Cinderella Is Dead Page 3

  Most people think my mother and I are sisters, so alike are our features. Our dark, curly hair is identical except that her strands are lightly flecked with gray. We share the same deep-brown complexion, but she has lines set in at the corners of her mouth. People call them laugh lines, but I’m certain hers are from frowning.

  “I was chosen by your father my first year at the ball, and it was a good match,” she begins. “He was the son of a land baron, and he is a decent man, a good man.”

  “I know.” She’s told me this before, but an urgency tints her voice now, like she’s trying to convince me that there’s some glimmer of hope.

  “But some are not so lucky,” she says, her tone deadly serious. “Do you understand what that must be like? To not be chosen? What the repercussions of that would be?”

  “Of course I understand.” That possibility scares her almost more than anything else. Girls who aren’t chosen by their third ball are considered forfeit, ending up in workhouses or in servitude. But in recent years, several girls have disappeared into the castle and were never heard from again.

  My mother runs her hands over the pleats in her dress and sighs. “Tell me something, Sophia. Do Erin and Liv know how difficult you can be? How stubborn?”

  “Yes,” I say. It is a half-truth. Erin and Liv are my closest friends, and I can be myself around them for the most part. But even in their presence, I feel like I have to hold back because Lille has left its mark on them, too. They hear me speak of leaving, of resisting what is expected of us, and they tell me to lower my voice. Those things are simply not done. No one leaves. No one resists who isn’t courting death.

  “I do hope Liv finds a match this year,” my mother says, staring off. “Her parents are very worried, and if she’s not chosen this time, she’ll only get one more chance.”

  That a girl is considered a spinster if not married by eighteen is wrong, and that the boys don’t even have to attend the ball until they want to is a sickening double standard. “It’s not her fault she wasn’t chosen.”

  Liv hadn’t been selected at last year’s ball. Erin and I had discussed it, and neither of us could understand why. Liv almost never brought it up, but I’d gleaned that someone had made a claim on her and at the very last minute had chosen another girl.

  Now Liv was brandishing a replica wand, hoping to conjure some magical assistance. After everything they’d seen and gone through the previous year, Liv and her parents still hoped she’d receive a visit from a fairy godmother. They had convinced themselves that one didn’t show up the year before because they hadn’t been pious enough in following Cinderella’s example.

  “I’m not going to be visited by some magical old crone,” I say, frustration bubbling up inside me.

  “Maybe not,” my mother says in a whisper. “But you’ll look like you were, and that is what the suitors and the king care about most.”

  “You’d think they would care about me, about what I feel.” Even as I say the words, I know they fly in the face of everything I know to be true, and my mother agrees.

  “Why, in the name of King Manford, would they ever think that?” she asks. She squeezes her hands together like she’s praying, but the skin over her knuckles is stretched tight. “You’ve—we’ve—got one chance at this. You must find a match. Going back to the ball a second time is an embarrassment.”

  Her words cut me like a knife. “Is Liv an embarrassment? How can you say that about her? It’s not her fault some disgusting old man changed his mind.”

  She looks away. “She knows what’s at stake. Foolish wishes and magic aren’t going to save her. She must conform, know her place, and do whatever must be done to find a match, and so do you.” She leans toward me. “I know you’re different, and that this will be hard for you, but you have no choice.”

  Different.

  That’s how she sees me, and every time she uses that word, a distinct air of disapproval accompanies it. Lille has left its stain on her, too.

  “I want to be with Erin.”

  “I know,” she says, glancing around as if someone might hear. “But you will keep that to yourself.” Her tone is flat, emotionless. It’s how she protects herself from the reality of what I’m facing.

  I was twelve when I told my parents that I would much rather find a princess than a prince. They had gone into a state of panic, from which they emerged with a renewed sense of determination. They told me that in order to survive I would have to hide how I felt. I was never very good at it, and the weight of that mask grows heavier with each passing year. I want nothing more than to cast it aside.

  “You don’t have to resist every little thing. It will do you no good, and I will not lose you,” says my mother as she grips the edge of the table. “I can’t. You must attend. You must play the part.” She sits back as if she is exhausted, letting her shoulders roll forward and exhaling slowly. “Your father is working on brokering another sale as we speak to bring in the extra money we need for—” She stops. Her voice catches in her throat. Her eyes become glassy as she puts her hand on top of mine. “I love you very much. I would do anything to ensure you are the most beautiful girl in the room when you make your entrance.”

  “My whole life has been a buildup to this. This isn’t some little thing. Everything I do, everything I say, it’s all about the ball. My path has been chosen for me since birth. My future is already written, and I don’t have a say in any of it.”

  “Yes. And?” She stares at me blankly as if she can’t understand.

  “Don’t you want me to be happy? Isn’t that what matters most?” In the brief moment before her answer, I imagine she’ll say yes and tell me I don’t have to go. I think of what it would feel like to have her on my side.

  “No.” My mother lets go of my hand. Bitter disappointment envelops me. “What matters is that you are safe. That we follow the laws. They are clear as day. Right there.” She motions to the front door. “Happiness is a bonus, Sophia. You’re not entitled to it, and the sooner you accept that, the easier your life will be.”

  “And if I don’t want an easy life?”

  My mother stares at me. She parts her lips to speak and then presses them together, dropping her gaze to the tabletop. “Be very careful what you ask for. Because you just might get it.”

  “May I be excused?” I ask.

  She nods, and I push my chair back from the table and go upstairs. As I reach the top step, I hear my mother crying. A part of me wants to go to her, but a part of me doesn’t. I love her, and I know she loves me, but that’s not enough. She will not break the rules even if they require me to deny everything about myself. I go into my room and close the door.

  5

  The next morning, I awake just before sunrise. My father is already gone for the day, and my mother has begun her work preparing breakfast. Dough sits rising under a cloth by the wood stove, which she stokes and sets a kettle on. I join her in the kitchen and tie an apron around my waist. My mother places a small plate with two biscuits and a sliced apple on the table. She speaks to me over her shoulder as she turns out a ball of dough onto the floured surface of the countertop.

  “The floors will need to be swept and scrubbed, like always, and it’s washday for the linens upstairs. Take the rugs out and give them a good beating. Your father said he might be home early, so we must get to it. When he arrives, be sure to recite the story as soon as you can because I know he’ll be tired and will want to rest.”

  “You want me to recite it out loud?” I ask. I know that’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s more of a tradition than a rule, but I hadn’t done that in a long time.

  “Yes,” my mother says curtly. “Maybe you’re a little rusty, and with the ball coming up you’ll want to know it backward and forward in case a suitor wants to test your knowledge.”

  I don’t even respond. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The suitors will test me? I have a strong urge to tell my mother that I’m pretty sure the men gat
hering at the castle haven’t even read the story all the way through because none of it is actually meant for them. It’s meant for the rest of us. I just nod. I put on a cloak and start lugging the rugs outside.

  Would there really be suitors wanting to test me? And does my father really want to hear it, or is my mother just thinking of every single way someone might try to trip me up once I’m at the ball?

  “The wife of a wealthy man grew ill and knew that her end was near,” I say aloud. It’s still there in my head. Every word.

  I’m beating the rugs out when my mother opens the front door, a concerned look on her face. “Sophia, I need you to go see Mrs. Bassett. I’m afraid I forgot the ribbons that match your dress at her shop, the ones for your hair.”

  “You don’t want to go?” I ask. I get a clear look at her for the first time that morning. She has dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept.

  “No, I’m not feeling well. I’ve sent Henry to tell Mr. Langley’s son to be here within the hour to take you.”

  I glance around to see if Henry, our neighbor’s young son, has already left.

  “I can walk,” I say. “Or I could take the carriage myself?”

  She shakes her head. “Alone? Sophia, please. My nerves are already shattered. Don’t add to it with your penchant for trying to break the law.”

  “It’s not a law.”

  She plants her foot on the stoop with a loud thud. “You’ll be taken up to the palace in chains if you’re caught driving a carriage, and if you go walking alone you might end up in a far worse situation.”

  Something in her tone strikes me. Her emotions, usually tightly coiled, seem to be fraying more and more with each passing day. I won’t tell her I’d walked through the woods and into the city on my own yesterday. She might not survive the shock.

  “Mr. Langley’s son will be here soon,” she says. “He’ll take you.”

  She goes inside, and I wait in the yard. As scheduled, he comes strolling up through the dissipating mist. He leans on the gate and gives me a little nod.

  “Morning,” he says. He shows me that mischievous smile again.

  I’m fairly good at reading people, but this boy is a puzzle. The curl of his lip and his smug smile make me think I’m missing something.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod as he pulls out the wooden cart that we take to the market instead of the covered carriage we use to travel. It’s made to haul sacks of grain and has only one wide seat in the front. He hitches it to our horse and climbs up.

  “It’s cold,” I say. “We should take the carriage.”

  “But I’ve already got this one ready to go. Don’t you want to sit next to me?”

  “Absolutely not. And if you’d asked me beforehand, I would have told you to hook up the carriage. But you didn’t, so here we are.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “So you run the show around here? That’s … different.”

  “Different,” I say quietly. Different never means anything good.

  The front door creaks open behind me.

  “Is she giving you trouble?” my mother calls from the doorway. I don’t turn around, but I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head.

  “No problems, Mrs. Grimmins.” Mr. Langley’s son shoots me a quick wink. If he expects a thank-you for not telling my mother what I said, he is going to be sorely disappointed.

  I climb up, sitting as far away from him as the seat allows. He yanks the reins, and the cart lurches forward.

  The temperature stays cool, even as the sun rises. I pull my cloak in tight around me, but the air still seeps through. Mr. Langley’s son sets the reins in his lap and removes his coat.

  “Here. It’s not much, but it should help.” He places the coat over my shoulders, and I lean away from him, watching his hands and his eyes. I don’t know him enough to trust him, and most times when a man does a woman a favor it is because he wants something in return. “Am I that off-putting?” He raises his arm and gives a whiff. “Do I smell? I just bathed last week.”

  He’s trying to be funny. I don’t respond.

  “My name’s Luke. In case you were wondering.”

  “I know,” I say flatly. We’ve never been formally introduced but I’ve heard my parents speak of him a little too often.

  “You’re always with your mother. She doesn’t let you get a word in edgewise.”

  I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Or maybe I don’t have much to say.”

  “Okay.” He grimaces a little. “I was surprised at your outburst back there with the cart. I’ve never seen a girl refuse a man’s request so openly. That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

  “Are you joking or threatening me?” I angle my body so I can raise my leg and kick him over the side of the cart if he gets any ideas. Girls are harassed and manhandled on a regular basis in Lille, and because of that I actually have a plan for what to do if someone ever tries to hurt me. If Luke makes one false move, I’ll smash his nose back into his skull, maybe kick him where he’d feel it most, and then run. I can also grab the reins, pull the horse off the road, and flip the cart over. I don’t care if I get hurt in the process. I’m not going quietly.

  “I wasn’t joking, but I wasn’t threatening you, either. I’m sorry.” He looks at me and smiles again. His demeanor is abrasive but not malicious. He can’t be more than twenty, tall and lanky, brown skin, black hair, with only the slightest air of self-importance. I still have a hard time reading him.

  I keep my body in a position to upend him but pose a question as a distraction. “Are you preparing for the ball as well?”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. It catches me so off guard that all I can do is stare at him. He composes himself and shakes his head. “Not if I can help it. Things are different for me.”

  “Why?” I ask. He’s lost some of that bravado he had when he strode up to my front gate. We stop in front of the seamstress’s shop.

  “You’re friends with Erin, aren’t you?” He doesn’t meet my eyes.

  The question seems out of place, and I bristle. “Yes. She’s one of my best friends.”

  “Hmm,” he says, nodding. “Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say things are different.”

  The knowing look in his eyes terrifies me. I’ve seen it before. It’s the same look my mother gives me every time I speak Erin’s name. I immediately hop out of the cart and toss his coat back to him. “Just wait here, please.”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I worry that his friendly manner is just a way to get me to feel comfortable enough to drop my guard.

  I hurry to the door of the shop and go in. None of the lamps are lit yet, and the dappled light from the barely risen sun casts shadows through the room, which feels oddly at rest without the seamstress and her bevy of helpers bustling around. A measuring tape hangs over the edge of the table, and dozens of glass beads litter the floor as if they’ve been knocked over without anyone bothering to clean them up.

  I see the ribbons my mother left behind sitting on a table in a canvas bag, and I pick them up. Just then, a whimper comes from under the table. I step back and look down to see someone sitting there. A young boy. His knees pulled to his chest, as he rocks back and forth.

  “Hello?” I say gently. The boy’s head pokes up from behind his knees, his eyes rimmed with tears. He sucks in a gulp of air and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He’s dressed in a tattered pair of slacks and a faded shirt a size too small. The sleeves expose his delicate, thin wrists. He seems so fragile. I want to put my arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay even though I have no idea what’s wrong. He sobs again.

  “Oh no. Please don’t cry. Are you all right?” I put my hand out, but he scurries back, knocking into the leg of the table and sending more beads scattering to the floor. “I won’t hurt you, I swear.” The eerie silence of the shop sets me on edge.

  “I don’t know you,” he says.

 
; “No, I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Sophia. The seamstress is helping me with my dress, and I just came to pick these up.” I crouch down and hold out the bag of ribbons. “See?” His expression softens. “Why are you crying?”

  He opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. Then he scoots closer so he is almost out from under the table.

  “He’s too loud,” he says, cupping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes.

  “Who’s too loud?” I ask, confused.

  A man’s voice, shrill and grating, echoes from somewhere over my head. Heavy footsteps pound across an upstairs room. I look up as the entire structure of the house quakes. Dust, shaken free from the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, falls down through the shadowy confines of the shop and settles like a fine powder on the tables and chairs. I fight the urge to pick up the boy and bolt out the door.

  The boy lowers his hands, his eyes wide. “My father. He’s yelling at my mother. He’s always yelling at her.”

  The light streaming through the shop windows illuminates the boy’s face. He is nearly identical to the seamstress. They share the same brown skin, dark eyes, and dimples at the outer corners of their mouths.

  A loud crash followed by a woman’s scream pierces the momentary silence. I stand up, and the boy scurries back. I look out the front window and see Luke still perched on the cart.

  What a man does in his home is his business. That is the rule. I should leave, but I can’t do that.

  “You just stay here, all right?” I say.

  “Okay,” he answers from under the table.

  I creep to the rear of the shop, where a staircase leads up to the second floor. I put my hand on the rail and listen. The silence is almost as unbearable as the woman’s screams. At the top of the stairway is a door, and a soft light streams from underneath it. The stairwell is dark and shadowy, with thin shafts of light from under the door illuminating bits of dust floating in the air. I take one step up.

  I don’t know what I will do when I get to the top. Knock? Call out? Can I even stop what is happening? The man’s voice sounds again, and this time I hear the words clearly.