Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  “And what did you get out of all of this?” Constance asks. “I doubt you helped him without getting anything in return.”

  “He made me one of his closest advisers,” Amina says in a way that sounds almost disappointed. “He continued his cursed reign, and in turn he made sure I never had to worry about who might decide that a witch might make good kindling.”

  “Cursed,” I say quietly. “This has to be what Cinderella meant when she said he was cursed.”

  Constance nods. “We need to find out how he sustains himself. Maybe if we can figure out that part, we can stop him.”

  “I can’t help you,” says Amina. “I don’t know how he does it. No one does. It is the thing he keeps only to himself.”

  “You understand what this means?” Constance asks, looking like she’s come to some terrible revelation. “By doing this, he can continue to hurt people. And he can do it forever if he’s found a way to cheat death.” Constance stares at Amina. “How do you do it? You’re still alive. Maybe he’s doing the same thing you are.”

  “No,” says Amina sternly. “I age. I do not suddenly become young when it suits me. I use herbs, spells. It is a constant effort, but I cannot go on indefinitely.”

  “You can’t make yourself young, but if you’re as old as you say you are—” I don’t know how to say it without it sounding like an insult.

  “Why don’t I look like a rotting corpse?” Amina asks.

  I nod.

  “It is a glamour, an illusion. I’ve perfected it over the years, and I use it now so I don’t frighten your friend.” She winks at Constance, who crosses her arms hard over her chest, glaring back at her.

  “Why have you decided to stay all this time?” I ask.

  Amina grows still and quiet. “Because I must.”

  I think of Manford ruling over Lille for the rest of time, finding new and terrible ways to hurt us. I can’t let that happen.

  “Once a man has tasted the kind of power he now wields, he won’t ever give it up willingly,” says Amina.

  “We’ll strip him of that power by force,” I say. I sit quietly for a moment before asking a question I know Constance wants answered. “Why did you take Cinderella to him? Why did you help her get to the ball if you knew what he was?”

  Constance’s angry exterior melts away, and a look of desperation takes its place. She needs answers.

  Amina hangs her head. “Cinderella’s parents stoked the flames of rebellion after Charming began to implement laws and rules that were so restrictive and damaging to the people of Lille that they began to question his ability to be a fair and just ruler.”

  “The decrees,” I say.

  Amina shakes her head. “If you drop a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out. But if you stoke the fire slowly, it will allow itself to be boiled to death. The changes in the very beginning were subtle. A curfew was imposed for the safety of the women. Women were required to wear long dresses to protect their modesty. Men were elevated to positions of power because they knew best.” Amina gives an exaggerated sigh. “Everything was framed as being in the best interest of the people.”

  “And the people just allowed him to do it?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Amina says. “Why wouldn’t they? He was their savior, their protector.”

  “You didn’t seem so concerned with people’s well-being when you were causing a famine and letting them starve to death,” Constance snaps.

  “He saved my life. I was indebted to him,” Amina says. For the first time, I see something like regret in her eyes. “After Cinderella’s parents were killed, he held the first annual ball. He sent out invitations that instructed young women to present themselves to be chosen. He made death the penalty for not attending. I realized I had to do something to stop him, and that I would have to take extreme measures to do it.”

  “You tried to kill him?” Constance asks.

  “No.” She hesitates. “I couldn’t, not after what he had done for me.”

  “So what did you do?” I ask.

  “I found someone who wanted him gone as much as I did. Someone who might appeal to his lust for beautiful young women, maybe someone he’d already stolen everything from.”

  I glance at Constance, and her face goes blank.

  “I knew what he did to Cinderella’s parents,” Amina says. “They were dead because of him. I went to Cinderella, expecting to find a fatherless girl, grieving the deaths of her family, willing to do the impossible out of sheer desperation. Instead I found a stepmother, Lady Davis, fierce as a raging fire, who almost slit my throat upon seeing me. I found three young women, Cinderella being the youngest, who were ready to crush Manford under their boots. They were prepared to move against him. I gave Cinderella everything she needed and accompanied her to the ball in disguise.”

  “She went there to kill him?” Constance asks, astonished.

  Amina nods.

  I loop back through the story Constance had shared with me. It is the one mystery that seemed to haunt her the most—why would Cinderella have married Prince Charming after everything he did to her family?

  “He’s still alive,” I say. “Why didn’t she do it? What happened?”

  Amina lowers her gaze. “When he saw her for the first time, the look in his eyes—he wanted her more than anything and he told me that if he could have her, if I could assist him in this, that he would be a better man, a better king. I thought maybe, if he could love and be loved in return, he could atone for the things he’d done.”

  “That makes no sense,” Constance says. “He’s not capable of loving anyone except himself.”

  “Isn’t that what love does?” Amina asks. “It changes people. It makes them want to be better.”

  Constance leans in. “She goes up there to kill him and ends up his blushing bride? Make it make sense, Amina.”

  Amina closes her eyes as if she’s in pain, furrowing her brow, breathing deeply. “I’m a witch. I used a potion, slipped it to her in a glass of punch before she had a chance to assassinate him. She fell for him as soon as their eyes met, and nothing he’d done in the past mattered anymore.”

  My mouth hangs open in shock. Constance doesn’t speak.

  “Lady Davis and Gabrielle tried to drag her back to the house, losing her slipper in the process. They took her home and locked her away, but there was no hiding from him. He came calling, shoe in hand, and made a spectacle of it. He had palace artists record the event, immortalizing it in what would become the first palace-sanctioned version of Cinderella’s story. He took her to be his wife, and for a very brief time, it felt as if tensions in Mersailles were eased.”

  Constance stands up, clenching her fists. “It was all based on a lie. You—you tricked her.”

  “The law of three says that whatever you put out will come back to you three times over,” Amina says. “I’m sure I’ll get what’s coming to me. Just you wait.”

  “And you’ll deserve every bit of it,” Constance says through gritted teeth.

  I can’t wrap my head around the enormity of his lies, the depth of his deception. Cinderella’s story is so much more complicated than I imagined. I never would have thought that this is what the actual truth could be. But what I suspected, that Manford was the monster of the fairy tale, turned out to be true in the most terrible way.

  “How do we stop him?” I ask. It’s the only question that matters now.

  “You can’t,” Amina says. “You are no match for him. Nothing can be done.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I say.

  “You have no idea how powerful he has become,” Amina snaps. “There is no defeating him. My best advice would be to run, hide, save yourselves if you can.”

  “You can’t be this much of a coward,” Constance says.

  Amina turns slowly, and a wave of silent rage pulses out of her. I stand up and move between them.

  “Please,” I say, as much to Amina as to Constance. “We need your help.”
<
br />   Constance speaks to Amina without looking at her. “We can’t go back. You need to help us.”

  Amina glances at me, her face softening again. She looks around the small room, muttering something to herself. She nods at me. “You can sleep by the fire. You”—she eyes Constance—“can sleep outside for all I care. I don’t have much extra room, as you can see, but stay, and we’ll discuss this in the morning when I’ve had a chance to clear my head.”

  Amina shuffles off, and I sink down onto the floor, relieved that she and Constance haven’t come to blows. The things Amina told us feel too big, too impossible. Am I just supposed to take her at her word? Believe that magic is real and so much more dangerous than I thought possible?

  Constance briefly considers taking Amina’s advice to sleep outside, but changes her mind as the howling of the wolves, along with a blustery wind, picks up again. Amina tosses me a pile of blankets before settling herself on a straw-stuffed mattress in the far corner of the room. The house contains cupboards and closets but no other rooms as far as I can tell.

  Constance and I take turns stoking the fire to keep the drafty little cottage warm throughout the night. As we drift in and out of sleep, I keep some distance between us, though I awake several times to find her face very close to mine, her eyes closed, her breath soft and warm. I’m afraid I’m dreaming, that I might reach out and she’ll be gone. But I allow myself to think of what it would be like to spend my days with her freely, in a future we create.

  23

  Constance stirs before Amina. She sits up, rubbing her eyes. Her body suddenly stiffens.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  She groans and rubs her shoulder, rolling her head from side to side and stretching her neck. “The floor isn’t very forgiving. Did you sleep okay?”

  “Not really.” I unbandage my hand to find the wound almost completely healed.

  “Look at that,” says Constance. “I guess the witch is good for something.”

  I look to where Amina is sleeping. “Whether she’ll help us or not is another question.”

  I have a feeling Amina wants to help us. She wouldn’t have shared her story if she didn’t. But she’s clearly not a person who does anything out of the kindness of her heart, so I understand Constance’s skepticism.

  Constance shifts around on the pile of blankets. Her tunic, which is entirely too big for her, slips off her shoulder. My heart speeds up a little, and I look away. When I turn back she is smiling at me, which only makes my heart beat faster. She purses her lips, then lets them part, sucking in a quick puff of air. She smiles again, and I notice a deep dimple in her right cheek. If I had been standing, I might have had to sit down.

  “One thing,” I say, changing my train of thought.

  “All right.” Constance raises one fiery-red eyebrow.

  “I know you’ve got a lot to be angry about. And I don’t blame you, but we don’t have any better ideas.” I glance toward Amina. “We need her to tell us what she knows, and I’d like it if she didn’t use whatever power she has to obliterate us first.”

  “We don’t even know if she’s telling the truth.”

  I had thought the same thing, but I look down at my almost completely healed wound. Her books and concoctions line the walls, and I’m sure there is something at work here that I don’t yet understand.

  “I don’t know exactly what she is either,” I say. “But just promise me you won’t provoke her before we figure out more.”

  “I’ll try,” she says. “For you. Not because I’m afraid of her.”

  “Of course not,” I say, smiling.

  Amina rolls over and sits up. Bits of hay stick out of her mussed hair, and she looks confused for a moment.

  “You awake there, Granny?” Constance asks, an edge of annoyance still coloring her voice. I shoot her a glance, and she frowns dramatically, mouthing the word “sorry” to me.

  “Unfortunately. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been up with the sun. I have you two chattering away to thank for that.” She climbs off the mattress and stumbles to her feet. “Put the kettle and pot on. We’ll need something to eat. What will it be—eye of newt, tongue of dog?” Amina cackles.

  “That’s disgusting,” Constance grumbles.

  I push the pot over the fire and move the embers around before throwing another log on.

  “We were just about to go over a few things,” I say.

  “I’ll need coffee, my pipe, and a moment to wake up before we start on this again,” says Amina. She gathers a clay mug and her little cedar box and plops down in the chair by the fire. She puffs on her pipe, then splays her hand out in front of her. “Go on then.”

  “Cinderella got a message to Gabrielle, asking her to meet in secret,” Constance says.

  “Is that so?” Amina seems intrigued.

  Constance goes to her bag and pulls out her belongings. She unbundles a packet of handwritten notes. Some of them are faded and look too delicate to even touch. She hands them to Amina. “One of Lady Davis’s most brilliant ideas was establishing a network of people willing to pass messages in order to organize their efforts. Over time the network shrank, mostly because the king was increasing his stranglehold on the women of Mersailles. These are some of the communications.”

  I peer over Amina’s shoulder.

  My skin pricks up. “I saw a note like this at Cinderella’s tomb the night I escaped the ball.”

  Constance hangs her head. “I’m not surprised. The tomb would have been a perfect place to leave a message. So many people used to leave little notes there a message like this wouldn’t have been noticed.”

  Amina shuffles the remaining messages and peers down at a particularly yellowed and curling slip of paper.

  “That one is from Cinderella to Gabrielle five years before Cinderella’s death,” says Constance. “Gabrielle met her, and Cinderella tried to tell her something, but the guards found her and took her away. She risked her life to deliver a message.”

  “It’s not as if he kept her in a cell,” Amina says quietly. “She had her own room in the palace. It was quite lovely, actually.”

  “A prison is still a prison no matter how pretty the decor,” says Constance. Her patience is already paper thin.

  Amina remains silent.

  “Does it make you feel better to think of her as some pampered princess?”

  Constance can’t keep her emotions in check, and it’s wrong to ask her to. She has a right to everything she feels. I just hope Amina will still be willing to help us.

  “Why do you think I’ve spent these last years of my life in these godforsaken woods?” Amina asks. “It’s not for the scenery. I know what I’ve done, and you could just leave me here to rot like I deserve, but no. You traipsed out here to bother me.”

  Constance looks at me, and I force a quick smile just to show her I’m not going to stand in her way.

  “What happened when the spell wore off?” she asks. “You gave her a love potion. I’m assuming it didn’t last forever, so what happened after it wore off?”

  Amina sighs. “What I gave her lasted a full cycle of the moon. The spell lost its potency just after they were married, and she began to feel differently toward him.”

  “Being responsible for the death of her parents seems like a good reason to loathe someone,” Constance says.

  Amina nods. “He wanted her more than anything. And more important, he wanted her to feel the same way about him. As the potion wore off, it became clear that she would never love him the way he wanted her to, but he couldn’t let it go. His pride was too great to let her walk away. He kept her in the palace until she died.”

  “People said she was sick, bedridden in the last years of her life,” I say.

  “She was locked away in the palace during the remaining years of her life.” Amina opens herself up again. “No one was allowed to see or speak to her except for one servant, some ancient woman who died just after Cinderella. And Manford him
self, of course.” Amina turns to Constance and speaks directly to her. “I don’t know what she intended to tell your Gabrielle. Whatever Cinderella knew, she took to the grave.”

  Constance runs her hand over her forehead and slumps down in her seat.

  “Maybe you should let it go,” Amina says. “Cinderella lived and died a long time ago, and what’s going on in Mersailles, especially in Lille, is tragic, but what can you do? Nothing has changed in two hundred years. Maybe it never will.”

  Constance shakes her head. “Coward.”

  Amina raises an eyebrow and then returns to gazing into the fireplace. “All the name-calling in the world doesn’t change the fact that you can’t do a damn thing to stop him.” She goes to the shelf, takes down the strange book I’d seen earlier, and opens it on the table in the kitchen. After running her finger over the words written there, she adds ingredients from the jars on the rear wall to the cauldron.

  I watch her carefully. “What are you doing?”

  “Making myself invisible so that your friend can’t keep staring at me like she wants to kill me.” She shoots Constance an angry glare.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  Amina laughs. “No, but it is something I have to do, unless you’d like to see me as I really am.”

  Constance stiffens up. “You mean you’re not just a mean old granny?”

  Amina pauses, her ingredients bubbling in her cauldron. Suddenly her face contorts, taking on a pale-yellow hue, her mouth turned downward. Her skin droops as her appearance shifts. She transforms into an ancient-looking corpse, haggard and rotting. I cover my mouth to stifle a gag, and Constance rears back, knocking over a pile of pots and clay plates. Amina suddenly reverts to her former appearance and smiles.

  “Don’t let this façade fool you. I’m not your granny. I’m not to be trifled with. Do you understand?”

  “All right!” Constance yelps.