So This is Love

by Elizabeth Lim

  Cinderella was more than up to that task, at least. Years of balancing trays—one in each hand for her stepsisters, and one on her head for her stepmother—made short work of one platter.

  She picked it up easily and wove into the line of servants carrying breakfast into the royal dining hall.

  Keep your eyes down, she warned herself, but it was impossible to follow her own advice. The first thing she did when she entered the dining room was search for the prince.

  Her eyes picked him out easily; he sat to his father’s right, his fingers clutching the thin handle of his teacup. Though he wasn’t drinking.

  Seeing him, her stomach flipped. She couldn’t face him again, not so soon after the masquerade the night before. What would she tell him? How would she explain her running away—for the second time? Worse yet, how would he react upon learning that she was a servant in the palace? In front of his father . . .

  And the Grand Duke.

  Fighting the urge to duck behind a column, she fell slightly out of sync with the other servants processing into the hall. She hurried forward to catch up, and her mother’s beads clattered in her pocket. She’d forgotten to leave them in her room. No chance of doing that now; it was too late. Besides, she had other things to worry about.

  Chin up, she reminded herself. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her in her uniform. After all, he hadn’t the first time.

  Just serve the food quickly, then leave.

  The king sat at the head of the table. To his right was the prince, and to the left was the Grand Duke, tying a napkin around his neck in preparation for his meal.

  “The Princess of Lourdes was most distraught,” the duke was saying. “Most distraught indeed. She was an honored guest of Aurelais, and imagine my mortification when I brought her to be introduced to the prince, only to find out it was his attendant!”

  “Charles, what have you to say for yourself?” said King George sternly.

  When the prince did not reply, Ferdinand threw his hands up in the air. “Sire, this is a national embarrassment. It’ll be the doom—”

  “She was there,” interrupted Charles finally.

  “She?”

  “The maiden with the glass slipper?” Ferdinand raised an eyebrow. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Where is she now?”

  Charles stared at his cup of tea.

  “She got away again, didn’t she? A rather peculiar young lady, I said so before. I’ll say it again to remind you, Your Highness. A girl like that is unfit to be a princess—”

  “I won’t have you slandering her,” cut in the prince. “You don’t know her.”

  “No one knows her, Your Highness,” returned the duke smugly.

  So, Cinderella thought with a quiet breath, he isn’t angry. He’s still looking for me.

  The king was quiet during the exchange. As Cinderella approached them with their breakfast, he reached over to the fruit bowl for an orange.

  The duke shifted the bowl closer to the king. “Let me help you with that, sire.”

  “Hmm? Oh, thank you.”

  Charles frowned. “You seem preoccupied, Father.”

  The king cleared his throat, but his voice still came out thick and hoarse. “I’m starting to think Ferdinand might have a point.” His expression became melancholy, thick white eyebrows folding downward. “I’m not going to be here forever, my boy. I want to see you happy before I go.”

  “Father, please . . .”

  “No more looking for this girl. This afternoon, we’ll meet to discuss your betrothal to the Princess of Lourdes.”

  Cinderella swallowed and focused on setting the breadbasket on the table, along with the accompanying jars of strawberry jam and orange marmalade, and dish of butter—all as quickly as she could. Her last task was to serve the tea; then she could finally leave.

  Keeping her head down, she leaned forward to fetch His Majesty’s cup so she could refill it. As she bent, her green beads slipped out of her apron pocket and fell into the pot of tea on her tray with a resounding splash.

  Cinderella froze. An apology tumbled out of her mouth, but the words were incomprehensible, even to her. As she regained her senses, she reached for a napkin to dry the king’s setting, but Madame Irmina—coming out of nowhere—beat her to it.

  Irmina batted her away, deftly inserting herself to clean the mess Cinderella had made. “Cinderella!” she admonished, then went on, “My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. The girl is new, and rather clumsy.”

  If the king replied, Cinderella couldn’t hear it. She backed behind a marble column, hoping the prince was too busy listening to the Grand Duke’s speech about the Princess of Lourdes’s “effervescent beauty and incomparable grace” to pay any attention to her.

  The seconds stretched, but before long, Madame Irmina had cleared the royal table and the entire incident appeared forgotten.

  “What are you gaping at?” Madame Irmina whispered harshly as she passed Cinderella on her way out of the dining room. “Get back in the kitchen.”

  “The—the necklace.” Cinderella didn’t see it—or the king’s teapot—on Madame Irmina’s tray. “It was my mother’s.”

  “You can get it later.” Shoving Cinderella behind her, Irmina grumbled, “Hurry now, you’re making a scene. It’s already bad enough that you’ve disrupted His Majesty’s breakfast—”

  Cinderella didn’t hear the rest of what Louisa’s aunt said. The entire time, she’d told herself not to look at the prince. But in a moment of weakness on her way out, she glanced at him . . . to find him staring at her, his mouth agape.

  She darted her eyes away, rushing out. She could only guess what he was thinking. How she wished the earth would swallow her whole.

  She heaved a sigh of relief once she made it back to the kitchen. A silver platter with a steaming pot of tea and a slim vase of fresh orchids awaited her. “The duchess will take her breakfast in her chambers.”

  Cinderella fetched the tray and hurried on her way. She had scarcely made it out of the kitchen when her eyes widened in shock.

  There he was—Prince Charles, asking one of the serving girls where she was.

  She started to turn away, but the prince was too fast. He caught the edge of her sleeve and gently touched her arm.

  “Stay, Cinderella. Please, stay.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Madame Irmina spoke it when you dropped this”—he lifted her mother’s necklace into view, unwrapping it from an ivory napkin—“into my father’s tea.” A sheepish grin spread across his face. “I was in such a rush to catch you, I didn’t get a chance to clean it properly. It should be dry, but it might still smell like raspberries and lemons—this morning’s tisane.” He bowed slightly, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Cinderella.”

  She blushed, drawing her hand away and retrieving her mother’s necklace. The beads were still warm from the tea, and she flinched, remembering how astonished Charles had been to see her serving him and his father at breakfast. “You should go back. They’ll be missing you.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not a princess, Your Highness,” she blurted. “Or a lady. I’m just—”

  “The girl I’ve been waiting for my entire life?” said Charles. “First, please—don’t call me Your Highness.”

  “But—”

  “It’s Charles. Just Charles.”

  “Pri—” Cinderella sucked in a breath. “I mean, Charles.”

  Charles. The name settled on her tongue, and Cinderella’s cheeks warmed. How easy it was to call him by his name, and what a difference it made.

  “Cinderella,” he said, smiling. “ ‘Equal in step, equal in heart. For always.’ ”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “It was my parents’ promise to each other. And now, mine to you. If you’ll have me.”

  If you’ll have me. Cinderella could hardly believe it. The prince was asking her to be his bride. His bride! She tried to find any
trace of uncertainty in his eyes, but all she saw was warmth and sweet promise. It certainly did not look as though he were being forced to ask for her hand.

  Happiness bloomed inside her, warming her from head to toe. Being with him, that ache of loneliness she had suffered for so many years would ease away. She’d have a new family, a new home.

  Still, she hesitated. It was one thing to hope for someone who’d love her. For years, she had closed herself off from the idea of a new family in order to protect herself. But now that the chance had come . . . Cinderella wrestled with it. With all of it. Marrying the prince meant she’d become a princess. She wouldn’t just join any new family—it’d be the royal family.

  She’d spent so much of her life pretending: in her father’s chateau, that she was content to be her stepmother’s servant, that she could live the rest of her life there and be happy simply dreaming and wishing. Even at the ball, she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t. Would she be pretending again if she married Charles—pretending to be a princess?

  “People wouldn’t accept me as your bride,” she whispered.

  “They’ll accept you if I tell them to.” He took a deep breath. “Trust me.”

  “I do, but . . .” She lingered on her words, wondering how she’d tell him about her fairy godmother and how she had come to the first ball. Wondering how she could explain the confusion and uncertainty knotting inside her now.

  “But?”

  “I think I need some time.” She took his hand, covering it with hers. “It isn’t a no, Charles, but I’ve only just left my home. . . . There’s so much I’m still learning. And there’s someone—a friend who needs my help.” Her voice drifted. She wanted to ask him about Lenore, and whether he could help bring magic back to Aurelais, but she wasn’t sure how to put it into words.

  “I understand,” said the prince. If she’d disappointed him, he hid it well. “Take a few days. Take as much time as you need. In the meantime, I’ll ask my aunt to release you from your duties—”

  “No, don’t do that.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want your aunt to know just yet,” she explained. “I’ll tell her when I’m ready. Besides, if I leave, Madame Irmina will have to send a new girl to attend her. Your aunt won’t be pleased that she’ll have to train yet another attendant, and all the servants will have to draw straws. . . .”

  “Then I will not speak to her.” Charles looked down at their clasped hands. “But while you’re making up your mind about me, may I come find you? I want to get to know you better, and you to know me.” His eyes wavered, so hopeful Cinderella couldn’t help hiding a smile back.

  “All right, but . . .”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The prince was close enough that she could see the stray crumbs of his breakfast still on his lips, and a smudge of marmalade on the side of his mouth. Holding up the corner of her apron, she dabbed at his lips.

  “It wouldn’t do for a prince to return to breakfast with jam on his face,” she said, wiping away the marmalade. The tips of her fingers accidentally brushed against the bend of his lips, and a shiver raced down her spine.

  She darted her fingers away, forgetting she was holding her apron. Its folds landed over Charles’s chest, and she instinctively reached out to fix it. But as her hand hovered just over the prince’s heart, so close she could feel his pulse beating unsteadily against her fingertips, she flattened her palm against his chest.

  And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she brought her mouth to his.

  It was a kiss even sweeter than their first, and Cinderella was glad she had set down her tray, for she surely would have dropped it this time. She stood on her toes, gently pushing Charles a hair’s breadth away, so she could whisper:

  “This isn’t a dream, is it? You, here with me . . . that we’ve found each other?”

  “The sound of my heart in my ears would have woken me up by now if it were.” Charles kissed her fingertips, holding them close to him. “I thought it was you—that time in the portrait gallery—when I first saw you wearing Aunt Genevieve’s sash. I should have known. I should have found you then.”

  Cinderella held her breath. “You’ll never have to worry about finding me ever again,” she said softly, quoting him. “I promise.”

  They kissed again.

  But in their exhilaration, she and the prince made one mistake. Neither of them saw the Grand Duke hiding in the opposite corner, taking in every word of their romantic interlude.

  Ferdinand was most perturbed by what he had witnessed. All this time, the maiden with the glass slipper had been her.

  Cinderella.

  Ferdinand had thought she looked familiar. What an idiot he’d been to recruit her to spy on Genevieve. Now the girl knew far too much. And if Charles had his way, she would become princess of Aurelais—and then, one day, queen.

  “The servant becoming a royal,” he muttered to himself, hardly able to believe it. “This is even worse than I feared. It will doom the kingdom.”

  Displeasure darkening his expression, he twirled his monocle. The prince couldn’t possibly marry a servant. The people were already getting ideas; the youth especially no longer had the same respect for rank and breeding—just yesterday, in the western countryside, there had been a riot against the local lord, a riot Ferdinand had worked hard to conceal from the king. And in the east, a band of young revolutionaries had demanded that the king allow commoners to serve on his council—imagine!

  If Charles married Cinderella, who knew what the people might do?

  Who knew whether the monarchy would survive?

  Straightening his back, he tidied the folds of his jacket, dusting imaginary dirt off his sleeves out of habit. He was about to return to his duty at the king’s side when he stole another glimpse at the prince and his newfound bride.

  They were still talking, their heads bent close like a pair of purring lovebirds. The public display of Charles’s affection nauseated him, and normally he would have turned away from the sight in distaste. But then the maid’s pale knuckles twisted at the cloth of her apron, even while she smiled at the prince.

  A clear sign something was amiss. Given Ferdinand’s long experience working with subterfuge and deceit, he was positive she was hiding something, something she desperately wanted to confess to the prince.

  Ferdinand frowned. Could it be that she felt guilty for working with him, the Grand Duke?

  No, in the height of romantic love, court intrigue and the machinations of espionage wouldn’t be on this simple peasant girl’s mind. It had to be something else.

  The duke had always had a strong sense of intuition; it was what had gotten him so far in his position. He had a feeling that whatever the prince and his bride were discussing, it would be useful to hear.

  He inched closer to the couple, tilting his head to catch what they were saying.

  “I didn’t mean to leave,” Cinderella began. “But well, you see, I didn’t have a choice. I . . . I had to go because . . .” Her voice trailed off, and the duke leaned forward, nearly tripping over his own shoes.

  “Because of what?” asked Charles.

  Yes, because of what? Ferdinand echoed in his thoughts.

  “Because of my fairy godmother. It was her magic that helped me to the ball, and she warned that at the stroke of midnight, everything would be as it was before.”

  “You have a fairy godmother?”

  Fairy godmother! Confounded by the possibility that magic was involved, Ferdinand knit his thick brows. No, it couldn’t be—all magical beings had been banished from Aurelais years ago. His father had seen to that. Magic had brought chaos to every kingdom it touched, what with uncontrolled and uncontrollable fairies casting spells and curses. That magic might have somehow returned to Aurelais was terrifying news.

  “Strange,” murmured Charles, “I haven’t heard anyone talk about magic in a long, long time. I’d almost forgotten about it.
”

  Ferdinand crouched, tiptoeing yet closer to the corner of the wall. Fearing he might have misheard the girl, he held his breath. He needed to listen closely to what she said next.

  “Yes,” replied Cinderella, staring nervously at her hands. She looked up at the prince. “All of it was magic—the dress, the carriage, the horses. It all vanished.”

  “But not the slippers.”

  “No, not the slippers.”

  “And not you.”

  “Not me.” A pause. “You see, that’s why I was in such a hurry to leave. It sounds silly now, but I didn’t want . . . I didn’t want you to know that everything you saw was a spell cast by my fairy godmother. That my carriage was really a pumpkin, the horses really four mice. And my gown, nothing but rags.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared.”

  “I suppose I was afraid.” Cinderella swallowed. “It’d been so long since I had actually talked to someone—I was afraid you wouldn’t accept me. I was afraid that if I stayed, I’d care about you too much, and it’d make going back to my old life impossible.”

  Cinderella looked up at the prince, her voice soft. “Do you believe me?”

  Charles tilted her chin toward him, his expression so tender Ferdinand wrinkled his nose, repulsed. “Yes, I believe you.”

  Carefully, Ferdinand crouched backward and stood. He had heard all he needed to.

  Lo and behold, it was sorcery!

  That explained why his men hadn’t been able to find her. Who would have guessed to chase a pumpkin drawn by four mice?

  Ferdinand clenched his fists at his sides, remembering his abject embarrassment when he’d had to report to the king that the maiden had vanished. He hadn’t been able to understand it, either: how would a young lady in a coach manage to elude dozens of trained guards—then disappear without a trace for days?

  But now all the pieces of the puzzle had come together.

  He had to hand it to the girl; she was charming. The loveliest young lady at the ball. And no wonder, with a fairy godmother at her side!

  Ferdinand grimaced. He would have to proceed very, very carefully. If this Cinderella girl had a magical accomplice, then she was a danger to the kingdom, a threat to all.