Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  I stifle the urge to vomit. Morris grins, and I think back to what could have made him assume I was remotely interested. He doesn’t even know my name. But I realize that it has less to do with me and more to do with making a fool of Luke.

  “The rules are clear,” Édouard continues. “Morris comes from a family of higher class, better breeding, and so Luke’s claim is void. But I admire his efforts. Truly.”

  Luke slips the guard’s grip and lands a clean jab on Édouard’s chin, sending him stumbling back. Édouard rushes in, his fist raised. I scream out in terror, and the king’s head snaps up. He looks directly at me.

  “Enough,” orders the king.

  Édouard stops in his tracks, lowering his hand. The king signals his guards, and they scoop Luke up and drag him through the same door where they’d taken Liv. As the crowd disperses, some of the guards laugh with Édouard and Morris.

  My heart sinks. Luke was my only chance to get out of here, but beyond that, now I’m worried something terrible is going to happen to him. Scanning the room for Erin, I don’t see her, but the suitors are watching me. I hear some of them whispering. Stumbling over my own feet as the crowd presses in, I catch sight of Édouard whispering something to Morris, who then makes his way straight toward me.

  “Hello again,” he says. “I’m very sorry you had to see that.” The air whistles in and out between his broken teeth as he lies to my face. “I think you and I should get to know each other a little better now that I’ve made my intentions clear.” He runs the tips of his fingers over the exposed skin of my shoulders.

  “Where have they taken Luke?” I ask.

  “I’ll ask you, because I’m a gentleman, not to mention his name,” says Morris, pressing in on me. “But I’m sure he’ll be dealt with in whatever manner the king feels is appropriate.”

  Tears well up. “You made no mention of a claim. You were lying.”

  Morris frowns. “Don’t tell me you were actually happy about Luke’s claim on you.”

  “I was.”

  He sighs heavily and takes my hand in his, squeezing it tight. “Do not embarrass me in front of all these people. I’ll need you to smile, and even if you’re not happy, you’ll need to act the part.” He leans in and presses his lips to mine. I try to pull away, but he holds me close. He smells like wine and sweat, and all I want to do is get away from him.

  I step back and bring my knee up as hard as I can—right between his legs. His blunted yelp makes the people around us stop and stare. The look on Morris’s face switches from anger to bewilderment, and finally agony. Before he has a chance to recover from the shock, I duck off and run to the empty powder room. I slam the door closed and frantically look for an exit.

  The only door is the one I just came through, and there is only one narrow window. No closet, no wardrobe, nowhere I can hide. My heart crashes inside my chest. I glance at the window again.

  I reach under my skirts and rip off the farthingale, unhooking it and letting it fall down around my ankles. I strip off the underlayers of petticoats, leaving just the shell of the dress. Reaching behind me, I struggle to untie the knot at the back of the corset. I can’t manage it. After kicking off my shoes, I push open the small window and hoist myself up. I’m halfway through when someone grabs ahold of my ankle.

  11

  “We’ve got a runner!” the guard yells.

  Images of the woman they’d caught on the border flash in my head. I bring up my leg and kick the guard as hard as I can, breaking his grasp. I pull myself the rest of the way through, tumbling down onto the roof of another structure just under the window.

  The air is chilly, and I can see out over the rear of the castle grounds. The wind catches the hem of my gown and whips it around my ankles. I struggle to keep myself upright as I inch along the roof. The guard yells, trying to come out the window after me, but he can’t fit. I keep moving and glance over the edge. The ground isn’t too far. I can make it if I jump.

  I gather myself and prepare to leap when the roof I’m balancing on gives way with a sickening crack. Grasping at air, I fall, landing on my back, the breath punched out of me.

  I roll onto my side, heaving, pain spiraling down my leg. I scramble to my feet and look around. Cold and dank, the narrow passageway smells of dust and stale water. It’s unlit except for the moonlight that shines through a row of small windows at the top of the outer wall and through the hole in the ceiling that I’d fallen through. Several doors line the interior wall, all of them bolted from the outside with big brass locks. The sound of water dripping echoes down the corridor, and music from the great hall wafts in like a whisper.

  I walk along the cramped hall, looking back, half expecting palace guards to come barreling in at any moment. When I come to the end of the hall, a door juts out from the exterior wall.

  This has to be a way out.

  As I turn the handle, I hear a faint sound. So faint that I almost lose it in the distant melody of the band’s waltz. I stop to listen. The sound comes again. It could only have been emanating from the door directly opposite me. I press my ear against the wooden slats. A faint, flickering light comes from the crack near the floor. Someone sobs quietly behind the locked and bolted door.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  The sobbing stops, and I hear a rustling noise. I press my ear harder against the door. “Hello?” I call again. There’s a small shift at the door, as if someone is leaning against it from the inside.

  “Hello?” a voice says just above a whisper. “Is someone there?”

  I look down the corridor, afraid of losing my opportunity to escape. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  What an odd question coming from someone behind a locked door.

  “There is a ball,” I say. The crying resumes. “Who are you? Why are you locked up?”

  “Run away. Don’t ever come back. Save yourself.”

  “Where has she gone?” A man’s voice cuts through the darkness and echoes down the corridor, and a shriek escapes my throat.

  I bolt out the door in the exterior wall, across the manicured grounds, until I find cover in the wooded tree line. Crouching low, I peer out to see lamps moving around like fireflies in the distance. I want to find Luke, Liv, and Erin, but I can’t go back. If the king’s men apprehend me, they will execute me. I turn and run straight into the woods.

  Stumbling over the thick underbrush and exposed tree roots, I’m sure I’m heading away from the palace because the trees become thicker and the darkness more complete. But I have no idea if I’m on a course to the main road or just walking in a circle. The canopy blots out what little moonlight is still visible in the night sky.

  The voice from behind the door sticks in my mind. I’m ashamed for leaving whoever she was there, but I need to focus on escaping.

  I push forward for what feels like hours. The cold is biting, and the sting of it on my arms and on my stocking feet leaves me numb. I haven’t come across a road or trail or any of the fencing that runs along the outer edge of the palace grounds. The estate is vast, and I fear that I may be too lost to find my way out. What have I gotten myself into?

  My teeth chatter together, and I shake uncontrollably. Struggling to see in the dark, I notice that the trees are beginning to thin. I hope it’s the forest’s edge, but it is only a clearing. On the other side are more trees and more darkness.

  I step into the open space where a large rectangular structure stands. As tall as my own house and nearly as wide, the structure shimmers in the slivers of silver moonlight. Charcoal-gray veins run through the white marble walls. As my eyes adjust, I realize that it is a mausoleum, and the name carved in flowing script on its edifice is as familiar to me as my own.

  12

  Ivy creeps up the entire façade, covering the structure in a tangle of tendrils. The surrounding grass stands as tall as my knees, and all of it is dead and brown. The tomb looms in the dark, and as I stand before it, in the dead of n
ight, breaking the king’s rules for the umpteenth time, I feel like I’m seeing something not meant for anyone to see. This place isn’t supposed to exist.

  I wade through the brush and come to three wide marble steps leading up to the doors of the mausoleum. Bushels of faded, crumbling flowers clutter the stairs. Small toys and hundreds of folded pieces of paper in varying stages of decay litter the monument. Some of them are only yellowed a bit at the edges, while others are nothing more than little piles of dust. I pick one up that looks sturdy enough to handle. Unfolding it, I read the words scribbled inside.

  Picking up one note after the other, I read as many as I can find that are still legible.

  They are all essentially the same. Pleas for help or good fortune, for luck, or for protection. The last one sounds like someone was trying to plan an escape. Clearly whoever it was meant for never got it, because it is rotting here in the shadow of Cinderella’s tomb.

  They were more than trinkets, as my mother’s helpers had said. They were petitions, prayers. Looking up at the tomb, I wonder if Cinderella has heard their cries. Or if she even cares at all. More likely, she is laughing at how miserably we’ve failed to live up to her expectations.

  I climb the stairs to the pair of double doors guarding the entrance. Etched into the stained glass of the door panels is a depiction of Cinderella’s carriage drawn by four white horses.

  A flicker of light shines through the glass doors, and I freeze. A white-blue flash illuminates the inner sanctum of the mausoleum and lingers a moment before dying out again. I try to see through the colored glass, but only a faint glow toward the rear of the chamber remains.

  I should be running home. I need to get away from here before the guards find me and drag me back to the palace.

  A branch breaks in the distance. Someone is out there. Taking my chances with the flickering light, I push the doors open and go inside, closing them behind me. I don’t hear anything, but I stay still, holding my breath.

  Directly in front of me, Cinderella lies on a slab in the middle of the crypt.

  I jump back, my heart thudding in my chest. Two hundred years in a crypt should have rendered her body dust and bones. I squint in the shadows and see that the figure on the slab is only a marble rendering of Cinderella. Sighing heavily, I lean against the inner wall of the tomb.

  At the end of Cinderella’s story, she and Prince Charming embrace, they kiss, and she goes off to live a life of luxury in the palace. It doesn’t say anything about how she hid in the castle while her people suffered, the prolonged illness that took her life, or why she now lies in an abandoned tomb in the middle of the woods.

  The walls of the tomb extend high above my head. Frigid, musty air fills the space, and I rub my arms, trying to warm my freezing limbs. I walk along the inside wall, studying the lifelike carving of Cinderella. The sculpture looks a lot like the portraits I’ve seen of her. She lies on her back, her hands clasped over her chest holding a bouquet of marble flowers. The rectangular box that extends down to the floor is also made of gleaming white marble.

  That strange light flickers again in the rear of the crypt, lighting up the darkness in short bursts. In an alcove, a small, square glass housing sits atop a pedestal with metal trim wrapped around it like a cage. The panes of the glass box are foggy, and broken leaves clutter the space. I clear away the debris and clean a spot on the glass with my fingers so I can see inside. The white-blue glow lights up the box. A pair of shoes, small and almost completely translucent, rest inside. These are the fabled glass slippers.

  “I guess the legends were true,” I say aloud.

  “Not entirely.”

  I spin around, knocking my knee against the pedestal’s base. A figure appears in the crypt. The person wears a long cloak with a hood covering their face.

  “I didn’t mean any harm, I swear,” I say, clutching my knee.

  The figure is silent. Have they come to take me back to the palace? I scramble to think of what to do.

  “Cinderella is dead,” says the figure, the voice light, airy. “I doubt she’ll mind you lurking around her tomb.”

  “I’m not lurking,” I say, searching for something within arm’s length that I can use as a weapon. “And if you lay a hand on me—”

  “Lay a hand on you? I wouldn’t dare.” The person reaches up and pulls their hood back. A shock of lush reddish curls frames their face. It’s a young woman. She tilts her head to the side, looking me over. “Not unless you wanted me to.”

  I am struck silent.

  “You’re—you’re not working for the king, then?” I’m having trouble figuring out who she is and why she’s here.

  “I would choose death over serving him.” Her tone is suddenly serious.

  I keep Cinderella’s sarcophagus between us as I move toward the door. “I was just leaving.”

  “And where are you off to?” she asks. In her hand, she holds a small lantern, lit just brightly enough so I can see her face. We are matched in height and build and are probably close in age as well. Her fawn skin, dewy and smooth, seems to glow from within.

  A ripple of guilt runs through me. I should not be admiring some stranger’s beauty at a time like this. “I’m trying to get home.”

  “On a night like this? A pretty girl like yourself should be at the palace looking for a suitor.” She watches me carefully as she speaks.

  “I’ve just come from there,” I say. The way she said the word “pretty” gives me pause. It’s a compliment, but there is something else in her voice. I avoid her eyes. “I’m not going back. I don’t care how many guards the king sends after me.”

  “Don’t you want to find a husband and settle into your proper role?” Subtlety isn’t this girl’s strong point. Sarcasm permeates every word.

  “I don’t want anything to do with a husband or any sort of proper role.”

  “And why is that?” she asks.

  “Because that’s not my choice. That’s not what I want.” It’s probably a mistake to spill my secrets to her, but I feel like I have less and less to lose with each passing moment.

  She smiles at me and my face flushes hot.

  “So, did you come here to pay homage to Cinderella?” she asks. She places her lamp on the ground and pulls a small bundle of flowers from the folds of her cloak. I shiver as she walks up to place them on Cinderella’s coffin, running her hand over the smooth marble.

  “No,” I say curtly. “But from the looks of it, lots of other people have. I didn’t think this place still existed.” My teeth clang together as I try to bite back the cold.

  She walks toward me, takes her cloak off, and places it around my shoulders. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I almost swoon in the warmth of the cloak. I breathe in her scent, a mix of wildflowers and lavender. I have to remind myself to focus.

  She’s wearing a pair of close-fitting trousers and a tunic. A thick belt encircles her waist and from it hangs a gleaming dagger. She goes to the doors and peers out through a little chip in the glass. Her face relaxes as she turns to me.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I ask. She looks lovely, but I’ve never seen a woman wear pants and a tunic before.

  “The pockets,” she says. She puts her hands in them and gives a little twirl. “I love pockets.”

  I smile, despite the cold, despite the terrible circumstance. “You said before that I was wrong about the legends being true. What did you mean?”

  Her gaze drifts to the glass slippers. “All fairy tales have some grain of truth. Picking apart that truth from the lies can be tricky, though.”

  “Questioning the story is against the law.”

  She stiffens.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not threatening you,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I’ve rarely heard anyone say that even parts of the story are fiction. Most people believe every word.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” The weight of ever
ything that has happened falls on me all at once. “I have to go. If the guards find me …”

  “They won’t if you stay here,” she says.

  “How do you know that?” I ask frantically. A wave of panic rushes over me. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, but I have to do something.”

  The girl stares at me for a moment. “West of the city center, about five miles, the road branches out into two forks. The far right one meanders for a few more miles and leads to a gate. Meet me there tomorrow.”

  “I probably won’t be alive tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll be rotting in some dungeon on the king’s orders by then.”

  Her brows knit together as if this troubles her. She ducks behind the coffin and picks up a small bag. After fishing around inside, she takes out a set of clothes—a pair of pants and another tunic, a pair of boots—and tosses them to me. “Put these on.”

  I set her cloak aside and pull on the trousers, casting aside the shell of my dress. I slip the tunic over my head as the girl steps toward me, a small dagger glinting in the lantern light. My heart skips. I realize what a fool I’ve been to so blindly trust a stranger. I turn to run, but in one quick motion she slices the strings of my corset, and for the first time all day I can breathe. My heart pounds in fear, but also something else. Exhilaration? Panic? It feels like I’m free from something much more than fabric and strings.

  “Stay here,” she says as I face her. “Stay hidden. And tomorrow, come to meet me if you can, because I think you’re probably right about the king’s men. They won’t stop searching for you.” She straightens up. “What’s your name?”

  “Sophia,” I say.

  “I’m Constance,” she says. “I’ll lead the guards away from you. When you leave at first light, stay off the main road.”

  “I don’t even know which way to go,” I say, feeling more hopeless with each passing moment.

  “City center is in the direction of the rising sun,” she says. “Remember, leave at first light.”

  She moves to the door, and I hold out her cloak.