Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  “Take as much as you’d like.”

  A half loaf of bread disappears before I stop myself. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

  “No. Finish it off.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I keep eating, and the heaviness that comes with a full stomach settles over me.

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Constance says. She grins, and I am taken with her all over again. But guilt rushes in and chases those feelings away.

  “I didn’t have a plan when I left the palace. I just ran.” Sadness crashes over me again. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here.”

  “You’re here with me,” she says.

  “And who are you exactly?” I ask. “I know your name, but—are you from Lille? What were you doing in Cinderella’s tomb?”

  She pushes her hair behind her shoulder and clears her throat. She speaks in a way that reminds me of someone reading a story aloud.

  “The sisters were no better than their mother,” she says. “Common and uniquely cruel, they taunted Cinderella without end. The oldest stepsister, Gabrielle, had hair like the fiery flames of hell and a face only the devil could love.”

  I hold my hand up. “I know the story. And I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t want to hear it again. Look where it’s led me.”

  “Yes,” Constance says. “Look where it has led you.” Light from the fire flickers across her features, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Constance pushes out her chin and angles her head to the side. “I’ve always taken umbrage with that portrayal of Gabrielle. There are many generations between us, but her blood is strong. I’ve always been told I look just like her.”

  I am dumbstruck. “You—you’re related to Gabrielle? The wicked stepsister?”

  “Wicked? No. Stepsister, yes.”

  I step back and run right into the wall. My head swims with fragments of the story. The stepsisters are said to have been exceedingly cruel to Cinderella, and their descriptions make them out to be monstrous aberrations. None of the stories mention either of them having children or families of their own.

  “That makes you kin to Cinderella,” I say, trying to put their family tree together in my head.

  “A sixth great-niece,” Constance says.

  I can’t even think straight. “If you’re serious—”

  “I am,” Constance says.

  I slowly sit down. My thoughts turn back to the more immediate issue of the king’s men. “The guards are looking for me, and I don’t want to put you in a bad situation. They’d kill you just for helping me.”

  “They would try,” she says, looking thoughtful. She turns slightly, showing me the dagger hanging from her belt. “And where can you go that King Manford won’t find you?”

  I haven’t thought it through. All I know is that I need to get as far away from Lille as possible. “I planned on walking until my legs gave out. I’m not really sure where.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.” Constance crosses her arms.

  “It’s a good thing I don’t need your permission then, isn’t it?”

  She blinks repeatedly, smiling a little and nodding. “I don’t have a better suggestion. I don’t think you’d be safe in any city in Mersailles. He could never allow you to defy him and get away with it.”

  “If I stay away, maybe he’ll let it go,” I say.

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know so much about what he would and wouldn’t do?” I ask.

  She sighs, and her shoulders slump down. “Because I keep the stories no one else is allowed to hear, the things Manford and his predecessors don’t want anyone to know, the true history of my family.”

  “The true history?” I ask.

  She drags a chair over and sits directly across from me.

  “Have you ever thought about what kind of a person would have a child and name it Charming?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” I say. And now that I think about it, it seems kind of ridiculous. “Are you saying that wasn’t his real name?”

  “No one knows what his real name was,” she says.

  I laugh but she doesn’t. She is dead serious, and I still myself, allowing her to continue.

  “Did you know Cinderella’s father was the highest-ranking adviser, the closest person to the old king who ruled Mersailles before Prince Charming took over?”

  “No,” I say in utter shock. “I’ve never heard that.”

  “He was. But Prince Charming came to Mersailles in a time of drought and famine so devastating it was unlike anything the people had ever seen before. They were desperate, and Charming told them he could save them if they made him king. In the beginning they refused, putting their trust in their king. Charming bided his time, and when things got worse, he offered his help yet again. This time the people agreed and deposed the old king, making Charming their ruler.”

  “And he did what he said he would,” I say. I know this story, too. The founding of our kingdom by the benevolent Prince Charming.

  “The crops once again flourished; the rivers ran through drought-stricken lands. There were rumblings of magic, of curses somehow broken, but the people of Mersailles knelt at his feet.” Constance shakes her head. “As soon as Charming had the people in the palm of his hand, things began to change. Cinderella’s parents spoke openly of how the laws Charming was implementing were unfair and dangerous. While Cinderella’s father tried to rally political support to overthrow Charming, her mother tried to rally local people, to get them to organize and protest. When Charming got word of her efforts, he sent his guards to arrest her. She would not go quietly, and they executed her in the driveway.”

  I look toward the front of the house. Had I walked over the spot where Cinderella’s mother had died?

  I turn back to Constance. “My grandmother spoke out against King Stephan, Manford’s predecessor,” I say, measuring my words, trying not to cry. “She was taken, arrested. Executed.”

  Constance hesitates for a moment. Her eyes fill with tears, and I look away.

  “Then you can understand all of this,” she says.

  I nod.

  “Cinderella’s father remarried, and his new wife, Lady Davis, was just as disgusted with Charming as Cinderella’s mother had been,” Constance continues. “But she thought the best way to fight him would be to train, to learn to fight, to carefully plan his downfall. She passed messages to others who were willing to fight, a sort of underground network of resistance.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone speak of Lady Davis as a good person,” I say, questioning everything I’ve ever thought was true about the tale. “She’s the villain of the story.”

  Constance shakes her head. “She vowed to keep her girls safe no matter the cost, but I don’t think she had any idea what that cost would be. Prince Charming ordered Cinderella’s father to the palace for questioning, and he was never seen again.”

  “Prince Charming killed him,” I say. It’s not a question as much as harsh realization. Of course he killed him.

  “There was no proof, but Cinderella’s father loved his family. Lady Davis believed he would have come home if at all possible. By this time, Cinderella was eighteen. Prince Charming held his very first ball, and everyone was required to go and well … you know that part of the story.”

  “But the story—Cinderella’s story doesn’t say anything about that. That’s not how it goes.”

  “It is a lie,” says Constance.

  We sit in silence for several moments.

  “Do you want me to continue?” she asks. “The truth is tricky. People want to know it, but when they do, sometimes they wish they didn’t.”

  I think carefully about this. Everything that happened in the palace plays in my head. “Yes, I want to know. Tell me everything.”

  She takes a deep breath and continues. “Shortly after Prince Charming married Cinderella, the laws surrounding the ball and the treat
ment of women and girls in Lille became so much worse than they had ever been. Some people rebelled, but he put down any and all resistance.”

  She reaches behind her and pulls her braid forward over her shoulder. She twists the end, which reaches down into her lap, between her fingers. The firelight glints in her brown eyes as she glances at me. She catches me staring, and although I am a little embarrassed, I don’t look away. The corners of her mouth creep up in amusement.

  “When Prince Charming died, I think the people of Mersailles actually thought they might be able to bring about some change, but that never happened because his successor, King Eustice, was worse than he was,” Constance says. “I have a letter from my great-grandmother to her daughter telling her of the horrible things King Eustice did.”

  “The kings of Mersailles have all followed the same tenets Prince Charming put forward,” I say. “People are so afraid that they would rather stay quiet than say or do anything.” As I try to take in everything I’ve learned, one thing sticks in my mind. “Cinderella went up to the castle willingly. Even after everything Prince Charming had done? Why?”

  Constance clasps her hands together in front of her. “That is the question, isn’t it?” She lowers her tone. Anger and frustration color her voice. “It’s something that’s haunted my family through every generation between Gabrielle and me. They couldn’t understand it, and neither do I. You traipse up to the castle to see the man who destroyed your family? Who does that?”

  “What does your family think?” I ask.

  A gentle sigh escapes Constance. “My mother suspected the fairy godmother may have had something to do with it.”

  “The fairy godmother was Cinderella’s friend,” I say. “She helped her.”

  Constance shakes her head. “You have to set the story you know aside, Sophia.”

  My name from her lips sounds like a song. I look down. When I gather the courage to look up at her, she is fighting back tears, a mask of pain stretched across her face.

  “You don’t have to go on,” I say. “I can see that it’s hurting you.”

  “I want to tell you. I need to tell someone.” She sighs heavily, and sorrow pours out of her. “The prince shackled them to wooden stakes just beyond the towers, Lady Davis and Gabrielle and her younger sister, and left them there to die. Gabrielle was able to free herself and the others after three days. They were starving, half-frozen, but they escaped. Prince Charming said they were exiled to save face. I imagine he was furious when they got away.”

  “Where did they go?” I ask.

  “Out into the country, past the White Wood. They moved constantly, afraid they’d be hunted down.”

  “What became of them?”

  “Lady Davis died twenty years after their escape.” Constance tugs at the ends of her hair again. “Gabrielle and her sister made a life for themselves far from here, but they never gave up on Lille. Through the years, their descendants have trained and fought and died trying to fix what is broken here, carrying on the legacy of Cinderella’s mother and of Lady Davis, but it has all come to nothing. I tried to take out that statue in the square a few nights ago, but the charge wasn’t powerful enough.”

  I remember the burned circle of grass. “That was you?”

  She nods. Then suddenly her face falls and she leans toward me. “I am the last. The last one who knows the truth.”

  “I’m so sorry, Constance.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “He’ll be after you now.” Her knee presses into mine on purpose. Testing her boundaries a bit. I don’t move away. “He won’t stop.”

  “No, he probably won’t,” I say. “But neither will I.”

  She presses her lips together and lifts her chin a little. “You’ll just stay on the run forever?”

  “Not exactly what I had in mind,” I say. A wild thought takes shape in my head. “Maybe I get to him before he gets to me.”

  15

  The fire dies as the evening hours creep up on us. I had expected Constance to laugh in my face when I told her maybe I’d go after the king before he could get to me, but she sits quietly, studying me. After a few minutes she leans forward, crossing her bare arms over the plane of her legs. I try to refocus.

  “My mother told me that Gabrielle received a letter from Cinderella shortly before her death, asking her to meet here, at this very house, under the cover of darkness, but when Gabrielle showed up, Cinderella was being dragged away by the king’s guards.”

  “What did she want to meet her for?” I ask.

  “Gabrielle heard her screaming about …” She trails off.

  “Screaming about what?”

  “She said that the prince was the curse upon Mersailles and that to save us, he had to be stopped.”

  “But he’s dead now,” I say. “And nothing has changed.”

  Constance sighs and pushes her hair, which is now completely loose, over her shoulder. “You can’t go home. I don’t think it’s worth it to ride back to my family’s cottage, but I’m not sure where we go from here.” She stands and goes to the little fireplace, poking at the kindling until the fire burns bright and hot again.

  Her body, backlit by the flames, is like a vision. She is tall and strong. She’s got her sleeves pushed up; a wide, jagged scar runs over the muscles of her upper arm. They flex as she stokes the flames. I imagine how they might feel wrapped around me, and I wonder if she can tell how enthralled I am with her.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say, trying to put my mind elsewhere.

  “Of course.” She stares down at the fire, and I can only see her face in profile; the apple of her cheek lifts, smiling. She’s seen me watching her.

  “Do you believe in curses?”

  “I don’t know. And what does that mean anyway? Who could even do that?”

  “Someone powerful,” I say as an idea completely takes hold of me. “Maybe someone who could turn a pumpkin into a carriage, someone who could enchant a pair of glass slippers.”

  “The fairy godmother?” Constance exaggerates every syllable. “Are you saying she might have known more about the curse Cinderella warned Gabrielle about?” She looks doubtful.

  “Maybe,” I say. “And think about it. All that fairy godmother business was probably just another lie. What kind of a woman has the power to transform objects and make a gown materialize out of thin air?”

  Constance stares blankly into the fire. “A witch.”

  A chill runs through me and I stand up. “A witch?”

  In Mersailles, a belief in magic is almost bred into us. Woven into the Cinderella story are the fairy godmother’s fantastical abilities. But I don’t know anyone who has ever truly seen magic. I think of Liv and her prize at the bicentennial celebration, her replica wand. She believed unquestioningly, as do most people, in even the most unbelievable parts of the tale.

  Witchcraft is something different. I’ve never heard anyone suggest that the fairy godmother might have been a witch.

  “Do you know what happened to her?” I ask.

  Constance shrugs. “When Cinderella died, the godmother disappeared. There were rumors she went into the heart of the White Wood to live out her days.”

  Luke’s plan for our escape had included venturing into the White Wood. I think of his face as the guards took him away. My heart breaks all over again. “I want to try to find someone who knew her,” I say. “She was there, and after everything that happened, especially if it happened the way you say, there’s got to be some kind of record. Maybe she knew people in the area?”

  “We’re talking about a woman who lived almost two hundred years ago,” Constance says. “Anyone who knew her would be dead.”

  “You’ve kept your family’s story all this time. Maybe something similar happened with her. I think we have to go to the last place she was known to be.”

  “The White Wood? You want to go looking for answers there?” Constance asks, her voice creeping up.

  “We have to try. Or
I suppose, I have to try. You don’t have to come with me, but I’d like your company. If there are others like you and your family, people who have kept a history, maybe we can find them and they can help us understand this curse.”

  “You’d like my company?” Constance asks.

  I nod.

  “I can’t say no to that,” she says softly. “I don’t think we’ll succeed, but who wouldn’t want to be alone in a creepy forest with you?” Constance struts over and stands in front of me. “I’ve had people on my side before but none quite as headstrong as you.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I ask.

  She gently nudges my shoulder with hers as she brushes past me and speaks in a hush, very close to my ear. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  A rush of warmth spreads over me. In my mind, I see Erin’s face and again feel guilty. I step away from Constance, ashamed of how I’ve behaved. Constance wrings her hands in front of her and shakes her head as if she’s done something wrong.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow,” she says.

  I nod. “If she was in the heart of the White Wood, I say we just head for the center and see what we find.”

  “So we have no actual plan then? No map. Nothing.”

  “Not true,” I say. “I know the general direction, and my plan is to make it to the center of the White Wood alive, with you at my side.”

  “All in a quest to take down the king and bring his entire kingdom to its knees?” Constance asks.

  “More or less,” I say, laughing.

  She grins so wide I can see a chip in her bottom front tooth, her eyes creased at the corners. I want to spend the rest of the night talking to her, finding out every little detail about her.

  “Well in that case, we’ll need some rest.” She strips off her trousers, and I fuss with the blankets to avoid staring at her.

  Constance takes up a spot on a pile of blankets next to the fire, and I hear her breathing fall into a slow, steady pattern while I struggle to quiet my mind. As I lie awake, the moon with its mournful face shines its ethereal light down on me through the sitting room window. Liv will never again see something so perfect and beautiful.