Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  “Shh!” Erin puts her back on the corner of the wall, her shoulder nearly touching mine. “Get away from here.” She looks at me, and my heart breaks open. “Even in those clothes you’re beautiful, Sophia.” She is trying to change the subject.

  Tears sting my eyes. “Come with me. We’re leaving. You can come with us.”

  “I can’t. My father would disown me. Did you hear about Liv?”

  I nod.

  “She is in a far better place than you or I, or—maybe just me.” Erin forces a smile through a torrent of tears. She buries her face in her hands, and I reach out to touch her arm. “I wish things could be different, but I know that they can’t be. He paid a high price for me.”

  “What? Who?”

  “My betrothed. He paid half a year’s wages to make sure he could claim me.”

  “Erin, I—” I can’t speak.

  “If I don’t stay with him, I’m certain he’d complain to the king, and my family would be held responsible. I can’t do that.”

  “Do you know what happened to Luke?” I ask. “Where they might have taken him?”

  “Probably to the execution block,” Erin says, staring off. I bristle and her face softens just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  Silent tears trail down my face, and then quite suddenly, that sadness turns to a white-hot rage in the pit of my belly. I move toward her and take her hand; she shakes free from my grasp and backs away. I don’t care if her family falls into ruin. I don’t care that her fiancé will complain. I look for him in the crowd and wonder if I might be able to run him over with the cart and get away before someone notifies the palace guard.

  Erin shakes her head. “This place will break you if you stay. If you can escape, you should. Please, Sophia, please go.”

  She disappears into the crowd, reemerging a moment later beside her fiancé. He slips his arm around her waist, and in this moment I realize I know him, too. It is Édouard. And the men turning their faces away from Erin, as if they can’t stand to look at her, are Morris and his friend. I feel sick.

  Constance appears at my side. She’s procured a short dagger and several other items, all held in a small leather pouch. She dumps it out in her hand and shoves the items gleefully in her pockets. She follows my gaze out to Erin.

  “You know her?” she asks. I quickly wipe my face.

  I nod, and Constance puts her hand on my shoulder, studying me carefully. “You’re angry. I understand, but we can’t make a scene here. We’ll be arrested on the spot.”

  “He did that to her.” I point to Édouard, who is now nuzzling Erin’s neck in a predatory way. I want to break his pointy, arrogant face.

  Suddenly, a blaring of trumpets cuts through the din of voices. Constance pulls me back against the wall as a line of royal guards marches into the market, pushing people aside and upending tables to make room for the procession. Behind the phalanx of guards, King Manford rides in on a snow-white steed. He sits atop it, his chin raised high. Everyone bows. Constance yanks me down, and the horns blare again. Is he here for me? No, that can’t be. I glance back at the cart. We can make a run for it, but Constance holds tight to my arm, shaking her head no.

  “If we run, we die,” she whispers. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

  I keep my head down as the king dismounts and paces in front of the crowd.

  “I am so disappointed,” he says. “The ball is a sacred tradition. But, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, the night’s festivities did not go entirely according to plan.”

  My heart crashes in my chest.

  “There are consequences for defiance. I thought you were all well aware of that.” He sets his hand on the hilt of his sword and glares at the crowd. “It seems you need a reminder.”

  18

  A hush descends on the crowd, and as he turns in my direction, I quickly bow my head and stare at the ground.

  “Do you not respect the rules that have been set forth for you?” the king asks. He clearly isn’t looking for an honest answer, but someone in the crowd pipes up.

  “We do!” A woman pushes through to the front of the crowd and bows low in front of the king. “Your Majesty.” As she stands I see the king smile in a way that catches me completely off guard. He seems happy to see her.

  “Lady Hollins.” He takes her hand in his and kisses it.

  “We are thankful for your benevolence,” says the woman. “We are outraged that someone among us has defied you so blatantly. We will not have it.”

  I don’t know why she feels the need to make such a public display, but she is falling over herself to pledge her loyalty to him, and he soaks it up. As I watch her, it becomes clear that she absolutely believes what she’s saying.

  “Our traditions are sacred,” says the king. With a flick of his wrist he dismisses Lady Hollins, and she takes her place in the crowd. “Our ways are absolute,” he continues. “Prince Charming saved Mersailles from devastation, saved your beloved Cinderella from a meaningless existence, and we honor him by continuing to follow the example he set. My predecessors and I have put rules in place for your own good, and how do you repay this kindness? By defying me.” His voice takes on a raspy darkness that sends a shudder straight through me. “One of your number left the ball without permission. She has been located and dispatched.”

  Constance glances at me.

  Liar.

  “However, it has come to my attention that one of you fine people may have aided this girl in her escape. And that, my humble subjects, simply will not do.”

  From behind him, a cart appears. In the back is a woman in a tattered dress, tied at the wrists with a hood over her head. The guards forcefully remove the prisoner and bring her down to kneel before the king. He reaches out and snatches the hood off, revealing the tearstained face of the seamstress beneath. I take a step, and Constance nearly breaks my arm trying to hold me in place. What is this?

  “This woman’s husband informed me that the girl who left the ball came to his shop to seek the services of this seamstress,” he says angrily. “And he, being the diligent and loyal subject that he is, noticed that the funds collected by his wife were light. It is my opinion that she intended to aid the runaway by giving her money to fund her travels.”

  The seamstress shakes her head frantically. “It’s not true!” she sobs. Her eyes are rimmed with red; she trembles violently.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” the king demands.

  The woman hangs her head, defeated. “No, Your Majesty. I would never do that.”

  But he is. He is a liar.

  “Was there a young girl in the shop or not?” the king asks.

  “There were many young girls in my shop, Highness.”

  “Your shop?” The king looks perplexed. “Your husband is the owner of the shop, is he not?”

  The seamstress nods.

  “Those who would aid a fugitive are just as guilty as the runaway herself,” the king bellows, glaring into the crowd as the people of Lille cower in fear. “How can I make you see that it’s simply not worth it to try to defy me? You cannot win.”

  He walks up to a young girl near the front of the crowd, maybe ten or eleven years old, and slips his hand under her chin. “Smile. You’re so much prettier when you smile.” I can’t see her face, but she must acquiesce because he grins down at her in a way that makes my skin crawl.

  A hulking man in a black hood comes to stand behind the seamstress. He holds a shining ax, its blade as wide as a wagon wheel, and though the sky is overcast, it glints in the light.

  “Keep your eyes there,” King Manford says to the girl, pointing to the man.

  I recall a memory, so faded I can barely see it in my mind. My mother, me as a young girl, a crowd gathered in the square. My mother stood stoically as a man in a black hood walked through the crowd. Her hand slid down to cover my eyes as gasps erupted all around us.

  This is an execution.

  “No—” The word is almost silent as it lea
ves me, as if it knows better than to make itself heard.

  A murmur ripples through the crowd, and Constance’s face freezes in a mask of horror and disgust. A guard rolls a stump in front of the seamstress and pushes her head onto the makeshift chopping block.

  The king glares at her. “Tell me, woman. Was it worth your life to help some stupid peasant escape her fate?”

  I can’t catch my breath. She didn’t do what he is accusing her of, but what can she say?

  “If my life could serve a purpose,” the woman begins, raising her head a little and looking directly at the king, “then let this be it. I would die to give even just one person the chance to be free from you.”

  There are gasps from the crowd. People look back and forth between one another.

  The king’s face twists into a hideous scowl. “And so you shall,” he says. He gives a flick of his wrist, and the man in the hood lifts up the ax. It balances at the apex of its arc, hesitates, and then swings down in one clean motion. The seamstress’s head rolls into the dirt.

  A choked scream escapes my throat, but the sound rises and dies in the same breath. There are more gasps from the crowd, the sounds of someone being sick, sobbing. The king mounts his horse and stares out at the gathering of people. “Remember what you’ve seen here. Her life was pointless, and she died because of her own recklessness. Your lives are a gift from me. And I will allow you to keep them as long as the rules are obeyed.” He digs his heels into the sides of his horse and races off with his guards in tow.

  I fall onto my knees and look at the sky.

  This is my fault. I went to the woman’s shop to get the ribbons, and I let my stubbornness, my hatred of the king’s laws, get in the way of that one simple task. I only wanted to help her and her son. Her son. Will his father now turn his heavy hands to the boy, if he hasn’t already?

  Constance wraps her hand around my waist and pulls me up. I can’t even feel the ground under my feet. I just stare at her in silent, abject horror.

  “We have to get out of here right now,” she says.

  This is the reason no one speaks up. Manford has no qualms about killing someone on a whim. It could have been any of us. We are too busy trying to survive to worry about anything else. We rush to the cart, and I start to climb in.

  “Just a damn minute,” a voice snarls. I’m yanked backward and land hard on the ground. A searing pain shoots down my side. My hat falls off, and the braids at the back of my head come loose.

  “I knew you was a woman.” The man from the grain stall stands over me, glowering. He picks me up by the front of my coat and slams me against the wall of the alley. My head hits the brick, and my vision goes blurry.

  “You’re a pretty thing, ain’t you?” The man whistles, blowing his rancid breath into my face. “Why are you dressed like a man?”

  Passersby look at us, but no one stops. My head throbs with every heartbeat.

  “Get off me,” I say. I dig my fingers into his arms, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Women aren’t allowed to keep no money. Where’d you get them coins? You stole ’em, didn’t ya? Didn’t you just see what happened? Gotta be some kind of fool to—”

  Suddenly, his body goes rigid. A glinting blade pressing up against his neck convinces him to unhand me. While Constance proceeds to back him against the alley wall, I put my cap on, tucking the loose ends of my braids underneath. I’m dizzied by the stabbing pain at my side. The man’s eyes dart between Constance and me.

  “What are you two playing at?” he asks. A small trickle of blood runs down his neck.

  “What makes you think you can put your hands on her?” Constance’s voice darkens, every single syllable taking a beat of its own. Her hand doesn’t waver.

  “You gonna kill me, woman?” the man asks incredulously. He doesn’t think she will do it, but I’m certain she will.

  “I could do it,” she whispers, her mouth close to his ear. “And not even bat an eye. Slit you open like a fish and let your guts spill out on the ground. I suspect even the dogs would leave your entrails alone, you disgusting little man.”

  As she leans away from him, the man notices something in her eyes that makes him take her seriously for the first time.

  “Come now,” he says. “You don’t really want to hurt me. A beautiful lady like yourself wouldn’t do that.”

  The corner of Constance’s mouth twitches. “That you try to flatter me when I have a blade at your neck makes me want to slit your throat and spare the world your ignorance.”

  I hear a sound like water dripping on the cobblestones and look down to see that he’s pissed his pants. Constance wields her power like a sword, a power that I didn’t even know we could have. I’m in awe of her.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper. I am sure someone is going to spot us if we stay too much longer.

  Constance pulls her knife away. “Wouldn’t want to dirty up my blade.” She steps back, and the man takes a deep breath.

  “Good on you, miss. I dare say when the constable hears about this, he’ll hang you, but—”

  Constance raises her knife and brings the hilt down on top of the man’s head, sending a loud crack! echoing through the alley. He falls face-first onto the ground, muttering something incoherent. We scramble into the cart and nudge the horse forward to the main road.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” I ask, trying to figure out if I care.

  “No.” Constance sounds severely disappointed by that.

  I’d never seen anyone so skillful with a knife, and if she was afraid while she threatened the man, she didn’t show it.

  “I hope the headache he has when he wakes up never goes away,” she says. “And who was that woman from the crowd? Lady Hollins?”

  “I’ve never seen her before,” I say.

  “She would have betrayed any one of us in a heartbeat,” Constance says. “People like her are more of a threat than almost anyone else.”

  We stop a quarter mile from the western edge of the town’s limits. The watchtowers stand waiting for us. This is the first time I’ve approached them with the intent of sneaking by.

  “How will we get past?” I ask.

  Constance reaches down into the saddlebag and produces a small, bulbous container made of clay. The top tapers to a dull point with a length of cloth, coiled like a rope, stuffed inside the opening.

  “We’ll need a distraction,” Constance says, smiling in a way that would be funny had I not been so nervous about getting past the guards.

  We come to a small rise in the path. Trees on both sides create a corridor that leads straight to the border and into the nearly impenetrable darkness of the White Wood. Two palace guards patrol the flat land between the two towers. There is no cover, no place to hide.

  “I’ll light this at the base of that tower,” Constance whispers as she points to the one farthest away to our left. “As soon as it goes off, we’ll steer the cart straight through.”

  “As soon as what goes off?” I look again at the little clay container.

  “The bomb.” She holds the container up, giving it a little shake like I should know what it is.

  “Did you make that?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says flippantly. “My mother taught me.”

  “My mother taught me how to make bread.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up. “Well, that has its uses, too.”

  “They’ll follow us,” I say, my heart galloping in my chest.

  “No, they won’t,” says Constance. “They won’t even see us, and even if they do, they’re afraid of what’s out there, so they won’t follow.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Stay in the cart,” Constance says. “Get ready to move. The fuse will burn for five minutes, which should give me enough time to get back here to cross with you.”

  I’ve imagined escaping Lille a million times in my head. At no time did I imagine how afraid I’d be if I ever got the chance to actually d
o it.

  “It’s risky,” says Constance, reading my expression. “But sometimes that’s the only way to get things done. Take the risk, light the fuse. Onward.” Her tempered optimism has faded a bit, and I see a side to her that is so determined and fierce that I’d be frightened if I wasn’t so inspired. She hops up and disappears into the trees beside the path.

  I grip the reins while studying the path in front of me. It’s a straight shot into the White Wood. I glance behind me. There is nothing back there for me other than a long list of reasons why I need to find a way to end Manford.

  Onward.

  19

  “I’m sick and tired of these patrols,” a man’s voice says. “No one is coming this way.”

  I freeze. The voice comes closer. I can see the figures of two men passing by the head of the trail. I quickly climb down into the shallow gutter at the side of the road and press myself into the damp earth, trying not to breathe.

  “We’re out here because the king doesn’t think we’re good enough at the other posts,” another man says.

  “What’s this?” I hear the first man ask.

  “A cart,” the man answers. “No passengers. You let anyone through?”

  “No,” says the other man.

  I shrink closer to the ground to keep my body from shaking as the footsteps come closer. The musty smell of earth fills my nose and mouth.

  “Over here,” says a voice that sounds like it is directly above me. I brace myself, ball up my hands, and prepare to fight.

  A noise like the firing of a cannon erupts in the distance. A rumble ripples through the ground, and the men standing by the cart shout as they race toward the sound. Suddenly, a set of arms pull me up out of the dirt. I struggle to get my hands around the person’s neck.

  “It’s me!” Constance shouts. “Move!”

  We jump into the cart, and I grab the reins, giving them a quick, sharp snap. The horse bolts straight ahead. Constance glances back as the guards stand at the base of the tower, shouting and tripping over themselves. She grips the edge of the cart to keep herself from tumbling out as we disappear into the White Wood.