“Are you coming in or not?” the woman asks. “You’re more than welcome to stay out here, of course.” She looks past us into the woods. Her fingers twitch as she whispers something under her breath. The grunting and snarling move away from us. She turns and disappears through the doorway. Constance motions for me to follow her as the howl of the wolves fades to nothing. We quickly mount the steps and go inside.
The cottage is in a precarious state. The roof slants downward at a steep angle, and when the wind whips by, the entire structure shudders. Dozens of herbs hang in bushels from the beams under the ceiling, and the rear wall is covered, floor to ceiling, with shelves of jars filled with all manner of strange things—dried herbs, liquids, and even different parts of small animals suspended in a viscous liquid.
A black cauldron hangs over the roaring fire, bubbling with some delicious-smelling concoction. Candles cover every available surface, some lit, some melted into nothing more than little mounds of wax. The air is hazy and thick. The minute I step over the threshold, an odd sense of calm envelops me. My fear of the wolves, the uneasiness of the White Wood—it all fades away.
“You’ve come a very long way,” says the woman. “Venturing this far into the White Wood means only one thing—you’re either very stupid or very desperate.”
“We’re looking for information about the fairy godmother,” I say.
The woman bristles and gives an annoyed huff. “Sit.” She gestures to a wooden table in the kitchen area with a set of mismatched chairs crowded around it.
“Forgive us if we’re hesitant,” Constance says. Her hand never stops hovering over her dagger.
“You’re afraid,” says the woman. “And I don’t blame you, but if you draw that dagger it will be the last thing you ever do.” She settles into a seat by the fire, her gaze steely. “When you say you’re looking for information about the fairy godmother, what you really mean is you’re looking for her magic. What is it you need? A philter to persuade a lover? An elixir to make you beautiful? Need someone dead?”
A chill runs up my back. “You do that?” What have we found in these forsaken woods?
“I do a great many things,” says the old woman.
“And who are you exactly?” Constance asks.
“Oh, come now,” says the woman in a much more serious tone. “You act as if you didn’t know you’d find me here.” She taps her foot on the floor and hums a little tune.
I glance at Constance, who stands stone-faced, her lips parted.
“There’s been a mistake,” I say. “We’re looking for information about the fairy godmother.”
“My dear girl, I don’t know who in this cursed forest would know me better than I know myself, and if you have questions, I suggest you start asking before I throw you out into the dark.”
“It cannot be,” Constance whispers.
I step around the side of the woman’s chair. She studies me silently. Her hair, a wash of gray that melts into a midnight black near the ends, is gathered together in dozens of tight bundles, all of which are pulled behind her and twisted into a single braid. Her frame is solid, round, her skin the color of the deepest, richest sepia. She wears a plain cotton dress with a long gray shawl.
“The Cinderella story is two hundred years old,” I say. My mind races as the woman nods.
“It is indeed,” she says.
“What am I missing?” Constance asks, an edge of anger in her voice.
“A great many things, apparently,” says the woman.
Constance stomps around the woman’s chair and looks her dead in the eye. “We didn’t come through the White Wood to be mocked. We came here for answers about Cinderella, about why she betrayed her family by marrying Prince Charming, about how the kings of Lille have kept such a tight grip on this land.”
The woman slowly looks up at Constance. “Why does any of that matter to you?”
“Because Cinderella’s family is my family,” says Constance. Her hand still sits on the hilt of her dagger.
The woman stares at Constance as if she is seeing her for the first time. Her eyes grow wide, and the corners of her mouth turn down. She presses her arms across her chest. “You look very much like Gabrielle.” She gazes up at a small portrait hanging by the hearth. A young boy with dark eyes, maybe six or seven years old, stares back at her. “I suppose that means she was able to make a life for herself somewhere in the world.”
Constance balls up her fists. “If you call scrounging for food, living in constant fear, and being one of the most hated women in the land a life.”
The woman looks Constance over again. “I never thought I’d see the day when kin to the evil stepsisters would be here in my humble abode.”
Constance clenches her jaw, and I move to her side.
“Gabrielle was many things, but she was neither evil nor cruel, just as I’m sure you’ve never been a wish-granting fairy, godmother, or otherwise.” Constance and the woman exchange angry gazes.
“Anyone with eyes can see that’s not the case, but do you have any idea what I really am?” the woman asks.
“You’re a witch,” Constance says. It is accusatory, almost mean.
“I’m not much for labels, but I like that one. It doesn’t have quite the same ring as fairy godmother, but I suppose it will do.” She tilts her head and stares at me.
I would never have guessed that this was the fabled fairy godmother. The woman in the story is a nymphlike creature, with wings and a wand that spews magical dust. This woman’s face is crisscrossed with lines, the folds around her mouth and eyes deep.
“We need information, not spells,” I say.
She clasps her hands in her lap and rocks back and forth in her chair. “It’s a strange request. Most people seek me out for something more material.”
“People still look for you? They know you still exist?” I’ve never heard even a whisper of her.
“They do,” she says. “Sometimes I help them, sometimes I don’t, but when they return home, they tend to forget where they’ve been and why.”
“What do you help them with?” I ask. “Dresses? Carriages? Glass slippers?”
“That story has taken its toll on you, hasn’t it?” she asks. She looks at me as if she pities me. “Anything they think will give them an edge at the ball.” The woman stares into the fire, settling back in her chair. She measures her words and movements, as if she is adept at controlling something that lurks just beneath the surface of her calm exterior.
“Do you know that the Cinderella tale is a lie?” I ask.
The old woman bristles and then smiles. “Which part?”
“I want to know what role you played in getting Cinderella to the ball that night,” says Constance. “I know the story isn’t true.”
“What do you know of truth?” The woman sounds amused. “You think because you’re related to Gabrielle that you’re owed something?” She scowls at Constance.
“I know my family’s history,” Constance says angrily. “We know you worked for the royal family when Cinderella was alive.”
“See there?” says the woman. “You’re already wrong. I’m not now, nor have I ever been, in the employ of anyone in the palace.” She turns her nose up and scoffs. “I was there of my own accord, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“The king is after me,” I say. “I ran away from the ball. I put my entire family and everyone I care about at risk, and I want to destroy him before he has a chance to hurt me or anyone else.”
Constance’s posture changes, and she stands a little taller and presses her shoulder into mine.
The woman shakes her head. “Lofty ambitions, my dear.” She turns and stares so intensely into my eyes that I take a step back, my heart racing. It is like she can see inside me.
“Do you know what it’s like in Lille?” Constance asks. “Do you understand the damage the Cinderella fairy tale has caused to the women and girls who live in town?”
I
gather myself. “My friend died after attending the king’s ball.” Constance and the woman look at me. “And my other friend, Erin, is suffering a fate worse than death. We just watched a woman be executed because the king thought she helped me escape.”
“People make their own decisions,” says the woman. “You can’t blame the king for all of your problems.”
I step closer. Constance cautions me with a little wave of her hand, which I ignore. I look down at the woman. A palpable energy emanates from her, but I steel myself. “When the leader of this kingdom treats women as property, it sets an awful precedent. People think it’s okay to do the same.”
“I’ve never understood why people follow along so blindly,” she mumbles. “Even when they know something is wrong, they do it anyway. Maybe you all should start thinking for yourselves.”
Constance moves toward the door. “This was a mistake, coming out here. She can’t help us.”
“Wait,” I say. I kneel at the woman’s side. “What’s your name? Your real name. None of that fairy godmother nonsense.” I haven’t been almost devoured by wolves to walk away with nothing.
She looks away from me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I say. “As hard as the king tries to make us nameless, we aren’t.”
A faint smile flits across her lips. “My mother called me Amina, but I’ve not heard that name spoken aloud in many, many years.” Something softens in her. Her defiant attitude is just a mask. Even out here in the darkest part of the White Wood, this woman is fearful.
“Please, Amina, we need to know anything you can tell us about Cinderella’s true story, the kings who have ruled over Mersailles—especially Prince Charming, his past, where he came from, anything.”
“And what would you do with this information?” she asks.
“We would use it to end the reign of men like Manford,” says Constance, whose tone remains firm. “Forever.”
Amina sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. She runs her hand over her forehead and allows her fingertips to rest on her lips. “Even if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. Do you truly think men like him can be stopped?” Her tone suggests she has thought long and hard about this very question.
“Yes,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true, but I want it to be. “Maybe if you tell us what you know, you can help us.” While Amina is icy with Constance, I see a softness in her eyes, a willingness to open up to me.
“I will never be free from this burden, no matter how honest I choose to be,” Amina says, looking me directly in the face. “I will carry it with me into the next life as penance for what I have done.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than what the kings of Mersailles have done.”
“You can’t be certain,” Amina says. Her eyes bore into me, and a primal rush of fear sweeps over me. This woman, delicate as she seems, is powerful, but she takes great care to mask it in our presence. “I have done things you cannot fathom. I have been more wicked than you can imagine.” This is not a warning. This is not a threat. It is an admission.
“Tell us what you know,” Constance urges again. She moves to a chair and sits down.
Amina leans forward and sighs, resigning herself to something. “Very well. But I will not be held responsible for the hopelessness, for the emptiness that you will feel when I’m done.”
Her warning echoes Constance’s. And if Amina’s revelations are anywhere near as life changing as the ones Constance shared with me, there will be no going back. I sit down on the floor and wait for her to continue.
She laughs lightly. “Foolish girl.”
22
“The king who sits on the throne today is not a normal man.” Amina pulls her shawl around her and walks to the shelves at the rear of the room. She plucks a short glass jar with a cork stopper from the shelf, shuffles back over to her chair, and sits down. She leans forward and takes my hand in hers, unwrapping the bandage. I wince as she pulls the cloth away from the wound and uncorks the jar. A sweet smell wafts out.
“Honey and comfrey,” I say, recognizing the scent of the honey and the stringy leaves of the comfrey plant.
She smiles. She dips her fingers, which I notice are each marked with ink in a triangle pattern, into the mixture and smears my hand with the pungent salve. I set my hand back in my lap after she rewraps it. The pain is already starting to subside.
“It’s hard for me to say what the king is or isn’t,” says Amina. “A man, a monster, or some terrible combination of the two.”
“What does that even mean?” Constance asks tensely. I shoot her a glance, urging her to be patient, and she clasps her hands together tightly in her lap. I don’t want her to be quiet. I only want her to try to keep things calm. We need to know what Amina has to say.
Amina continues, unfazed by Constance’s impatience. “Would you prefer the long version or the short one?” she asks curtly.
Constance sits back in her chair, still fuming. I hope she can bring herself to listen to the full story before she loses it completely.
“The long version,” I say.
Amina smiles at me and then purposely frowns at Constance, who rolls her eyes. She reaches under her chair and brings out a small rectangular box. She produces from it a long churchwarden pipe. The chamber is elaborately carved with figures of flowers and leaves, and the stem is nearly as long as my forearm. She fills the chamber from a small cotton pouch and sets about lighting it. She takes a long draw, exhaling slowly. “All my life I’ve practiced magic. My mother raised me in the craft, taught me from the time I was young. You will hear people speak of light and dark, but in my experience you must be well versed in both to find a balance. By the time I was grown, I’d gained quite a reputation for myself. People came from near and far to seek out my services.”
She looks toward the shelf. I follow her gaze to a book that is thicker than all the others, more worn, and bound in some kind of leather. For some strange reason, I want to pluck it from the shelf, but I turn back to Amina as she continues her story.
“They also came with accusations and rumors. When a baby was born with a strange mark, when the eggs of the fowls were runny with blood, when the moon seemed too bright, they blamed me. And one day they came pounding on my door and lit a pyre and dragged me out of my home fully prepared to send me to my maker.”
“What stopped them?” I ask.
“A man,” Amina says. “He drove the village folk from my doorstep, saved my life. He came to me seeking the thing all men seek—power—when he happened upon that dreadful scene. He asked me to aid him in his efforts to persuade a burgeoning kingdom to make him their ruler. He asked me to make the rivers run dry, to make the wheat die in the fields, to make the rain cease to fall.”
A dreadful shock of recognition passes through me. I know this story.
“Who was he?” Constance asks. There is fear in her voice, a wavering in her tone. “Who was this man that came to your door?”
Amina rests her pipe on the arm of her chair and stares into the fire. “The very same man who now sits on the throne.”
I hear Constance inhale sharply.
“No,” I say. “How is that possible?”
“Lille has had four rulers since the time of Cinderella,” Amina says. “Prince Charming, King Eustice, King Stephan, and your current ruler Manford. Charming lived to be nearly a hundred years old, as did his successor, Eustice. But tell me, my dears, do they pass their kingdom to a son? A living relative?”
“All of the successors are handpicked from an annexed city in the Forbidden Lands.” Even as I say it aloud, I realize how ridiculous it sounds, how convenient.
Amina grunts.
“The king always chooses his successor,” I say. “They do it to avoid infighting.”
“And how does it work?” Amina asks. “The kings of this land happen to outlive everyone around them. No one living remembers what the ki
ng looked like in his youth. And then what? The king goes into seclusion to wither and die and is buried without pomp or circumstance just before a young man, chosen by the dying king, arrives from the Forbidden Lands and comes to power and seems to know every law, every rule as if he’d authored it himself?”
My hands tremble, and fear rises in me again, but this time I am shaken to my core. I feel like I’m watching the very structure of my life, the thing it is built on, crumble to pieces. “That is how it has always been done.”
“Mersailles has only ever had one ruler since the time of Cinderella,” Amina says. “There is no city in the Forbidden Lands producing potential heirs to the throne. Charming is Manford. Manford is Charming.”
I cannot fathom what she is saying. Constance’s mouth is open, her eyes unblinking.
“How—how can that possibly be true?” I ask as I struggle to comprehend what this means.
“He has a power,” Amina says. “Something that sustains him. I don’t know how, but what is certain is that the prince of Cinderella’s tale, his successors, and the man you call King Manford are one and the same.”
Constance shakes her head, and Amina eyes her.
“I am sitting right in front of you,” says Amina. “A witness to the events I’ve just revealed, and still you doubt. This is the kind of ignorance the king relies on to keep his ruse going. Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it can’t be true.”
Constance opens her mouth to speak, but I interject. “Did you do as he asked? Were you the one responsible for the famine that devastated Mersailles all those years ago?”
Amina shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I am.”
“My grandmother told me stories passed down to her from that time,” I say. “People were starving, dying. You did that?”
Amina shakes her head and looks at the floor. “I said I was a witch. I never said I was a good witch. I told you I’ve done wicked things. Didn’t you believe me?” She snuffs out her pipe and puts it back in the box. “When the devastation became too much, the people became desperate. Desperate people do foolish things. They put Charming on the throne, and I provided the magic that brought back the crops, the flowing rivers, all of it. They groveled at his feet and begged him to keep them fed, and he did. He became their benevolent leader.”
Cinderella Is Dead Page 14
