A Cinderella Retelling

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  But I never spoke to her that night. Restless in my chambers, I went down to the garden early, hoping to find the peace I sought in that one quiet corner of the palace.

  The moonlight shone into the little pond, glinting off my goldfish’s shiny scales. He was swimming sluggishly, as if even he didn’t have the energy to endure this night with grace. Glancing up at my pear tree, I frowned, noting in the moonlight that the tips of its leaves were yellowing.

  It didn’t make any sense. The tree hadn’t been yellow for years, not since I’d first planted the branch, which had grown up yellow before permanently turning green. Once it had taken root, regardless of the weather, the leaves had always been full and verdant, the only notice of seasons in whether or not they were also weighed down by wonderfully green, succulent pears.

  I gently ran a finger over a leaf which felt coarse and brittle to my touch. I frowned. The leaves had always been healthy and oddly soft. Something was wrong.

  I climbed into the tree and tucked myself away, wrongly thinking that my weak frame was strong enough to give it life. Princess Lyla came and called for me, I could hear her circling the garden looking for me, but I suddenly didn’t want to talk anymore. I held my breath until she left. I’d explain another time. She’d understand.

  I stayed by myself in the garden, hidden in the boughs of my wilting pear tree, watching my fish take too much time to drift across the small pond. My heart felt empty, my mind couldn’t think. I simply had no idea what to do with myself anymore.

  And then I felt a warm glow and there she was beside me, her warm touch an instant comfort to my sorry, broken state.

  “Grandmère,” I whispered.

  “Hush, Ella,” she said, cradling me against her. “It will be all right.”

  I shook my head against her embrace. “How can it ever be?” I asked. I shook my head again. “Everything is different, even my husband. I can never, will never be able to look at him the same way ever again.”

  “Good,” Marie said.

  “Why is that good?” I demanded to know, momentarily upset enough to pull away from her. “Everything is ruined!”

  “You never really saw him,” Marie explained gently. “You romanticized him, you idealized him, I suppose the magic dresses didn’t help either,” she admitted with a shrug. “You didn’t see him, and perhaps for that reason, he never really saw you.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, trying to stop up the bottomless well of tears flowing from my eyes.

  Marie stroked my hair. “I want you to remember that the magic may have given you dresses, footmen, and a carriage, but you made yourself a queen. And with kindness, with humility, with an eye that seeks out the good in others, you will be a great queen.”

  I was used to Marie’s non sequiturs, but there was something else going on here, something deeper running beneath the words she was actually saying out loud.

  “What is it, Grandmère?” I asked warily. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Marie didn’t answer right away. She simply continued to stroke my hair, study my face, memorize it, it seemed.

  When she finally spoke, I wish she hadn’t. “I’m going away for a while, away from this kingdom,” she clarified. “Magicals are being driven out and magic is receding deep underground. We need to find somewhere more welcoming.”

  I was shaking my head even before the words could tumble out of my mouth. “No, no,” I pleaded. “You can’t leave me here. You can’t leave me alone.”

  “You’re not alone, Ella, dear,” Marie said, putting a finger under my chin to keep my head still. “You have friends, people who care about you.” With that she fell silent a moment seeing something, sensing something I could not. “I cannot stay here,” she said softly.

  “Take me with you, then,” I begged, nearly sobbing. “Please, just don’t leave me!”

  As much as I didn’t really want to leave the palace, I would have gone with Marie. Because running away seemed like a viable option over facing down the truth I was sensing I wouldn’t avoid for long.

  And just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse, just when I thought I had no tears left to cry, both thoughts were simultaneously upended.

  Marie tried to brush away my tears. “Things may be hard now, but remember you’ve been given a tremendous gift.”

  I didn’t let her finish. “You can take it back; I don’t want it.”

  “Ella, dear, you can’t return Heaven’s gift, not when there’s still so much you can do with it,” Marie said. “Whatever has been your whole life, I never doubted you or how strong you really are.” Pride tinged her face and voice. “Think of the bit of good you’ve done in your position until now, think of how much more you could do.”

  I didn’t want to hear what she was saying. Didn’t want my rational mind to know and make sense of the parting words of comfort I was refusing. I embraced her fiercely, hoping I could hold her back with strength of will alone.

  For a short, wonderful time, Marie hugged me back, pulling me close to her before she released me and faded away before I could stop her, the warm smile on her face seeming to linger even after she’d disappeared.

  I never made it to bed that night. I stayed in the garden until dawn, perched on a wilting branch in a trance-like state, my mind too shocked, too broken to work at all. It was there that Sir Percival found me the next morning, while ostensibly out for an early morning walk.

  “Your Majesty,” he called up to me.

  I gave him a distant smile.

  “What brings you out here so early?” he asked.

  “Thinking.” I stretched the truth.

  Sir Percival smiled in approval of my use of time. He had no idea of how my life had been drowned then wrung out to dry in the few hours since I left his office yesterday evening.

  “Thinking about what?” he inquired, inclining his head toward me. The whole scene was really quite ridiculous.

  “Life,” I answered vaguely. “Laurendale. Responsibility.”

  If I stretched the truth any further, would I hear it break?

  “Very wise,” Sir Percival agreed, his eyes taking on the distant color of reminiscence. “When His Majesty, who was rather annoyed with his father and me, suggested we invite everyone to the masquerade, no one actually thought anything would come of it.” He smiled up at me. “But I hope we can agree it was the beginning of quite a wonderful story.”

  I made a choking sound he somehow took as assent. What was it with palace people and their stories? Couldn’t he see I didn’t want any more of his honesty?

  “We really needed something at the time,” he blithely continued, unware of how uncomfortable his words made me. “The prince was in a dark place coming off the battlefield. He was protecting the kingdom, but it does something to a man’s soul, all that bloodshed. Then Her Majesty came along, and the people had something to sing about other than wars and rivers of blood. Love makes for much nicer lyrics, doesn’t it?” he questioned, without really asking at all.

  Sir Percival, dull as he was, could make anything dramatic. What was he doing here as advisor if he could be spinning tales for eager villagers across the realm? He’d also struck something in me by suggesting that I had stepped forward to save the prince, that my purity and innocence should have been enough to diffuse the blackness fighting for his soul. Why was this my responsibility? How could I help someone who didn’t even know he needed help? And what about the toll something like that could take on me?

  Sir Percival astutely caught on to the change in my expression. He made a show of checking the time on his pocket watch before bowing low and turning toward the palace. “I interrupted the queen’s thoughts and made matters worse by blathering on and on. Forgive me, Your Majesty. I hope you’ll visit again soon with further ideas for Laurendale.”

  He scuttled away, and I stared after him for a time. Then I roused myself and returned to my rooms, sure Javotte would be in hysterics if she noticed I hadn’t return
ed last night. I slipped in and slid under the covers quietly as I could. At some point, I fell asleep and didn’t care that I only woke up early afternoon.

  I changed after that, lost my faith in magic and the faery tales my mother had spun for me. I became disconsolate, and someone, noticing my mood, decided it would be best to get me away from the palace for a while, somewhere with a friend who could uplift me. So it was early that fall, mere months after being crowned and around our fourth wedding anniversary, the king and I set sail for Calladium.

  We’d visited Lyla about a handful of times in the past few years and each time the trips had been pleasant and enjoyable. There was a closeness between Alexander and Lyla, even as they teased each other like the siblings they never had, so Lyla’s palace soon had a feeling of a second home. Additionally, the men got along very well, and I knew how much my husband looked forward to hunting with hers.

  “It’s difficult to pin down,” he paused, searching for words as he tried to explain it to me, “the way he moves, the way he senses things that can’t be touched or seen. A truly marvelous huntsman,” he concluded, shaking his head in wonder.

  To me, Calladium had a hushed peacefulness about it this time of year, possibly because their winters started earlier, and lasted longer, then ours. One of the first times I was there, the princess showed me the legendary room where her mother had sat, looking out a black ebony window frame as her red blood dripped onto the very white snow inspiring her to pray for a baby girl of such colors. It was actually rather simple, rather unremarkable compared to almost everything else there was to see. Lyla had laughed when she’d seen that understanding on my face, knowing full well what a faery tale telling could do to even the smallest detail of reality.

  I didn’t say anything to Lyla about my current state when I saw her, but she was a good enough friend to know that something wasn’t right. Still, she didn’t press, biding her time until I would be ready to talk.

  “Little Snow White!” the king greeted his cousin as we stepped out of our carriage.

  “Ella, I’m so glad you came,” Princess Lyla ran to me, ignoring him.

  “Where’s the man of the house?” Alexander wanted to know.

  Lyla waved across the courtyard to the stables where Prince Daimyon was talking to the stable master. The king went off after him and caught his attention with a hearty “Halloo!”

  Daimyon waved back with a warm smile, then shook the stable master’s hand before turning to welcome his guest.

  “He really is a good man,” Lyla said beside me, watching her husband with me. “Compassionate, caring, I should know; he spared my life, then saved it. But at times it feels he reserves those things for those on the outside.”

  “Perhaps he’s still adjusting to his position at court?” I suggested.

  Lyla let out a quick, derisive laugh. “How many years does one man need to adjust?” she questioned.

  I shrugged in response. I still struggled at times.

  The princess shook her head and tried to dispel her thoughts with it. “Come see who’s inside,” she said, pulling me along.

  Interestingly, Kiara was there, and though it took me a day to realize it, she was wearing her hair differently, in a way that hugged one side of her face. It wouldn’t have been odd, except for a few things.

  For one, it didn’t seem she could see very well like that.

  For two, if possible, it was less flattering than her other hairstyles.

  For three, Kiara was there without her husband.

  For four, later that day, when Kiara, Lyla, and I were enjoying the cool fall afternoon outdoors, the wind lifted Kiara’s hair away from her face long enough for me to see what she was hiding underneath. An ugly bruise, already turning green, under her eye and covering much of her high cheekbone. She tried to block it quickly, and I didn’t say anything because it didn’t seem she wanted to talk about it. Still, it was a rather curious thing.

  The day after we arrived, the men decided to spend their hours hunting, which I knew Alexander would be ecstatic about. It was a clear, crisp day, warm enough to be out, but not enough to stay out for long. So the women chose to stay home. We ended up in one of the drawing rooms on the main floor of the palace. It was fitted with a small terrace that Lyla liked to take tea on during the warmer months as it opened into her gardens. Kiara took up a seat at the harp and Lyla and I had chairs pulled up close. Sitting down, I almost squashed a small handheld mirror that had been left on the seat. I jumped up, and noticing what it was, picked it up and handed it to Lyla.

  “That one’s not mine,” she said with a smile.

  I looked at her quizzically.

  “It’s Kiara’s,” she explained.

  I offered Kiara her mirror and she took it from me with a sad smile.

  “Is this—can this—is your mirror like Lyla’s?” I asked.

  Kiara shook her head. “Not entirely. In mine you see whatever is most beloved to you.”

  “May I try?” I asked, though unsure if, with all that had happened, what I would see. My maps? My tree? My charming prince? Who was most beloved to me after him? Lyla? Javotte? Marie?

  Kiara placed the mirror in my hand and it wasn’t long before the silver began to warble, twisting and turning until it showed Alexander exulting in the thrill of the hunt, racing his horse past thick forest trees, his loyal captain not two strides behind. I smiled and stroked the mirror’s surface. There was something so young, so free about him, the way I’d always imagined, always wanted him to be. Before I remembered the truth from that day with the slipper. Before the wine lacked the flavor of cherries. Before Marie was forced away.

  I was about to hand the mirror back to Kiara, the thank you already on my lips, when I pulled the mirror back for one more look. The image was still there. I peered closer. Over his hunting clothes, Alexander was wearing a fine black cloak embroidered with blue stitching I’d never seen before. The blue against the black was rather startling, rather distinctive.

  “What is it?” Kiara asked.

  “Just another peek,” I replied.

  She grinned in understanding and took the mirror as the image dissolved back into silver. She glanced at it once, as if debating looking in herself, before hurriedly tucking it away.

  The next two days were rather nice, nice enough to drag me out of my darkened mood enough to enjoy the time I had with my friends. It also helped that we didn’t see much of the men, who were either busy with sports or other diplomatic business.

  One afternoon, we were taking tea in the drawing room, when a messenger was presented to us. The man was tall and thin, with a heavy accent and dusty clothes that spoke of hard riding.

  Once in, the man immediately rushed forward and bowed before Princess Kiara.

  “Forgive my appearance, Highness, but I’ve strict orders not to stop until I give this to you,” he announced, presenting her with a beautiful, long stemmed red rose.

  Kiara smiled warmly and took the proffered rose. She dipped her face to it and inhaled deeply. When she lifted her head again, the light sparkled off the tears in her eyes.

  “Rise, Kellan,” she said kindly. “We must hurry to pack my things, there isn’t a moment to lose.”

  The rider scampered out of the room to relay instructions for her belongings. Still clutching the rose, Kiara turned to us with a glittering smile.

  She hugged Lyla first, tightly. “Thank you so much,” she whispered in her ear. “Thank you for everything, always.”

  “I hope we’ll see each other again soon,” Lyla replied. “Under better circumstances,” she added under her breath.

  Kiara hugged me, too. “It’ll be all right,” she told me, though I didn’t know then if she was talking to me or herself. I suppose it didn’t much matter. Encouraging words are always welcome.

  Kiara swept out of the room, the added glow in her heart igniting her inner beauty so her face took on a heavenly sheen. It was only after I was sure her footsteps had completely rec
eded that I turned to Lyla with a confused look on my face.

  “Why—” I began to ask, lifting my hand to the part of my face that Kiara was trying to cover on hers.

  Lyla pursed her lips then answered carefully, “There are days he still struggles to be rid of the beast.”

  I nodded in understanding, an understanding I would become too familiar with. Except I don’t think my husband ever struggled at all.

  For a moment, I saw us in the room as if I was a butterfly flying through on a wrong turn to the garden. Kiara, myself, and Lyla, who had created a safe haven for us in her incomplete happiness. Regardless of how bitter she was, how jealous, how daring, how unrelenting, I had never, nor would ever, have a friend like her. It was better than being cousins of a sort, because friends are a chosen loyalty. I decided then that I would not leave until I had done something good for her, if only to show her how much I valued all that she’d done for me. I just had to figure out what would be good enough.

  Then my mind took a sharp turn and I remembered that image of my husband in the mirror. I thought of Kiara and her patience for a man who was still fighting to regain his humanity. Then I thought of the story I’d been made into and the rancidness in my wine that the king never seemed to taste.

  Tonight, I would have that talk with Lyla.

  I tiptoed into her room well after dark. The men were still downstairs amiably trading jokes and stories before the fire, so it was only a matter of time before we excused ourselves to go to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. Not yet.

  “Ella!” Lyla warmly welcomed me when I knocked. She was already in her nightclothes, wrapped in a dressing gown, her finger holding the place of the book in her hand. “What brings you here so late?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I stuttered, then decided to plunge right in. “We never spoke when you last visited.”

  “Ella, first sit,” Lyla insisted. She didn’t check the page as she set aside her book and filled a cup of water for me. It was only when some dripped onto my clothes that I realized my hands were shaking. The princess studied me with her sharp eyes. “You are not yourself,” she said simply.