Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt 2)

Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella holds onto words. Commands. Be patient. Be kind. One big loving family. Magic won’t fix anything. Her loved ones’ words ring in her head the entirety of the following month, soaring above and diving beneath each other.

Sometimes the boy’s voice says, Be patient.

Sometimes her father says, Be kind.

Sometimes her mother says, Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella’s rations are in order. A week’s worth of dried foods to sustain her journey into town. It’ll take her a week on foot, three days by carriage but she doesn’t have access to a carriage. Her stepmother will be taking it. Her mind whispers, the Capitol is a week by carriage. You could—

She lets her mantras drown the thought. Cinderella is too old for fairytales.

The mice watch her from the windowsills the day of the full moon. She is mending Anastasia’s stockings by the fireside. It is the last time she’ll do so and she attempts to summon some fondness for the chore. It’s her sister who trusts her with this task, she has spent so many evenings warm and cozy with a needle and thread, she has gained some skill in mending from so many years practicing—

No fondness wells. Instead Cinderella’s eyes burn from the length of time between blinks and her heart beats so slowly that she feels like time is moving backwards. The fire crackles and Cinderella breaks the thread with her teeth, finishing the mend as sloppily as she can. With any luck, it’ll rub and give Anastasia a blister while she dances with the Prince.

She’s horrid. Did her mother see this side of her when she made her daughter promise to be kind? Cinderella starts on the heel of the next stocking.

“Cinderella.”

Stepmother is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one elegant hand presses to the rough stone, the other behind her back. Drizella peeks out from beneath her arm, hair piled up on top of her head. Anastasia hovers behind, swishing her emerald skirts from side to side.

“Yes, Stepmother?” Cinderella asks. Her voice startles her. Low and rounded and empty. She is deep inside her own head as Stepmother steps into the sunlight streaming through the small window above the preparation table. “Is there something you need assistance with?

“I have been thinking,” Stepmother says. Her chin lifts and her eyes glint when she eyes the basket of stockings. “You have…shown efforts in this household. I know the girls and I have not been as attentive as of late. Our focus has been entirely on the ball. Yet, I would not have you thinking your…help has gone unnoticed.”

“It was my idea,” Drizella blurts. She darts under her mother’s arms and pelts forward, nearly falling when she stops just short of Cinderella’s seat. She grins down at her. “This is my idea!”

“Our idea,” Anastasia says with a sniff. She steps around her mother with tiny, practiced steps. She’s using a strange accent, half Capital and half west mountains. She’s been attempting to blend into the upper nobility. “We thought of it together.”

“Yes, my girls are so kind,” Stepmother says. She reveals what she’s holding behind her back and Cinderella’s breath stills in her lungs. It’s fabric, beautiful, shimmering silver fabric. A hint of a lace sleeve peeks out from the bundle. “Here.”

Cinderella stands. This can’t be what she thinks it is. She doesn’t reach for the bundle even when Stepmother takes a step forward, hand outstretched. She swallows. “Is that a dress?”

“We had some money leftover at the seamstress,” Drizella says, leaning into Cinderella’s side. She tilts her head to rest on the taller girl’s shoulder. “Isn’t the color beautiful?”

“I didn’t want lace on my dress,” Anastasia says. She sits in Cinderella’s abandoned chair, smoothing her skirts like a court lady might. “So the seamstress said she could add it to yours. You’re welcome.”

Cinderella is staring at the dress. This can’t be real. Something in her chest trembles. Were they thinking of her at the seamstress’ studio? Her? “Why?”

“So you can attend the ball of course,” Stepmother says. She takes another step forward. “I am not so ungenerous as to ban you from going. Did you think I would?”

Yes. Cinderella’s hand trembles when she reaches for the dress. Her fingertips graze the smooth fabric. “It’s beautiful.”

“As beautiful as you are,” Stepmother says. Stepmother’s voice trembles. She blinks quickly as if holding back tears. “I have never told you so. It is not good for a girl of your…station to nurture ideas. However, I have come to regret my restraint.”

Don’t! Cinderella ignores the warning. Her heart is aching so fiercely that she can scarcely breathe. She takes the dress from Stepmother as gently as she would hold one of the mice. “You want me to come with you?”

“We’re all noble daughters,” Anastasia says primly. Her eyes are on Cinderella’s folded dress. “Wearing that, you might look the part.”

“Indeed. We leave in an hour,” Stepmother says. She holds out her hands to her daughters. “Come, girls. Let’s not get in Cinderella’s way. She must pack quickly.”

Cinderella feels light headed. She strokes the fabric and marvels at how cool and light it feels against her fingers. She doesn’t have anything else to wear to the Capital, not a stitch, but she has a dress. A dress her family gave her.

Don’t.

“But I want to see her open it,” Drizella whines. She walks backwards towards her mother. “Go on, Cinderella. Take a look. You’ll love the silhouette.”

Cinderella hardly notices Anastasia tiptoe around her. They bought her a dress. She doesn’t care what it looks like. It could be decades out of fashion. It could be completely bare. She doesn’t care. They bought her a dress and Stepmother acknowledged her hard work and—

Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—

Cinderella unfurls the dress. Something so light she didn’t notice it in the folds of the fabric drops to the ground and rolls.

Coal.

The dress is streaked with black soot, the front wrecked by the stains. There is no lace on the dress except for the one sleeve. The hemline is unfinished and cut at an angle that can’t be salvaged. The silver fabric is ruined everywhere except for the back panel of a skirt which Stepmother had used to conceal the mess.

“Oh, dear,” Stepmother says as Cinderella stares at the wreck. The trembling in Stepmother’s voice isn’t regret. It’s glee. “My, Cinderella, your dress is a mess. You won’t be able to go to the ball after all, will you?”

“In that?” Anastasia asks. She presses a hand to her chest, once again safely behind her mother. “No, no, no, you could never go in that.”

“Maybe you can clean it,” Drizella says. She’s bouncing on her toes. “You’re good at cleaning, right, Cinderella?”

“Alas,” Stepmother says, shaking her head. She ushers the girls ahead of her. “We leave in just an hour.” She clicks her tongue. “Do hurry, won’t you, Cinderella? Of course, if you can’t save the dress, what’s the point? Perhaps you should stay here after all…entirely up to you, dear.”

Anastasia’s snorts and Drizella’s shrieks of laughter echo behind them. They’re off to pack, thrilled by their prank. Stepmother stays in the doorway. Cinderella can feel her looking. Cinderella can’t tear her gaze away from the dress. After a long moment, Stepmother speaks.

“It is not in my nature to be cruel,” Stepmother says. Her heel taps against the stone. “I see we have hurt you. Perhaps you think us unkind for this little mischief, hm?”

Cinderella’s head is bowed. She can’t bring herself to speak.

“Trust me,” Stepmtoher says, “that it is not even a tenth as cruel as it would be to have you come with us. You are beautiful, Cinderella. Does it please you to hear me admit it? I can concede that much at least in light of what you must be feeling. But my daughters have worked hard for this day. They do not deserve the cruelty of having you who have worked for nothing overshadowing their efforts just because you were born beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Cinderella tastes the word like poison on her tongue. “I—I am not—“

“Save me your false humility,” Stepmother says coldly. Her tapping heel stills. “You think yourself clever, but you are just a girl. I see how you lord yourself over my daughters. I have spent years attempting to curtail your excessive pride to no avail. In the end, you’ll see today as a favor to all parties involved. My daughters deserve this opportunity to rise above their station. You?  You will have the opportunity see where you really belong.”

There is something interesting happening in Cinderella’s chest. Whereas before her heart beat so slowly it felt as if time flowed backwards, it’s the opposite now. Her heart is beating so fast and so loud that a river rushes through Cinderella at the speed of light.

“Beauty,” Cinderella says. She finally pulls her gaze from the ruined dress to meet Stepmother’s eyes. Stepmother’s mouth thins in displeasure, but Cinderella doesn’t care. “All these years over— over your perception? Your idea of what I am? Who I am?”

“Do not condescend to me,” Stepmother says.

It is not a denial.

Cinderella is a child again, perched on top of her father’s shoulders. The light is golden in her mother’s hair and she reaches for a strand that’s fallen free of her pins—

She is crouched in the garden, watching ants pull at a grounded butterfly’s wings. Sickened, she steps on them, pounds at them with her heels. Her name rings through the air as her mother hurries towards her—

Her father’s back is fading into the light as he leaves her mother in her window. Her mother’s shoulders shake and Cinderella is behind them both, clutching a doll—

She is holding her mother’s hand and it’s so cold. Her eyes are as pale and lifeless as the butterfly’s wings. Cinderella calls for her mother and the silence swallows her whole—

Cinderella is crying in the snow. She is dying or dead. Her legs are frozen, as cold as her mother’s hand, and she can’t tell if she’s even walking still. A bell rings through the trees and, half-mad, she follows it—

She lies in the warm grass of the meadow as the boy talks about stars and constellations and something beautiful unfurls in Cinderella’s chest for the first time in years—

She hopes. There is hope so bitter that it puckers her soul a little more with every letter she writes. She stands at the window and waits for her father or a letter or a sign—

You deserve more, the boy says. You’re strong, Cinderella. You have endured the freezing cold long enough. It is time to find somewhere warm—

When Cinderella is able to rip herself from the memories, Stepmother is gone. The dress is crumpled on the ground and Cinderella’s heart is loud in her ears.

“I,” Cinderella says to the empty room, “am more than beauty.”

Something in her chest cracks. A bone, maybe. A heart.

A dam.

Cinderella, not waiting for night, bursts out of the kitchen door. She lifts her skirts so that she can lengthen her strides and runs. The woods swallow her without preamble, the canopy glowing green in the afternoon light.

Be kind.

She leaps over fallen trees and dodges low branches, not caring as sticks fling up under her heels and leaves whip at her face. Her heart pounds.

Be patient.

How could she have been so blind? They were never going to love her. Stepmother saw only what she wanted to see, a part of Cinderella that is not who she is, something that’s never mattered.

One big loving family.

She poured love like blood into their mouths. She did what her parents taught her and loved with hands so open that her fingers bent backwards. For what? To be boiled down to nothing? To be pretty?

Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella, chest heaving, leaps into the clearing. She can feel her hair tangled behind her. Her hands are stained with soot and they leave black fingerprints on her skirts. A cut on her leg oozes. The wind whips at her in alarm. Cinderella doesn’t care.

She approaches the tree. The boy is waiting, still for once. How did he know she’d be there so soon? Why is his presence watching her like that? The rainbows of magic shiver like grass, bending away from her when she stalks through them.

“You promised me magic,” Cinderella says. Somehow she is not out of breath. She presses a hand to the oak tree’s warm bark. Her eyes spark. “Didn’t you?”

“I did,” the boy says.

“Then show me magic,” Cinderella says. “Whatever you want. Whenever you want. Just—keep your promise. Take me away from here.”

“Your wish,” the boy says, “is my command.”

The bark shifts under her fingers and Cinderella falls forward into the tree. She doesn’t have time to scream. Would she even want to? She drops into darkness so warm that her shoulders loosen as she plummets.

Out in the meadow, a single butterfly drifts across the top of the wildflowers.