Cinders: Necessary Evil (Magic Mirrors Saga Book 1)

by Sky Sommers

  When I finish cleaning the kitchen and preparing the restaurant, I notice Grizelda already waiting at the door.

  She never left? Did the twins leave or not?

  Peter has set up the lights and is nowhere to be seen. I peek outside and say, ‘We’re not open for business yet.’

  ‘I know. Got nowhere else to go. I’ll wait, don’t you worry, dear,’ she cackles.

  Back inside I yell, ‘Ella!’

  Where is that girl? Last I knew she was upstairs. Is she shirking her duties, hiding behind babysitting Henry?

  If Peter is not back in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll have to start welcoming and seating the guests myself.

  Who will serve dinner?

  If I serve, who will look after the stove, making sure it doesn’t burn?

  Greta.

  I’ll leave Greta in charge of the kitchen and hope nothing burns.

  I really need to train her up…

  I can’t use Greta. The twins have gone to Mellie’s.

  Ok, I will seat everyone and then go get stuff.

  Ella and Peter better be downstairs in ten minutes.

  He promised to help me!

  To the hell with promises!

  I survey the dining room.

  Floors – dusted and wet-wiped.

  Tables – arranged.

  Linen – spread.

  Candles – to be lit when seating people.

  Cutlery – out.

  Goblets – on the tables.

  Plates – washed and ready by the pot.

  Napkins!

  Where are the napkins?

  Do we have 20 washed and dried and ironed?

  I practically run to the pantry, knocking Henry over by the kitchen door.

  He starts bawling his head off.

  ‘Hans! Greta!’ I yell.

  ‘Greta!’ I roar and remember that I told her to go to their Godmother’s. At least I hope they went and didn’t dally in the garden.

  Henry cries even harder.

  ‘Ella! Do I have to do everything myself?’

  Peter is not back.

  Ella is nowhere to be seen.

  The toddler clings to my skirts and legs for dear life, still bawling his heart out.

  The bell up front jingles.

  People want to get in.

  Henry clings to me harder.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t be worried about Hans and Greta and the salad and Ella and Peter all at the same time!

  I can’t…

  ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!’ I yell at the toddler, who is still clinging to my feet. He starts crying harder.

  ‘Whatever it is – hunger, dirty trousers, whatever else, I can’t deal with you right now!’

  I squish my eyes shut and will it all away.

  If only Henry would stop crying so I could think what I need to do in what sequence!!!

  ‘Just let me be!’ I yell at the toddler who starts hiccoughing.

  We are both in hysterics and I know I am not helping.

  Tears of anger start running down my cheeks.

  A household of people and nobody there to help!

  The door bangs.

  ‘Well, finally, you lazy girl!’ I spit out with a scowl, wanting to slap her. ‘Where the hell have you been? Can’t you see I’m all alone!’

  I have to do the salad again, the guests are already at the door, I don’t know if Hans and Greta managed to avoid Grizelda who apparently never left, Peter is not back yet, I am sweaty and dirty and need to change and I am dead tired trying to keep it together and do things that need to be done and if someone doesn’t take this clinging baby away from me I swear I will slap him silly!!!

  As I watch my hand rise as of its own accord, Ella picks Henry up and carries him off to the tower, despite his loud protests.

  The silence settles.

  I crumple down, next to the stove, the guilt weighing me down as the anger dissipates.

  What just happened?

  I almost slapped my own child.

  My only child.

  Oh, gods…

  What’s wrong with me?

  My hands start shaking.

  I shouldn’t even yell at him.

  Ever.

  Not him.

  And I had really really really wanted to slap Ella when she waltzed in.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I take a few deep breaths.

  Just keep breathing.

  Keep breathing.

  Breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  Let go.

  When my mind clears, I think of Henry and start the easiest mantra I remember.

  I’m sorry.

  Please forgive me.

  I love you.

  Thank you.

  I say these four things over and over and over again.

  The healing practice of ho’oponopono.

  If a doctor could heal the criminally insane in a prison with this technique across a few years, maybe, heart-to-heart, on some level it will reach my two-year old, even if he is upstairs with Ella.

  I picture saying to him, ‘Mama’s sorry, Henry. Forgive me. I love you.’

  In my mind’s eye I see my toddler waddling up to me and giving me a hug.

  ‘Thank you.’

  As my hands stop shaking, I take stock of where I am.

  I never get angry.

  Ever.

  It’s just not what I do.

  Not who I am.

  Sure, Ella can rile anyone up, but seriously.

  Not enough for me to want to slap her silly.

  That was someone else.

  Not me.

  Did I actually slap her?

  I don’t remember.

  I don’t think I did.

  But I really really really wanted to.

  And that’s also unlike me.

  In London, I used to understand and sympathise with even the most complicated of customers. I gave them soup when uncle Tom wasn’t looking no matter how they smelled or acted.

  I never got angry.

  Never ever EVER manhandled or even yelled at anyone.

  But that person back there… that wasn’t me.

  I felt like a stranger in my body who did things and the real me has no say in it.

  Is my tired brain playing tricks on me again?

  If I believed in magic, I could entertain the notion of someone having cursed me with something that now requires anger management.

  Being as it may…

  I wipe my tears and use the stove for support to get up, noticing that the sleeve of my tunic is sooty.

  14. Wipe stove

  Wash and change first.

  Cold water will calm me down.

  Let people in and seat them.

  Offer wine and bread as a starter.

  Then chop up cucumbers and tomatoes and add salt and pepper. It’ll be a simple salad tonight, folks.

  Then serve dinner.

  We run a restaurant.

  It’s our livelihood to serve paying customers dinner five times a week.

  Seeing a frazzled cook is not the kind of memorable experience I want my customers to have.

  I just wish everybody pitched in, goddammit!

  Ella

  Still February 28th

  My life is over and it’s all her fault!

  If we had hired help, maybe THEY would be able to keep the kitchen tidy, because SHE can’t be asked!

  I was serving a table next to where Betty’s family was sitting and suddenly I saw Betty snickering into her fan, pointing at me. When everyone sta
rted smiling at me, I thought maybe my dress had a smudge or something. So I made a point of passing by our hallway mirror to check. I was horrified to discover that half my face was covered in ash! The underside of my sleeve was also sooty. I must have brushed my sleeve against the stove and gotten my face dirty when I adjusted my hair…just before I scooped up the plates from the stove to take to the guests.

  I heard Betty cat-calling me ‘Cinders’ as I headed for the bathroom to wipe it all off.

  The worst part is, I can hear her now.

  Grace.

  I was crying my eyes out, begging Father to let me change schools. Explaining that those girls don’t like me and that the awful nickname was going to stick and that by tomorrow evening I will be a filthy servant-girl in Betty’s rendition.

  Stepmother just stared at me and told me that changing schools was not an option and that the situation was ‘Purely self-inflicted’!?!!

  It’s MY fault?

  MY FAULT?!?

  I thought, ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE CLEANED YOUR FILTHY KITCHEN AND THEN NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED!’

  I was so mad, everything went red for a moment and when that red fog dissipated, I heard her saying:

  Welcome to life! There are always going to be people who like you, don’t like you and who are indifferent. You just encountered some of the second kind and will have to learn how to deal with them.

  I remember thinking ‘Learn how to deal with them?!? I’ve been taunted by them for forever!!!!’ Then I noticed that her lips weren’t moving while I was hearing her lecture.

  Father offered to speak to Betty’s parents. Great! How would that make me look? If Betty’s parents rain down on her, sure she’ll stop taunting me so much. As if! It would only make things worse. Which I told both of them. As misguided an idea as that was, at least Father was willing to stick up for me.

  Grace said I HAVE to help out because SHE doesn’t want to do EVERYTHING about the house and the restaurant. She also gave me some spiel that ‘helping out’ shouldn’t feel humiliating, because it’s a kindness I am doing to her and to the customers. I don’t want to do a single kind thing to her. She hasn’t done any favours for me. Ever.

  Grace thought serving people is not humiliating, but doing them a kindness. Me? Be kind to Betty when she’s mean to me? Doing favours is voluntary as far as I know! I told her that’s not going to happen. Next, stepmother thought that in London, somewhere far far away me showing our guests to their seats is called being a hostess or a leader or something. Right. Maybe elsewhere, but not here. London…that’s a peculiar name for a town. It’s definitely not in our kingdom. Father and Grace ARE from elsewhere, I keep forgetting. Or did she think about taking our landau and going somewhere far far away? I don’t know, I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was angry I was forced to hear Grace in my head now, too.

  Hans tattled on me, saying I tell everyone at school that I do all the chores around the house. Well, I do, but I don’t tell everyone! I might have mentioned it to Tasha about a year ago and asked if this was what being part of the family was all about and she told me no, that aristos have servants for those mundane tasks. Next thing I knew, Tasha was in Betty’s posse and Betty was calling me all sorts of names.

  Grace said I should take responsibility for my actions - MY actions, ha! And then she suggested I ignore Betty and her posse.

  So far, I haven’t insulted anyone even if they were being awful to me, believing what they teach us - that how a person treats you is their karma and how you react is yours. I have always believed people react in a way that shows their personality. I didn’t respond to taunts because I’d like to believe that I am kind and understanding. I haven’t fought back, believing violence, even bad words, will only beget violence.

  But where has kind and understanding and doing nothing gotten me?

  Nowhere.

  Which I told them.

  Father imparted a good idea. He suggested I use this expression as a retort to the girls who bully me: ‘stupid is as stupid does’. Apparently, it means that an intelligent person doing stupid things - like bullying someone - is still stupid. That you are what you do. By that logic, Grace IS evil. Anyway. The expression sounds like an insult not everybody will understand.

  Maybe this IS the way to fight back?

  I also picked up something interesting from Grace’s thoughts - that the best defence is an offence. Apart from that tiny modicum of useful information, I am not liking what she’s thinking of me. I’ll try to steer clear of her as much as I possibly can, although it will be more difficult than with Betty. We do live under the same roof. Still, difficult is not impossible.

  Right. Go on the offensive.

  Fight back.

  Chapter 4. Cinders

  Grace

  At midnight, Ella is sitting in the cleanest nook of the kitchen, her eyes and nose red and Peter consoling her instead of helping me.

  Of course I forgot to wipe the soot off the stove in the rush to get everything ready.

  By myself.

  Of course Ella got her clothes and hands and face dirty when accidentally brushing against the stove when getting the plates.

  Of course some of her schoolmates were dining with us tonight.

  Who immediately dubbed her ‘Cinders’ for it.

  Of course she blames me.

  If she had helped me set up and not hidden in her room pretending to babysit Henry, maybe then I would have had time to clean the stove and none of this would have happened.

  Ella rolls her eyes and huffs and I feel that somehow that was meant for me. ‘That name, it’s gonna stiiick,’ Ella hiccoughs and looks at Peter.

  ‘Why do you think so, darling? It was just one family and one schoolmate…’ Peter tries to reassure her.

  ‘And a whole roomful of other people!’ Ella yowls. ‘And Betty’s the meanest of the mean guuuurrls,’ Ella sniffs and hiccoughs again. ‘I want to change schools, is that an option?’ she asks in a perfectly level voice, stealing glances at me. ‘I don’t mind if you send me away to a neighbouring town or kingdom.’

  Has she been pretending this whole time so she could get what she wants? To get away?

  We only have one school in our tiny kingdom, courtesy of an ancient Queen called Guinevere who apparently insisted on co-ed schooling, making sure the girls got educated together with the boys. Definitely easier to find husbands.

  ‘Not an option,’ I say and look at Peter.

  ‘Is there another particularly good reason why you want to change schools?’ I ask pointedly.

  Ella blushes.

  Peter looks alarmed, ‘Honey, is there something you need to tell us?’ he asks.

  Ella sniffs, ‘Well, there are a couple of girls at school who don’t like me.’

  Welcome to life! There are always going to be people who like you, don’t like you and who are indifferent. You just encountered the second kind and will have to learn how to deal with them.

  ‘So?’ I ask as I notice her cheeks getting flushed.

  ‘So, they call me names and make my life hell, that’s why I don’t want to go to that stupid school anymore!’ Ella shouts.

  ‘What names do they call you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, would you tell us, please? I need to know the facts if I’m going to speak to the parents of those girls,’ Peter offers valiantly.

  Ella bites her lips.

  She looks me straight in the eye. ‘Scullery maid, Ashen-puttel, whatever the heck that means, Twiggy and Dusty,’ Ella says, ‘But I don’t think it will help, going to talk to their parents. They are just as bad as the girls.’ She says and looks up at Peter.

  ‘It means ash-collector in Ger….a foreign language you don’t know and I don’t know if it helps, but Twiggy is actually someone famous…’ where I used to live, ‘…in another land.’

&n
bsp; Ella inclines her head like she’s listening for something.

  ‘Do you know why they call you these things?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s because they see me around the restaurant, waitressing and doing other humiliating chores that they don’t have to do,’ she looks affronted. ‘They get to have a normal childhood. They have maids!’

  ‘Honey, you’re almost eighteen, you are no child. And the reason why your classmates have ‘normal’ childhoods is because their mothers are wealthy and we are not.’

  Ella purses her lips. ‘Well, why aren’t we?’ she asks.

  ‘You know why. We are saving up for the younger kids to go to school. I can’t do everything around the house, which is why you and Hans and Greta help out. It’s not humiliating, it’s doing a kindness, helping me and the customers, actually…’ I say.

  ‘Maybe it’s not humiliating to YOU, but it is to me,’ Ella cuts me off. ‘There is nothing that can force me to do a kindness to Betty and her kind,’ she says.

  A bit of a drama queen, aren’t we?

  Ella grits her teeth.

  ‘You don’t sweep floors in their presence, though. So I don’t get why they call you Ashenputtel. You handle the seating and making them comfortable and on occasional evenings like tonight have the courtesy of bringing them their food,’ I say.

  Ella looks gleeful.

  Great, now I have to watch over her delivering plates to tables so she doesn’t spit into those that she gives her schoolmates.

  She definitely looks too happy. The same thoughts might have crossed her mind, too.

  ‘In…’ London, far far away, ‘erm…other places your job would be called being a hostess or a maître d’ or a manager,’ I try to appeal to her vanity and whatever leadership qualities she is harbouring.

  Ella perks up.

  ‘I still don’t understand, why Dusty and scullery maid?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe it’s because she keeps telling everyone at school how she does all the chores around the house,’ Hans offers, reaching for an apple in a basket near where Ella is sitting.

  She purposefully removes the basket out of his reach, ‘Tattler!’

  ‘Weepy!’

  ‘Stop it at once!’ I say. ‘Shouldn’t you be at Mellie’s, Hans?’

  He shrugs, ‘You have food. Mellie doesn’t. I’m not afraid of Grizelda.I have my axe.’