* * *
Her mother’s voice had risen, faint, querulous, from the main room. “Where is my dearest Ella?”
Her father’s retort was sharp. “She’s always getting underfoot. We have important guests coming today and I didn’t want her in the way.”
“In the way? But Ella is such a help to me –”
A heavy knocking came on the front door. “They’re here. Not another word about it.”
Footsteps crossed and Ella heard the squeak of the heavy front door pulled open. Her father said, “Welcome, welcome. Minister Muggenthaler. It is so good of you to come. And Prince Alexander. This is an unexpected honor.”
A clipped voice responded, “The Prince’s father has instructed me to involve him in more of the day to day activities of the court. He must understand all workings, from high to low, if he is to take over for his father someday.”
The prince was in their home?
Curiosity lit in Ella, and she carefully crept forward from her sideboard retreat. She eased herself to the door which separated the kitchen from the rest of the house and carefully pressed it open just a hair.
A tall, slender man dressed in a fine velvet jacket and neatly-fitting black legging was stepping forward alongside her father. They were moving toward an easel set up before the great fireplace. A beautiful crimson fabric shielded the painting beneath from view.
Ella had not yet seen it in its final grandeur yet. None of them had. It was a quirk of her mother’s that she wished to keep her finished works private until their unveiling. Ella had gone with her many times to the scene of this painting, so she knew what it would hold. The beautiful arching granite bridge in the private gardens of the king. The massive, towering castle stood behind. The autumn foliage glowed in shimmering gold, crimson, and orange. At its center, a pair of swans swam serenely in the pond.
Ella’s breath caught. At last she would get to see it truly brought to life with her mother’s stunning talents.
Her mother gave a rattling cough and went to rise from her chair. “I can –”
Her father shot her mother a look. “Stay put,” he ordered. “The doctor said that moving around would only make it worse.” He waved a hand toward the painting. “Besides, as your husband and master, this painting belongs to me.”
Ella leaned forward, her heart pounding. She wanted to see –
The Minister stepped left, perfectly blocking her view.
She let out a huff of frustration.
A young boy turned and stared directly at her.
He was perhaps ten years old, already tall and sturdy, with searing blue eyes and short blond hair. Where the Minister’s outfit was flowery and decorative, the Prince’s was more utilitarian and functional. A leather jacket showed signs of rough use and the black leggings were dusty from riding.
The corner of his mouth turned up. He spoke over his shoulder. “I’m hungry. Is there something to eat in the kitchen?”
Her mother’s voice came. “There’s a bowl of fresh apples on the table, if you wish.”
“That would be just right,” he agreed, and he walked straight toward the door.
Ella eeped in nervous terror and scuttled back beneath the sideboard. The door pressed open and there was a pause. Then the door closed again. A pair of steady feet walked directly over to where she huddled.
Alexander squatted down to her level and smiled. “Hello, there.”
Her throat closed up. “Father will be upset if I talk with you.”
His eyes sparkled. “Then we shan’t let Father know about it.”
Her mouth went round. The idea that she could keep something from her father both terrified and thrilled her. He was the dominant force that ruled both her and her mother’s lives. She found she could only nod.
He reached up to the table and took down a pair of apples. He handed her one, then bit into the one he held. “I’m Alexander,” he said between chews.
“Ella,” she replied, wide-eyed.
There was a cry of delight from the other room. The Minister’s voice said, “Stunning, absolutely stunning. I can see why your wife has such a stellar reputation. This is a treasure like no other. What were you asking for it, again?”
Her father hesitated. “Three hundred guldens?”
The Minister laughed out loud. “You could ask three thousand for a work of this quality! That’s what the King paid to Herr Klamenstein just last year for his painting of the path through the Black Forest.” An oily note added to his voice. “And it became worth ten times that much when Herr Klamenstein unexpectedly passed away soon after that. The painting became his last ever work.”
Her father’s voice echoed in awe. “Ten times as much.”
There was the sound of a bottle being uncorked. Then her father said, “Come, Minister, let us talk in my study, I’ve got some fine red wine to share, and we can negotiate the terms.”
Alexander dropped to sit cross-legged, his gaze on her. “So, tell me about your life here. What do you enjoy doing?”
She stared at her apple. “I … uh … I help Momma with her paintings.”
He took a bite. “Do you like to paint?”
She nodded nervously. “I try.”
He smiled. “That is like saying I try to fight with my sword. I learn every day, and that is a good thing. Do you learn every day?”
She was caught by his enthusiasm. “I do. And Momma is so patient with me. She shows me how the colors merge together. How shapes are made up of pieces. She says I have real talent!”
His teeth sparkled warmly in the light. “I’m sure you do, with a mother such as her. What do you like to paint?”
She leaned forward. “Oh, anything! The way a deer pauses in a meadow, listening for sounds. The way a crow’s wing glimmers in the sun. The way light hits against a brook in the winter.”
He took another bite. “You sound like you really see the world around you.”
“I try to,” she enthused. “Momma always says that. Pay attention to each breath. Listen for each note.”
He chuckled. “My sword-master says the same thing. To watch every foot-fall. Pay attention to every glimmer of light. Because –”
She burst out, “Every moment is precious!”
Her face flushed. She had just interrupted the Prince. Surely she would be –
He smiled tenderly at her and touched his apple to hers.
“Exactly.”
Time had slipped away from Ella. She’d never had a true friend before, not like Alexander. Not one who understood her very soul. Talking with him was as easy as singing a song on a summer’s walk.
He asked her about her hopes, her dreams, and she found herself telling him secret, desperate wishes that she hadn’t dared even admit to her mother. In return, he was full of stories of his travels, of tales of court, and always with an attentive eye. He saw beneath the surface. He understood the depths.
She was wholly enraptured by him.
At last the light faded and her eyelids became heavy. There was a creak from the other room as her father and the Minister finally emerged from his study.
The minister’s voice was hearty and thick. “Good, good. So I’ll see you both at the castle tomorrow.”
Her mother’s tone rose with hope. “Then the painting is sold?”
Her father’s slur responded. “Yesh, yesh, everything is arranged.”
Alexander winked at Ella and gave her a smile. “Maybe I will see you tomorrow, then.”
She lit up in excitement. “You’ll come here for my birthday?”
He smiled. “Your birthday is on midwinter?”
She eagerly nodded. “Momma always says that I’m born when the world gets bright again. When the darkness fades away.”
His gaze held hers. “It certainly does, Ella. Maybe we can have a birthday party at the castle for you.”
Ella shook her head, shadows returning to her world. “My father would not want to take me along, not if there is business to
be done. If they are to go, I’ll be told to wait here.”
His gaze held hers. “Then I shall return for you, someday.”
She looked into those blue eyes. “Promise?”
He nodded his head. “Promise.”
The minister’s voice called from the other room. “My Prince? We are ready to return home.”
Alexander stood, gave a sweeping bow to Ella, and turned.
In the beat of a heart, they were gone.
* * *
Ella shook herself back to the present. That long-distant day had been the last time she had seen her mother alive. Her parents had been gone before she awoke the next morning.
And then …
She pushed to her feet with determination. Her mother was dead and buried. The only person who could save her now was herself.
She looked down at the ruby-red tablecloth.
There had to be a solution …
Cinderella - A Retelling with Strength and Courage Page 3
