A Cinderella Retelling

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  The celebration after the ceremony was open to all levels of diplomats and nobility. To accommodate the expected crowd, the event was held on the back lawns of the palace where there was enough room for every level of landed gentry, and then some.

  It was only then, perched on a raised dais where we sat for hours accepting well wishes from our friends and allies, that I remembered that Madame and her daughters were nobility enough to be there. I doubt Madame ever came close to liking me, but that didn’t mean she would miss such an important event.

  Restless from sitting for so long, I excused myself from the dais, hoping to hide away in my garden, where I could sit under, rather than in, my pear tree. I really only needed a few minutes of quiet to collect myself, a few minutes for the enormity of the day to sink in. Never once, in all my years of travel and dreaming in my corner, did I ever think that I would actually be a queen. Especially not at the tender age of twenty.

  As was to be expected, I was waylaid enroute by the very people I didn’t want to see. Maybelle and Calliope suddenly appeared, curtsying low, their faces flushed and giddy from the celebrations. They each wore a wedding band on their fingers, so it seemed they had settled for their young lords after all.

  I stared at them dipped before me before I realized that, as queen, they were waiting for me to give them permission to rise. There were so many new things I’d now have to get used to. Pulling deep from the well of kindness my mother had begun to dig in me, I put on a patient smile before bidding them to rise.

  “We wanted to wish Her Majesty congratulations on this auspicious day.” The words tumbled out from Calliope.

  “And Her Majesty looks so wonderful, too,” Maybelle added. “The color of your gown illuminates your eyes in the most beautiful way.”

  I listened, but did not find any trace of the malice that used to accompany her description of my eyes. Either she had concluded that I really wasn’t the spawn of faeries, or common sense bid her restraint before her queen. I actually believed that she was sincere in what she said.

  “Thank you,” I told them both with a warm smile. “It’s so wonderful that you came. Is Madame here? My father?”

  The two exchanged a significant look. Maybelle started fiddling with her dress, so it was left to Calliope to be the brave one. “Your father…no longer walks this world,” Calliope delicately said, in a way that was also a careful question of how I could not know. “He passed a little while after you moved to the palace, and we buried him next to your mother, per his wishes. Iris, well, he let the bird free just days after you moved out.”

  I kept my face a careful mask as I digested her words. My father dead these past three years and no one had deemed fit to tell me? And what had happened to Iris? Why not let me care for him if Father would not? Like my ignorance of the people’s CinderElla, surely the prince had seen to it that this information was kept from me. Why? Was he afraid of how I’d react, knowing about my father’s indifference which had allowed Madame’s mistreatment of me? What was the prince afraid of? What kind of bubble of deluded happiness was he trying to shelter me in?

  “Of course,” I finally replied smoothly. “I just wish so much that he could be here.”

  My stepsisters nodded, accepting my explanation because it was mine. Thank Heaven I was then saved by Princess Lyla’s timely arrival. The princess, dressed in a ruby red dress as daring as always, sauntered over and took me by the arm, leading me away from my stepsisters without a backward glance.

  “Don’t tell me those are—” she began.

  “They absolutely are,” I confirmed.

  Princess Lyla gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes and giggled in a way that made me question if she’d had too much to drink. My suspicion was proven correct as in the short time it took her to walk me from one waiter to another, she downed two glasses of champagne, as if intent on sampling from every tray to ensure the quality was all the same.

  As we circled the party, the drink loosened Princess Lyla’s tongue and I received her usual rundown on everyone there, but with spicier commentary.

  “See those two,” she pointed at a young, stiff, but flawless looking boy sitting with a kind looking man. “That’s Geppetto and his son, Pinocchio.”

  I studied them from where we stood. “They don’t look related,” I observed.

  “They’re not really,” the princess laughed, “Pinocchio wasn’t a real child either till a short while ago.” She scrunched her nose at him. “He has a nasty habit of stomping on any bug he finds. Especially crickets.”

  Before I could respond, she was already sweeping me off to the next waiter, and the next guest.

  It wasn’t unusual for Princess Lyla to take control of my attentions at balls and other official occasions. I didn’t mind it either, because I usually felt safe enough with her to outshine me in looks, wit, and brazenness. That day, as ever, there was a recklessness about her, a daring to all present to openly question her behavior. Yet this was the first time I felt it didn’t come from passion or rage, but sadness. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to ask her about it without fearing I’d open the floodgates.

  “See him?” she soon asked, pointing across the fields to an attractive prince in green who was chasing after a boy and girl close enough in age to be twins.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?” she pressed.

  “He is,” I agreed.

  The princess took a sip of her drink, then squinted her eyes in disgust. “He’s really nice, too,” she told me. “A good person, with a good heart. Unfortunately, he has the pleasure of being married to Princess Rampion.”

  “Princess Rampion?” I queried. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”

  “You probably haven’t,” Princess Lyla replied. “After being cooped up in a tower most of her life, she can’t stay in one place for too long. She’s always traveling, leaving her handsome prince to run after their kids. Poor sod’s too enamored with her to say anything, though you can’t really blame him. She is beautiful,” Princess Lyla conceded. She finished her drink and left the empty glass on a nearby table. “Want to see?”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  The magic mirror materialized in Lyla’s hand. “Mirror, Mirror, answer me this one, whose hair shines beautiful as the sun?”

  The silver face of the mirror melted and swirled, eventually reforming to show the image of a very beautiful woman. Her thick blond hair was short and unruly, which oddly accentuated her beauty. Even short, her hair glimmered in the light.

  I studied the image. “Isn’t she supposed to have long hair?”

  Princess Lyla put the mirror away. “She hasn’t let it grow out since it was all cut off,” she explained.

  A somewhat lovely woman with an adorable little boy in tow appeared before us, the silver circlet in her hair marking her as a queen. Unlike the princesses whose beauty paid homage to celestial beings, her beauty was far earthier. It made her seem less polished, which was its own kind of pretty. Her hair hung loosely behind her back, glittering like gold whenever it caught the sun.

  She reached out her hand to take mine. “My most sincere congratulations, Queen Ella,” she said in a warm, honeyed voice.

  “Thank you,” I managed to reply.

  “We really haven’t spent much time together,” she continued in her sweet way. “We should take care to change that.”

  “I would like that,” I replied honestly.

  “As would I,” the queen replied, then she turned away abruptly, her little son wobbling unsteadily to keep up with her.

  I had been smiling after her, until I turned to see Princess Lyla glaring daggers at her back.

  “What?”

  “Do not trust that one,” she hissed.

  “Why not? She seems nice.”

  Lyla shook her head. “She’s always telling stories and not one of them is true.”

  “How would you know?”

  Lyla raised her eyebrows, questioning why I wo
uld challenge her on something she spoke as fact.

  I raised my eyebrows back. It did seem rather extreme for a person to be so evasive with the truth. “Who is she?” I asked, intending to later ask my prince about her.

  The princess’s mouth turned upward into something so unpleasant it couldn’t be called a smile. “That’s the thing,” she replied. “She doesn’t call herself by the name she grew up with, wherever that was.”

  “If you’d ask my stepfamily, then neither do I.”

  Lyla shrugged. “We know where you’re from. Anyway, we just call her ‘Mistress Miller’ behind her back and ‘Your Majesty’ to her face.”

  “Miller?”

  “She used to be the daughter of a miller. Became queen because she could spin straw into gold.” The princess narrowed her eyes. “Or so she says!”

  “King Rainn has a high regard for magic,” I countered, finally realizing who she was talking about, “he studies it diligently and has all kinds of schools for magicals. Isn’t that why magic is so strong in his kingdom? He would know if she spoke the truth.”

  Lyla shook her head, unconvinced. “No one knows how she pulled one over on the king,” she replied, “but look at her eyes, there’s no magic there. If anything, she keeps a thick wall between herself and everyone else. What does she have to hide?” Lyla shook her head. “She was unheard of before she married the king, and a magical unknown in Farthington…Something doesn’t add up.”

  I thought of how I was once nameless, how the first step in Madame’s dominance over me began with stripping away my identity by calling me something she wanted me to be.

  With a jolt I realized that the prince had a habit of never calling anyone by their name, though I’m sure he knew them well enough. He simply called someone over with a gesture or “you,” “guard,” “valet.” “Captain.” “My love.” The captain had a name once, before it was taken from him so he could be what he was expected to be. I thought of what Alaryx had told me about his brother in parting. Perhaps this had something to do with it.

  As for me, I’d been called Ella with love, Cinderwench with malice, and CinderElla without knowing. I thought of the pride that name brought me, of the way it connected me to my people, a sacred trust, a shared dream. I thought of how each name had shaped me, had spoken to who I was or was expected to be.

  “Why wouldn’t she want anyone to know about her?” I wondered out loud.

  The princess’s smile turned triumphant. “Exactly!” She took another drink from a passing tray. “So, how are you enjoying your big day?” she asked offhandedly, not really expecting an answer.

  “I still can’t believe it’s real,” I told her anyway.

  My gaze moved to my prince—my king—sitting proud and regal on the dais. Even from this distance, his nearness nearly overwhelmed me. I let my gaze linger on him.

  Princess Lyla followed my line of sight and watched her cousin with me for a while. Finally, she dropped some of her bluster and commented, “Married almost four years and still in love with him as from the start.”

  I blushed despite myself. “Yes,” I confirmed simply.

  The princess shifted her gaze to study me. “You’re really lucky, you know that?”

  “Pardon?” I asked dumbly.

  What was she talking about? I knew she didn’t envy my crown, she would get hers in time, and I had nothing by way of looks or personality to rival hers. Considering that we’d all been through some thing or other until we’d found our princes, it didn’t seem that my story would make me luckier than any other. True, Madame had never tried to kill me physically, but she had tried to reduce me to a level that could be worse than death because she had stripped away every last bit of my dignity until I was hardly even a no one. That was why I took nothing at the palace for granted, why I appreciated everyone and everything, why I rarely disagreed with the prince. Who was I to reject the privilege he’d given me? And weren’t we all lucky, living as we were in our happily ever afters?

  “Rampion and her hair, Alaina and her sleep, the list goes on,” Princess Lyla elaborated. “Do you know I haven’t eaten an apple in over five years, that I have a fear of wearing combs in my hair?” Her black eyes blazed like burning coals. “Our curses were broken, but the magic left deep scars. Yet we are not allowed to be anything but happy in our perceived faerytale endings.”

  I struggled to say something, anything to sweeten the bitterness, but I had no words of comfort to give. I was fairly new to this myself, but my relationship with the prince didn’t sound like what she was describing. Wasn’t she happy with her handsome Prince Daimyon? They certainly looked like a wonderful couple, and he was always cordial and genial whenever I saw him.

  “It isn’t like that for you,” she continued, tugging up the layers of my dress to reveal the new pair of Castarrean glass slippers made special for this day. “And then there’s your Prince Charming,” she concluded, and she actually sounded jealous.

  She was jealous, I suddenly realized. Not just of me, but of all those she mocked in our ever afters. Her life didn’t appear that different from any of ours, that any one of us had something that she didn’t. I couldn’t tell if her jealousy was part of who she was or if there was something else about “ever after” that I was still unaware of.

  Neither of us knew then what I know now, but it doesn’t really matter. That my ever after was soon to be shattered didn’t take away from the dark green envy snaking like poisonous vines over Lyla’s heart.

  “Didn’t Prince Daimyon awaken you with true love’s kiss?” I asked her incredulously.

  The princess turned her gaze on me, and it seemed then that the fire in her eyes had dimmed. “Did he?” she questioned. “It’s what they say, but either way what good does that do me?”

  “What do you mean?” I countered.

  “If we already know this is true love,” she explained, “then where’s the mystery? Where’s the courtship? Where’s the passion of pursuit?”

  I stared at her dumbly. What was she saying?

  “Why try at all, if we already know we’re supposed to be together?” she sounded out slowly. “How strong can anything not cared for, not forged, really be?”

  And then I understood. Princess Lyla had found her true love, but she was not happy. Why should she be if the man took advantage of what they already knew? Why should she be if he didn’t notice her for who she was, as anyone but this physical manifestation of his destined true love? Once they were bound together, why check again to make sure she was still there at all? In many ways, I knew exactly how she felt. I knew what it was to be overlooked, ignored, forgotten, but that had been before. It never happened here at the palace. Did it?

  I put a sympathetic arm around her, and she leaned into me for a short minute.

  “Prince Daimyon is a fool,” I whispered to her.

  “I know it,” she whispered back, “but that doesn’t change anything. Or how I feel about him.”

  Very quickly, she pulled herself together, and the blaze of fire and defiance returned to her black eyes. We continued to meander around the celebration, but I was soon slipping away from her, needing more than ever to seek a few minutes of quiet to sort out my tangle of thoughts.

  I had been so safely enveloped in my ever after that I had never once thought about what came next. But isn’t that what happily ever after is about? That there’s no need to worry about what happens next? I brooded under my pear tree a while, somber but not down, thoughtfully plying the pond water to play with my goldfish. I wished so much that Marie was there.

  And then there she was, hovering before me like she’d been there all along.

  “Grandmère!” I greeted her excitedly.

  “Ella, dear, you look lovely,” she said, her eyes shining with the pride of a real grandmother. And why not, hadn’t she been responsible for raising me up to where I was today?

  “Please, sit with me, Grandmère,” I begged. “It’s so good to see you again.”
>
  Marie’s eyes darted around the garden nervously. Surely, she didn’t think the king was lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting for her feet to touch the ground so he could pounce? The very notion was absurd, from all angles.

  “I cannot stay,” Marie said. “I only wanted to see how you were.”

  I raised my hand to the gold crown that adorned my head. It was one of my favorites from the new ones, the gold a curlicue of vines sprouting small purple diamond flowers all the way around.

  “Do you like it?” I asked shyly.

  “I love it,” Marie assured me with a warm smile.

  “Grandmère,” I asked slowly, “did you know the people call me CinderElla?”

  Marie’s eyes danced as if set in motion by the magic sparks in her wand. “It’s a lovely name, isn’t it?” She took my hand in hers and a magical warmth spread from her body throughout mine. “I hope it gives you strength,” she continued too seriously, “for what lies ahead.”

  Before I could respond or ask about her odd mood, something caught her attention and her head shot up. She shimmered, as if ready to disappear. Seconds later, the captain came into view.

  He stopped short when he saw her. “Good afternoon, Grandmère,” he said, his expression guarded, but his voice respectful and sincere.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Captain,” Marie replied, glancing from him to me, then back again.

  “The king is asking after his queen,” the captain explained.

  Marie nodded, and I stood to follow after him, not quite ready to let her go just yet. If my husband’s fear of magic was true, then how long would it be before I saw her again?

  “Take care of yourself, Ella,” Marie told me. “Take care to be yourself,” she added. Then with a look at the captain, “And you, keep her safe.”

  The captain nodded soberly. “Always,” he promised.

  With one last look, she was gone, and there was nothing left for me to do but follow the captain back to my life.