “that they tried to put her to death, but she lived. Only dark magic can do that, y’know.” Cinderella stood up, half a foot taller than the young girl, who suddenly cowered. “I-I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“What else have you heard?” Cinderella demanded. For the first time since becoming a princess, she stood tall and proud, keenly aware of the thin gold circlet on her head. She had sworn to herself that she would never hurt one of the servants, either emotionally or physically with her power. But at that moment, she knew that if the girl did not answer her question she would slap her. She already imagined the red handprint blossoming on that sun-browned cheek.
The girl whimpered as she said, “I promise that’s all I’ve heard, Your Highness. She was arrested for magic, and the king tried to have her put to death. It might be gossip.”
“It might be.” Cinderella stretched her fingers, surprised at the anger flowing through her. It left quickly, and she softened her expression and touched the girl’s shoulder. “Thank you for being honest. You may return to your work.”
The kitchen fell strangely silent, and Cinderella looked at Fortune who was gutting the duck with more concentration than Cinderella knew was needed. A child, five or six years old, looked up from her stool in the corner of the kitchen. A dead chicken lay in her lap, and she plucked out the feathers. They floated around her like snow, some of them swirling toward the open doorway, drifting to the blood-spattered floor. Later, after Cinderella was gone, she imagined the child on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the stones until her fingers bled.
_______________________
Cinders will be published by Rhemalda Publishing November 2012 as part of the Bonded collection with Michelle's two other novellas, Thirds and Scales.
