Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  Right down on his head.

  The door creaks open, and in the dim light, I see the guard’s eyes. He blinks, confused, as I bring the candlestick down with all the strength I can muster. It impacts his head with a sickening thud, and he falls into a pile, his knees and elbows jutting out in an unnatural way. I quickly hook my arms under his, dragging him into the room and closing the door. Breaths rattle out of him as if his throat is filled with liquid. After rolling him onto his side, I check his pockets for the keys to the cells but find nothing. When he wakes up, he’s going to sound the alarm.

  I drag him into the closet full of beautiful dresses and close the door. I push the vanity and the small table in front of it and leave the room. Candlestick in hand, I race through the hallway until I come to another staircase.

  This one spirals all the way down below the main level of the palace, and as the light from above dims, a gust of cold, fetid air meets me. The sounds of hushed voices drift up, but I can’t make out the words. I descend the stairs to find the mouth of a long, dark tunnel.

  The dungeon is a narrow hallway with barred cells on both sides. Only one lamp lights up the far end of the dank space. A guard is seated in a chair with an older man standing over him.

  “I don’t have the money,” says the standing man.

  “Then we don’t have a deal,” says the seated man. “Four gold pieces each. No bargains. King’s orders.”

  The old man storms off, stomping up a short flight of stairs at the other end of the hall and slamming the door shut.

  A faint whisper from the cell behind me catches my attention. Six or seven people of varying ages huddle together toward the back. A man steps forward, tall and gaunt. I can see his bottom ribs jutting out from under his tattered clothing. His face is covered in a mass of unkempt beard. He stumbles forward and props himself up on the cell bars.

  “Sophia?” he asks, his voice thin and weak.

  I can’t believe it. “Luke?”

  He puts out his hand, and I glance down the hall. The darkness gives me some measure of protection as I take his skeletal hand in mine.

  “Oh, Sophia,” he says, collapsing against the bars.

  I kiss the back of his hand as tears sting my eyes. “Luke, what did he do to you? I thought you were dead.” I was sure he’d been executed. But it looks like the king has allowed him to languish in the dungeon, waiting for his body to collapse in on itself. He only shakes his head.

  “Such is the fate of forfeits,” he whispers.

  “Just wait,” I whisper. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  I glance down the hall, debating how to sneak up on the guard. I take the most direct approach and walk quickly past several cells where the prisoners have taken notice of me. As I near the guard, he stands, a look of disbelief plastered on his face.

  “Hey, you’re not supposed to be down here.”

  One of the girls in the cell behind him screams at the top of her lungs. As the guard spins around, I bring the candlestick down on his head, and he slumps to his knees, sputtering and groaning.

  “Hit him again!” someone yells.

  I do, and he falls face-first onto the dirt floor.

  “He’s got the keys on his belt!” A young girl, perhaps only a year or so older than myself, appears at the front of a cell, frantically waving her hand through the bars.

  After tossing the candlestick aside, I unhook the keys dangling from a loop on his belt and go to the cell directly behind where the guard had been sitting.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “You screamed, and I thought—”

  “I was only trying to distract the guard,” says the girl.

  “Which one is it?” I ask. There are a dozen keys, and they all look the same to me.

  “It’s silver with a square hole at the top,” says the girl. She begins to shake uncontrollably. She holds tight to the bars and watches as I fumble with the keys. Her slip dress has come apart at the bottom hem. Her cheeks are smudged with dirt. She wears an unmistakable mask of pain on her face.

  I find the key with the square hole and unlock the cell. The girls shuffle out, unsure of what to do next.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “There is a cotillion going on as we speak, and the king is looking for me. Take these keys and let the others out. There’s a man in the last cell who may not be able to walk on his own. He’ll need help. Do you know where this door leads?” I gesture to the door where the old man had disappeared.

  “To the rear courtyard,” says one of the girls.

  I hand the keys to her, and she runs to unlock the other cells. My head is spinning. I can’t think of a way to get everyone out and still go back for the girls locked away on the upper floor. As the others leave their cells, I look on in revulsion as at least forty girls and a half dozen boys stand before me. Were there so many forfeits in Lille? The young woman from the first cell has looped her arm around Luke, and he leans on her. Most of them are my age or older, but a few girls couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve. Is this the fate of the missing girls of Lille?

  Suddenly, a thunderous rumble comes from behind the door that leads to the courtyard. I climb the stairs and listen closely before easing it open. Confusion and shouting erupt outside as everyone who has emptied into the rear courtyard rushes away.

  “Get out! Everyone out!” I hear a man yell.

  “I think the king has ordered everyone to leave,” I say. I push the door open wider.

  No one moves.

  “Go,” I say. “Move with the crowd. Don’t look back.”

  “Where are we to go?” asks a young girl. “We can’t go home. Some of us don’t have a home.”

  I only know they need to get out of here. Now. “Head up the drive toward the main road. Just keep going, and do not stop.”

  They rush out, clinging to one another, keeping their heads down. I see the cotillion guests glancing at them and then looking away as they run from the dungeon. This is the one occasion where the people of Lille’s indifference to seeing its citizens in such a sad state will work to our benefit. Luke and the young woman who is helping him stop.

  “Are you coming with us?” he asks. He can barely speak, and I cup his face between my hands. I kiss his forehead before nudging him and the girl toward the door.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t. There is something I have to do.”

  Luke straightens up, trying his hardest to support his own weight. He puts his arms around me, and I can feel how devastatingly thin he is. If I hold on too tight, I fear I may break him. One of the girls presses the guard’s keys into my hand, and I tuck them in my dress, next to Cinderella’s journal.

  I nudge Luke toward the exit, and when he is gone, I turn and race back down the tunnel and up the stairs. A group of guards heads away from me down an adjoining hall, swords drawn, shouting. When they are well out of sight, I cross the landing and descend a short flight of steps that leads to the doors of the main ballroom. I cut across the now-empty expanse of gleaming marble, the king’s portraits in all his guises staring out at me.

  I make it halfway through before the doors behind me slam shut. The chandeliers burst to life one by one, casting shadows all around me.

  I turn to see the king seated on his throne atop the platform, a sickening smile on his face. I run to the outer door and try to force it open, but it won’t budge.

  “It’s no use, Sophia,” he calls after me. “Even if you opened it, there are fifty guards on the other side.”

  Brimming with anger, I lock eyes with him. He descends the platform. His midnight-black suit melds with the shadows. His eyes glint in the candlelight.

  “You killed my friend,” I say.

  He looks off to the side. “Which one was that now? There have been so many.”

  I didn’t expect him to be sad or sorry for what he’s done, but he seems completely lifeless, like a walking shell that only serves as a vessel for his hatred.

  “Her name was Liv, and she had a
family that loved her. I loved her.” I stare him straight in the face and take a few steps toward him. “Your terrible nightmare will end tonight.”

  “And exactly how are you going to stop me?” It isn’t a question I have a solid answer for. I glance at his neck. The place where my dagger had wounded him is a purple color, but the skin has somehow pulled itself back together. He laughs. “I’ve spent more years in this land than any other living creature. I’ve molded it, shaped it into everything you see before you. Every man from here to Chione bows to me because I will it to be so.”

  “Did Cinderella bow to you when she found out what you really are?”

  A quiet rage sweeps over him. It’s the kind of anger that only comes from hearing a truth he can’t accept.

  “Even she bowed to me in the end.”

  Lies.

  “You may rule this land,” I say, pushing down the swell of terror that threatens to consume me. “But you do not rule me.”

  “You came here on my orders!” his voice thunders. “You and every other wretched girl in this kingdom, my kingdom, will do exactly as I say.” He steps closer, his teeth clenched, his black eyes wide and unblinking. “Your father, and his father before him, and all the generations before that have sent their daughters to me in droves so I can have my fill and throw the leftovers to the men who come here like vultures to pick at the broken, rotted pieces of flesh.”

  “You bring them here to fill the void Cinderella left in your blackened heart,” I say defiantly. “Your bitterness, this anger, it only comes from having your heart broken. Was that her crime? That she didn’t love you?”

  “I deserved her love!” he screams. He is unhinged, his eyes wild. “I took her out of her mundane existence and made her a queen. She should have loved me all her life for it.”

  “You couldn’t control her. You couldn’t force her to love you as you loved her.” I suddenly understand what’s driving him. He has convinced himself that he was entitled to Cinderella’s love. He cannot see how his own actions turned her against him.

  Manford is only entitled to one thing. The truth. “Did you know she came here on that night all those years ago to kill you?”

  His mouth opens as if he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw tightly and closes his eyes, drawing a long breath. He sweeps in, reaching his hand behind my back and twirling me around. I struggle to keep my footing as he leads me in a soundless waltz.

  “You think you can hurt me with your words? I had hoped you’d be smarter than that. At least make this little game a challenge.” He grips my hand. “I will take what I want from you and leave your corpse to rot in a ditch like your pathetic friend, like so many of the wretched girls of Lille.” Émile’s words flood my mind. He is feeding on the girls of Lille like a monster. I picture him prowling the countryside, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake.

  As he leans in, I wrench my arm free, rearing back and striking him with my open palm. He stops but does not let go. I look him in the eye. I know my voice will waver if I don’t measure my words, but I want to be clear in what will undoubtedly be the last moments of my short life.

  “If you are going to kill me, do it, and spare me your insufferable rantings.”

  “You can pretend to be brave, but I see right through you. You are racked with fear.” He leans in close and breathes me in. “I can smell it on you.”

  I jerk my body to the side and manage to break his grip. I stumble back, and he grabs my dress. It splits up the side, and I watch in awe as it mends itself before my eyes. The king lets go. He grins, grabs my arm, and pulls me close, crushing me to him. I claw at his face as he presses his forehead against mine.

  He opens his mouth wide and presses his lips over mine. I scream but the sound is muffled. I taste his rancid breath and feel his damp skin, his fingers like knives at my back. Then, everything becomes still. A light hovers between us, a cloud of translucent fog that seems to be coming out of me.

  I can’t move, can’t speak.

  I fight to keep my eyes open. A rush of cold ripples across every inch of my skin. I catch a glimpse of my dagger tucked into his belt. I reach for it, but he bats my hand away.

  I’m dying. I feel the life being pulled out of me in long, rasping draws. A fire ignites in my chest, burning away any feelings of hope or love or happiness. Something tugs hard at my waist, and suddenly I’m sliding backward across the ballroom floor. I lie still for a moment as my senses flicker on and off. My vision blurs, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears. I am exhausted, like I haven’t slept in days, and a crushing sadness hangs over me. My side aches. I roll over and blink.

  A familiar figure stands in the middle of the room.

  36

  “You meddling wench!” the king screams.

  My vision clears enough for me to see Constance standing with her dagger drawn and her eyes narrowed, a large book tucked under her arm.

  “Stay away from her,” Constance says.

  Manford’s face seems to shift as he glares at Constance, like his skin is too loose over his bones. “Put that dagger away, you stupid girl. It will do you no good here.”

  Constance glances at me. “Sophia, I—”

  The double doors leading into the ballroom groan as they open. My vision is still hazy, but I recognize Amina’s squat frame as she enters the room. She’s shed her pretend exterior and marches up to the king. A rush of relief washes over me.

  “Please,” Amina says to him. “Please remember what we discussed before.”

  I’m still dazed, but even in my haze her words don’t make sense. “Before?”

  The king looks at me and then back to her. He bursts into a fit of wicked laughter. “You didn’t tell her? She couldn’t figure it out?”

  “Figure what out?” I demand, climbing to my feet. My ribs throb with each heartbeat.

  Amina flashes me a tight smile, but her eyes show me nothing but sadness. “I lied to you, Sophia. I had to do it.”

  The king waltzes over and plants a kiss on the top of Amina’s head. “Oh, Mother, you never were a very good liar.”

  Mother.

  No.

  It can’t be true.

  “You—you said he saved you from the pyre,” I stammer. “That he came looking for your assistance.”

  A maniacal grin spreads across Manford’s face. “Is that the story you’ve been telling?” He turns to Amina. “I like that one very much. It’s almost the truth.”

  My gaze returns to the portraits. Yes, they are all Manford, but they are also the boy from the painting hanging by the hearth in Amina’s home in White Wood.

  “You lying witch,” Constance says through gritted teeth. She opens the book she’s clutching and tosses it onto the floor. It’s the grimoire. Amina glances up at her.

  “Oh, but you, Constance, you had some inkling, didn’t you?” Amina grins, and the subtle similarities between her and Manford stare out at me, taunting me. “When?”

  Constance grips her dagger. “I knew the little boy in the painting looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. It gnawed at me.” Constance trembles as she speaks. “When you left for the cotillion, I looked at the necromancy spell again.” She points to the book. The pages containing the necromancy spell lie open.

  “You don’t have a good reason for still being alive after all this time,” Constance says. “Manford should have killed you if you knew his secret. But now it makes sense. You’re bound to him by blood, by love, by magic. He cannot exist without you. I didn’t want to believe it. I was blinded by my hatred for him.” She shoots a pointed look at Manford.

  He cocks his head to the side. “You poor girl. What have I done to make you hate me so?” His tone is mocking, cruel.

  “I have plenty of reasons,” Constance says angrily. “You have been hunting my family for generations.”

  Manford is taken aback. He stares at Constance. “Mother, you should have told me we were among such honored guests. You look very much
like Gabrielle. Pity.”

  The horrible realization dawns on me. I turn to Amina. “You brought him back yourself?” I remember the broken seal in her grimoire, Manford’s cold skin, his stiffened body. He’s a walking corpse. Amina is bound to him and he to her, just like the spell says. Only she has the power to destroy him because she’s the one who cast the spell that brought him back from the dead.

  Amina claps her hands. “Well done, my dear. Well done. It’s true that he saved me from the pyre, but I was only on it because the people in my village found out what I’d done. Necromancy tends to scare the faint of heart.”

  “You’ve been working with him the entire time,” Constance says.

  “I didn’t have to do much,” Amina says. “You were already planning to come back to Lille. I just gave you a little push.” She turns to Manford. “I must admit the things you said to me when you came to visit stung a little.”

  He puts his hand over his heart. “My temper got the better of me. I’m sorry about that, Mother, truly.”

  He doesn’t sound sorry at all, but he smiles at her like he adores her, and my stomach turns over. All this time, I thought her hesitancy was because she was ashamed, fearful. But it was a lie. Like the Cinderella story. Like the ball. Like everything.

  Amina turns to her son. “Your impatience nearly ruined everything. Showing up like that. I told you I’d deliver her to you, but you didn’t want to wait.”

  That night we’d hidden in the root cellar replays in my head. He knew I was close by. The betrayal of it is like a knife twisting in my side.

  “There was some truth to what I said,” King Manford says.

  Amina glances at him, and something like fear washes over her face.

  “Your magic has failed me in the past, Mother.” The king turns to her. “Your tinctures and tonics didn’t hold. She would have loved me had you done a better job of concocting your potions.”

  “I was sure your wit and charm would win her over without my assistance,” Amina says. “It was only meant to be a little push.”