Cinderella Necromancer

by F. M. Boughan

  Regardless of reason or purpose, they could still have my head for it.

  And I rather preferred having a head.

  6

  The Consequence

  Curiosity drove me to what I did next, though one might also cite a lack of common sense or some innate need for punishment. I made my way to the kitchen, though I might as well have been heading into an abyss for all the silence.

  No longer echoed the joyful raucousness of cook and maid and scullery boy, replaced instead by the creaks and shudders of an empty home.

  I stole to the furthest corner of the room and found a darkened cabinet where I shoved William’s coat and ring as far back as my arm could reach. Hidden in shadows, no one would find it here until spring cleaning, a boon if by chance I found no way to dispose of it before then.

  Elsewhere in the room, a cupboard door slammed. I bolted upright and hope sprung anew, Miss Mary’s name on my tongue. I wove around the pots and pans and hanging meats, searching for the source of the sound.

  Gretel, our cook, watched me from aside a basket of onions.

  “They ain’t here,” Gretel said, wiping oily hands on her soiled apron. “I’m all what’s left.”

  Hope vanished like a wisp, replaced by disappointment and a tiny spark of anger. I should have smothered the spark and let it die, but naivety won out and I fanned it instead.

  “It won’t keep,” I said. “She hasn’t the place to do this kind of thing. Once Father returns, he’ll set it right. Or she will, once she minds the stench of her own waste.”

  Gretel’s eyes, thin and full of sorrow, revealed a nature of strength built by hardship, melancholy wrought with acceptance to her own fate.

  She lifted a tray off the counter, set primly with a teapot, cup, and saucer. Steam rose from the pot’s spout, and I regretted every ill thought I’d ever spoken about eating Cook’s cabbage or squash.

  With a sigh, she placed the tray in my waiting arms and patted my head as though I were a doll about to be broken by rough children.

  “Peace be with you,” she said, and with her right hand, touched her forehead, chest, left shoulder then right, as if the Almighty cared about a girl giving tea service to a woman she despised.

  I doubted the Lord cared one whit about this tea.

  Still, I turned from the kitchen and, with unsteady hands, navigated the curving staircase to the second floor.

  At the end of the dim, windowless hallway—for none of the lamps were lit, nor the doors to other rooms open with curtains drawn back, as had been our custom for as long as I could remember—I lifted a hand to tap twice on the door to my father’s, and now Celia’s, bedroom.

  “Come in,” said a voice from within.

  I regretted my decision to bring the tea up the instant I stepped into the room.

  Celia stood at the window, watching something through a slit in heavy, black curtains—curiously, these were nothing like the gauzy film that covered our parlour windows. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she stood ramrod straight, deep gray gown flowing past her ankles to pool on the floor like a train.

  The room, lightless and lifeless as a tomb, urged my feet to turn around and leave.

  But they did not.

  “Your tea,” I said, lacking an address. I wouldn’t acknowledge her place in this house.

  She didn’t stir from her place by the window. I thought it just as well, and left the tray on a small tea table in the center of the room, though the temptation to cough or drop a cup to provoke a reaction—any reaction—grew stronger with each passing moment.

  With one step remaining to freedom, the tide turned.

  “Ellison.”

  I froze, heart thudding within my chest.

  “Turn around, please.”

  I did as told, stupid as I was. She hadn’t moved.

  “You are very late with my tea. I’ve been waiting.”

  What could I say? “It’s hot, I assure you. I needed help. I’ve never had to make tea before.”

  She turned her face halfway, the light from the split between the curtains casting a menacing shadow across her profile, spoiling her beauty.

  I took immeasurable delight in the sight of it.

  “I see. Would you mind fetching something for me? I’ve heard there’s a lovely edition of Faust in the library, and I’d like to read it with my tea.”

  Faust? How peculiar. “It’s not in the library at the moment. I have it on my night table.”

  “Bring it to me, please.”

  Perhaps Father had mentioned it to her? I couldn’t see how else she’d have learned about it, as the volume had been in my room during the entirety of my isolation.

  Once in my room, I plucked the book from its place on the night table. It was a heavy, illustrated edition with gilded pages, a gift from Father in my twelfth year. Although I didn’t want her beguiling fingers on its pages, I did want a moment’s peace for Edward and myself.

  But in that instant, as I turned toward the door and saw that Celia stood there with a pitch-dark scowl, I realized the truth.

  She had been in my room.

  My cry was silenced by the slamming of my door and the click of a key in a lock that should not have been there. I dropped the book—my precious book—and flew to the door. I turned the knob, and met resistance.

  The lock on my side of the door was gone, and in its place, a flat sheet of iron.

  She’d trapped me inside and changed the lock, but when?

  “Let me out,” I cried, and pounded both fists on the door.

  The shadow of her lips appeared at the crack between door and wall.

  “Disobedience is not tolerated in my household, Ella dear. We take our duties very seriously.”

  How dare she? “It’s not my duty to bring your tea.”

  She tutted and lowered her tone until it slipped like molasses through the cracks. “Nor is sass becoming for a young lady. You will stay in your room and think about what you’ve done. When you are ready to do as you’re told, I will release you.”

  Do as told! By her! I hadn’t yet reached that level of desperation. I’d already spent a week in this room, what would be a few more hours? Surely Gretel would slip food to me as before.

  I ran to the window, one final detail in my resolute plan.

  As I turned the latch and pushed against the panes, my nerve began to dissolve. The panes did not move.

  “I do hope you have a strong constitution, Ella,” said Celia, “as you needn’t bother with the windows. Can’t have vulnerable young ladies wandering about on their own, hmm?”

  For a brief instant, it occurred that I might ask why—did she know of the terrors William had mentioned, or was this simply part of my punishment?

  Oh, William.

  I couldn’t stay locked up. I had to retrieve his coat and ring and hide it elsewhere, for if Celia had the audacity to intrude upon one’s personal space, how long would it be before she found his belongings and began to ask questions?

  And truth be told, I wouldn’t last long in a room with a full chamber pot and no means to escape the growing odor. To confirm my suspicions, I pulled my pot from under the bed—and shoved it back without hesitation.

  No house staff, no emptied pot.

  I returned to the window and pushed with all the might I could muster, but still it refused to budge. My feet and forearms ached from the pressure.

  Ah, yes. I needed more than to have my pot emptied and to fill my empty belly with food. The scrapes and wounds on my limbs needed tending before they became something far worse.

  I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, recalling the comfort of Mother’s strong stone against the curve of my back. Poor Edward! He would wait in the library for hours. Celia would turn this to her advantage, wouldn’t she? It was the perfect opportunity to poison him against me.

  The very thought of her touching him, holding him on her lap, and capturing eve
n one of his smiles made me leap from the bed and pound on the door once more. Pride be damned. I could not remain in this room while that woman roamed our halls.

  I beat my fists against the door, over and over in endless rhythm, shrieking like the Devil himself, pounding flesh upon wood like a war drum. It might as well have been, for I saw it as a declaration of my defiance, a warning that while she could hold my body captive, she couldn’t have my spirit.

  And yet both remained, captive and held indeed, until I collapsed on the floor with burning lungs and bloodied hands.

  Spent and broken, I slept.

  7

  The Passage

  I awoke with a pounding in my skull and an ache in my veins. The hard floor hadn’t made a very good pillow, and each limb protested in its own way.

  If I was to stay captive here, some strategizing was required. Though I had neither water nor sufficient food, I did have a small store of apples at the back of my wardrobe.

  Strange, perhaps, but they existed as a late-night collection for evenings spent reading by candlelight on an empty stomach. Inspection of the wardrobe revealed six apples, though one had a large, brown spot, making it more suitable for sauce than lone consumption.

  I chose a bright red apple with amber stripes and bit into it with near religious fervor, devouring it with as much devotion. Its soft, gritty sweetness did little to sate my hunger, and I tossed the spent core onto the floor. On retrieval of Faust, I returned for the fifth time to the exploits of the poor doctor, as the room contained little else to occupy the hours. And so, a plan formed: When Cook brought food, I would put in a request for a different, unread volume.

  But as the shadows lengthened and the growl of my belly grew to a roar, I feared that perhaps I had, on this occasion, misjudged my opponent.

  I don’t know how long I waited in that room, though the chamber pot, hunger, thirst, and pain of torn feet and hands were nearly enough to consider Celia the victor.

  As resignation crept like a poison through each set of limbs—lifting me from the bed toward the door and an undeservedly given apology—my progress was stilled by the sharp, fevered cry of something below.

  I looked down.

  My heel, in its clumsy gait, had trod upon the string-thin tail of a tiny, gray mouse. Resourceful, this mouse, for it carried the browned core of my apple.

  Rather than screech, as most girls tend to do in the presence of vermin, I pitied the poor thing, for it hadn’t asked to be born in such a state … roaming the floors of our home for scraps instead of delighting in the joy and freedom of some farmer’s field.

  And now, in avoiding the fate of becoming some hawk’s meal, he’d stumbled into my path during my own effort for survival.

  I lifted my foot and released him. “Apologies, Sir Mouse.”

  As quickly as a mouse can when burdened by an object as big as himself, he scampered across the floor and slipped beneath my wardrobe. The small lip at the base of the unit afforded him and the core just enough room to fit underneath.

  “But what will you do there?” He couldn’t have been living there, and now in seeking refuge he’d leave a half-rotten apple core behind to be overrun by ants and whatever else.

  “Sir Mouse, I believe you could have made a wiser choice.”

  I have never thought myself strange for speaking aloud to creatures unlike ourselves. After all, are they not afforded the same respect as other living beings? Celia, of course, excepted.

  Curiosity beckoned, and so I found myself on my knees and forearms, peering beneath the wardrobe. Where I expected a mouse, a gust of cool air brushed against my cheeks. I saw no small rodent, but instead the faint outline of a hole.

  Imagine! A family of mice living in my walls.

  I lay down on my side to get a better look, reaching one hand under the lip of the wardrobe to pull myself closer.

  My fingers pressed against some manner of lever or latch that sunk into the wardrobe like an unsuspecting thumb into a moldy peach.

  The wardrobe shifted.

  Thrusting myself backward, I rolled across the floor as the enormous wardrobe—amid a series of scrapes and grinds and metallic shrieks—swung away from the wall. Inside, my apples thumped about, no doubt bruising and becoming entirely inedible for anyone save my vermin companion.

  More important, however, was what stood behind the wardrobe. Where there should have been a blank, solid wall, was …

  Oh, but I couldn’t tell at first. I stared with disbelief at the impossibility of a shifting wardrobe.

  Once I regained control of my senses, I saw it. Faint but clear, if one should happen to look. I approached the wall and pushed. A panel in the wall, about Edward’s height and as wide as Mother’s stone, swung open.

  I stared in.

  Darkness stared back.

  An escape? How marvellous.

  Naturally, I proceeded, but on further thought ran back to my bedside table to retrieve a short bit of tallow and matches.

  With a lit flame and near-blinding disbelief, I stepped through the wall.

  The passageway—for indeed I found myself in a narrow passage—extended mere steps forward before presenting a choice. To the right was a shorter section of passage with an opposing door. I supposed that must be the way into Edward’s room, but rather than confirm my suspicions, I thought it wisest to uncover all options first.

  After all, a secret such as this wouldn’t stay hidden for long in careless hands.

  I went to the left, took three paces, another twist right, and forward—

  My foot dropped through the air and in that instant visions of landing broken inside a wall, undiscovered for centuries, pierced through my calm. I might have screamed had my foot not landed with a thud on solid ground again, jarring my bones and nearly pitching the tallow out of my hand. Instead, I leaned forward and shone the light to find a set of stairs leading downward, presumably to the ground floor of our home.

  Had Father known about this? He couldn’t have. What would be the purpose for building such a thing? Secret passages and hidden doorways are the stuff of children’s tales, and I had long since left the carefree state of childhood, not necessarily by choice. After Mother’s death, we quickly learned that there were some tasks even servants could not do on behalf of the lady of the house. I had become she.

  And though child no longer, I had never known of these passages—nor had Edward, I assumed. My brother, owing to age, has never been particularly adept at secret-keeping.

  Dust and dank air swirled about my nose, tickling with each breath, teasing the senses as if to dare a sneeze.

  After reaching the base of the steps, I navigated passage upon dark passage, circling our home from between the walls, guessing at which room might be on the other side of each small door panel.

  The kitchen wasn’t difficult to find, but the sound of Gretel singing discouraged the thought of revealing myself for the sake of William’s coat. I would try the library instead.

  And yet when I reached the passage where I suspected the library might be, a door on the other side confused my sense of direction.

  To decide, I closed my eyes, spun around three times, and stopped. The door I faced was the door I would open. A childish manner of choosing, to be sure, but embraced by the darkness between those walls, I felt a giddy rush of pleasure at this act of defiance.

  A lever to the right of each door provided a way back into the rooms.

  I prepared to pull with all my strength—after all, does metal not rust with disuse?—but it came down with ease as though recently oiled.

  Grinding and squeaking and crunching came from inside the wall. I hardly dared to breathe. God willing, Celia wouldn’t be on the other side.

  When the grinding ceased, I pulled the door panel open and, once again, stepped through.

  8

  The Book

  I was not in the library.

  I had arrived in my father
’s office.

  Fear and shame and the thrill of the forbidden rushed forth as a tide, for Edward and I were never allowed to stand alone in this room unaccompanied. Father’s business was his own, save by invitation. That we’d always understood.

  But Father was here no longer, and some bit of fate had brought me through the passage to find—

  What? Another book to read? As I was to be under lock and key, perhaps I could survive on the bourbon and rye that sat atop his desk in the center of the room. And while I didn’t think apples and rye would provide the necessary sustenance for survival, truth be told, I didn’t think at all.

  Instead, I stepped further into the room, swung the open bookcase easily back against the wall, and pushed until a heavy click revealed it had latched.

  I began my inspection of the office.

  Shelves surrounded every wall, packed with books and papers and curious objects. A sword here, a pile of gems and stones there, bits of string, and more books besides. As I pulled a small box decorated with pearl inlay from the center of a dusty shelf, the door handle turned.

  The box slipped from my fingers and crashed onto the floor. I imagine it broke into thousands of shards of wood and pearl and whatever else, but I saw nothing save the turning of the handle and—to my utter dismay—the bookcase where I’d exited, flat against the wall.

  Have I mentioned what a fool I can be?

  Ah, so I have.

  It’s no secret, then, that a foolish girl would also waste precious seconds—as long as the turning of a key—searching for the latch under a bookcase, instead of finding a suitable place to hide.

  The moment the door swung open, I dove underneath Father’s grand desk, pulled up my knees and realized, only then, that I still held a burning flame.

  “Curious.” Celia—who else?—entered the room, her footsteps light as a cat and menacing as a bear. God help me should she discover what I’d done.