Disenchanted: The Trials of Cinderella

by Megan Morrison

  He came to the enormous building that held the assembly hall and ballrooms within it, and when he entered, the buzz of excited voices could be heard echoing through the antechamber. A thrill of terror shot through Dash. Outside the dining hall doors, he stopped and squared his shoulders, wishing he could stop himself from sweating. He set his jaw. All that mattered was that his mother made it to her ship without getting caught. For her sake, he would let all of Coterie focus on him.

  ON behalf of the National Academy of Fairy Godparenting, certified by the Royal House of Magic, I wish you all my heartiest congratulations.”

  Serge smoothed down his fitted velvet coat with practiced, pale blue fingers. A glance at the mirrored wall on his right showed that his hair had withstood the hazy morning heat; a long sweep of white-blond fringe still waved perfectly over one eye.

  “Many bright futures lie ahead of you,” he said to the small crowd. He didn’t read from a speech; he had spouted the same empty words to every graduating class of godparents for the last twenty years. “The futures of the children whose pain you will alleviate, whose hearts you will open, whose lives you will enrich — and even save.”

  As he spoke, he surveyed the new apprentices, all of whom were blue-skinned — except one. A young Crimson fairy, deathly pale, wore his hair in short ink-black spikes. His lips were as red as human blood, with wings to match. He gazed raptly upon Serge with large, shining crimson eyes, hands clasped under his chin.

  “Mortal lives are swift,” Serge continued. “We are called to illuminate their limited years with every kindness that magic can provide. This work is not easy — it will challenge your compassion and your inventiveness at every turn. But if you satisfy your clients, then you too will know the deepest satisfaction. And of course, as we like to say at the Slipper: Best wishes to you —”

  “In making wishes come true!” cried the new godparents together. There were only a handful of them, but their applause was fierce enough that they might have been a hundred. The Crimson fairy was on his feet, applauding with his hands and his enormous wings, his tears turning to bright crimson roses as they splashed to the floor. Serge resisted the urge to roll his eyes. New apprentices were often passionate, but this one seemed particularly theatrical.

  “And now, in accordance with Academy tradition, the fairy whom I take as my own apprentice will be decided by lottery.”

  Serge clenched his fist tight to summon his fairy dust. His wings grew hot with effort, but he maintained a cool expression so that the apprentices wouldn’t see it. From within his palm, a sparse layer of blue dust emerged, fine and soft and slightly warm. Serge flicked a bit of it into the air, and a bright blue ring of names appeared just over his head, sparkling like a floating crown. He gave this ring a little tap, and it began to spin, faster and faster, until the names blurred together in a hoop of blue flame. He tapped it again, and the hoop came abruptly to a halt. One name floated up out of it and rose high overhead, where it expanded and began to rotate.

  JASPER

  The Crimson fairy clasped his hands over his mouth, his red wings and eyes both open wide. A faint, sustained squeal emanated from behind his hands.

  Serge bit back a sigh and flicked the rest of the glittering names into oblivion with his fingertips. “Everyone else, please see Ascot in the back for your assignments. Thank you — and best of luck in your apprenticeships.” He gestured for Jasper to follow him and fluttered out of the Academy with his apprentice on his heels.

  “I’m Jasper,” said Jasper, and he gave a nervous giggle. “But you knew that! I’m from Cliffhang, and I’m a hundred and twelve, and I love children — and oh, I can’t believe I’m going to apprentice at the Glass Slipper. I can’t believe I’m going to meet Bejeweled!”

  “It’s just Jules,” said Serge. He gestured left, and Jasper flew with him past the stylish shops that lined the Avenue of Quintessential, toward the headquarters of the Glass Slipper.

  “She’s my absolute heroine, you’ve no idea. Have you any idea?” Jasper’s crimson eyes gleamed. “The way she freed that camp of child soldiers in Pink, at the end of the war — has anyone ever done anything more wonderful? Were you there for that?”

  “No, I was too young.”

  “All those sweet babies. No wonder the House of Magic put Bejeweled in charge of the Glass Slipper — she’s a hero. Such an inspiration!”

  Eighty years ago, Serge had sought out the Slipper for precisely the same reason. He had wanted to learn from Bejeweled, war hero, liberator of children, and defender of the weak.

  Now he just wanted her to retire. Step down from the penthouse. Give him the Slipper so he could make it right.

  “What’s it like, being her Executive Godfather?” Jasper begged. “Does being in the same room with her just make you want to burst into tears?”

  “There are days,” Serge said, “when that occurs to me.” He decided to change the topic of conversation. “So, you come from Crimson. How do you like Quintessential?”

  “I love it,” said Jasper at once. “It’s so fresh. Have you ever been to Cliffhang?”

  Serge had not.

  “It’s simply crumbling,” said Jasper. “Everything’s held together with magic, and it all looks like it might collapse on your head. And sometimes it does,” he added, rubbing his temple.

  This accorded with what Serge knew about the Crimson Realm; the duchies were eternally chaotic. The throne of Cliffhang was the only one that did not constantly change hands, and that was only because the fairy queen Opal, who had controlled that region for four centuries, was more dreaded than any fairy living. Serge turned right and flew down a hill, cutting in among ornate carriages and speeding toward the beach, wide and bright beneath the sun. His wings caught a sea breeze and he coasted to the bleached-wood boardwalk, where waterfront inns and restaurants stretched for leagues along the shore. Music and laughter spilled from balconies and patios, mingling with the sound of the pounding surf. Out past the shoreline, merfolk lounged on a jetty, their silhouettes slick and glinting. To the north, half a league away, Charming Palace sparkled like a giant sandcastle, its spires reaching for the golden clouds.

  “Oh.”

  Serge glanced over, expecting to find Jasper’s gaze fixed on the palace. Instead, his apprentice was looking in the other direction down the shoreline, his attention raptly focused upon a long, slim pier that appeared to be made of white sand. At the end of this pier, upon a circular platform, stood a building that looked like a great glass shoe, reflecting the sea and the sky.

  “I’m going to the Slipper,” Jasper whispered, and Serge was surprised by the sudden sensation of a hand in his own. His apprentice didn’t seem aware of what he was doing. “I’ve dreamed of this for so long.”

  Serge extricated his fingers and flew on.

  It took them only a few minutes to reach the Slipper’s famous headquarters. The building’s spiked heel was the size of a castle tower. A crystal button in its wall, invisible to mortal eyes, gleamed first silver, then white, then blue under the press of Serge’s thumb. A crystal door slid open, revealing a slender cylindrical room within.

  “The Slingshot,” said Serge as they stepped into it. “Blue fairy concept, gnomish design.” He pointed to the handles that hung from the ceiling overhead. “Grab one.”

  The door slid shut. The little cylindrical room shot suddenly upward. Jasper shrieked and clutched a handle in each hand as they sped to the top of the heel. The Slingshot paused at the highest point, awaiting instructions.

  “Reception,” said Serge, and he adjusted his hand on the overhead strap. “Hold tight, Jasper.” The Slingshot lurched forward, then dropped down again into the main structure, careening as though it would crash. Jasper screamed again. When the Slingshot came to a complete stop, Serge stepped into the lobby, and Jasper staggered after.

  MOTHER Bertha marched her into the dining hall. Heads turned toward her as she walked, and people laughed in shock when they saw her. She glan
ced at herself in one of the high windows and took in the picture she made. Knitted skirt, homespun tunic, cheap canvas knapsack. Wild bronze curls. Warm brown skin with no makeup to enhance it.

  She looked, she thought defensively, much more suited to eating eggs and toast than the rest of these glittering idiots.

  “There he is!” cried someone on the other side of the hall, and that was all it took. Everyone was up, surging toward the windows, fighting for the best view of the prince.

  “He really is bald!”

  “Is his head tattooed?”

  “I can’t see, it’s too dark —”

  In the bustle, Ella found a seat at an empty table. She settled her knapsack in her lap, pulled out her knitting, and was tucking the tip of one needle under a pale blue stitch when she heard a faint noise of distaste from the table on her right. She turned her head slightly to see who it was, and she clenched her needles hard.

  Lavaliere Jacquard sat a few feet away from her, looking like a crystal princess. The structured silk shoulders of her gown were exaggerated but artistic, slate blue and silver, framing her fall of glossy dark hair and her pale, slender face. She did not turn her large gray eyes upon Ella; instead, she raised her chin just enough to communicate that she, the only child of Lady Lariat Jacquard and the sole heiress of Jacquard Silks, did not consider trash like Ella Coach worth acknowledging.

  Rage choked Ella. She looked down at the slipper she was knitting, and she forced her hands to keep stitching. She tried to breathe — tried to concentrate on the softness of the wool and the beauty of its sheen — tried to take comfort in the solid weight of her mum’s old wooden needles in her hands. But her mum was dead. Her mum was dead and buried in the dirt, because working for Jacquard Silks had killed her. It had been two years, but coming to C-Prep had picked the scab clean off the wound. Breathing the same air as Lavaliere Jacquard was like breathing poison.

  But Ella’s stepmother wanted her at school here, and whatever her stepmother said, her dad went along with. This was the best school in all of Tyme, they insisted. It provided the best connections. The best education. The best opportunities for social advancement.

  As if she wanted to advance among these people. Ella looked over her shoulder at the dining hall doors, ready to flee the second she had a chance.

  The doors flew open. Madam Wellington hurried into the room and took her place, breathless, before the tables. “Be seated!” she commanded, and the throng at the window dissipated as students returned to their seats. “His Royal Highness has returned. As we welcome him back to us this morning, it is imperative that we are sensitive to his circumstances. Since the witch’s death, he has fully recovered, at least in body —”

  There were titters at this.

  “In body,” Madam Wellington repeated, frowning toward the giggling. “But in mind it is quite another matter. Do not question him about his ordeal, and do not betray any surprise you may feel at his changed manners.”

  The students hung on her words, more attentive to their headmistress than Ella had ever seen them.

  “You will comport yourselves with the tact and dignity that His Royal Highness expects and demands of all Coterie students,” said Madam Wellington.

  The doors opened again, and everyone stood as the prince entered the room. From where she stood, Ella couldn’t see anything but the back of his shiny bald scalp, but she could tell that he was tall. Really tall. A head above the others. She couldn’t help a pang of curiosity — as long as she couldn’t escape just yet, was there any harm in getting a glimpse of His Royal Highness? Once she ditched this place, she’d never get another chance.

  With great pomp, Madam Wellington accompanied Prince Dash to the head table, where he turned and sat. His face was expressionless, but it didn’t matter; the looks of him made Ella catch her breath. It didn’t seem to matter that he was bald; his nose had a perfect little crook in its strong line, his eyes were startlingly green, and his mouth could have been chiseled out of marble. He was easily the most beautiful person she’d ever seen.

  The C-Prep students formed a line around the outer edge of the dining hall and approached the prince, one by one, to curtsy or bow to him before they took their places for the meal. Ella found herself at the tail end of the line. She realized suddenly that her classmates had arranged themselves in order of importance — and they’d done it in swift, accurate silence. Every single one of these people knew exactly where they ranked. In terms of wealth, Ella calculated that she should have been about halfway up the line, but in terms of her actual social status, she was definitely in the right spot. Dead last.

  First, of course, was Lavaliere Jacquard.

  Lavaliere curtsied and glittered. She bowed her sleek dark head, extended a white hand to the prince, and settled herself at the head table on his right, still with her hand in his. A halo of light seemed to surround the two of them, radiating from their beauty and their jewels and the Jacquard silks that dressed them and their table. The line moved swiftly forward until Ella was only a few meters away from Prince Dash — close enough to feel her heart give an extra beat when she looked at him.

  Then a loud crack! erupted in the dining hall, so near to Ella that she spun around to find the source of the noise. When she turned back again, the boy in front of her, Oxford Truss, was wiping his palm on his trousers. Ella noticed the smell of something burning. Something not breakfast. Something almost like hair. But there was no smoke, no flame. People began to titter as she turned full circle once more, confused.

  Oxford scurried off to his seat. Ella now stood alone and last before Prince Dash and Lavaliere Jacquard and their friends. Dimity Gusset. Paisley Pannier. Loom Batik. Garb Garter. All of them looked at her clothes in open disbelief as she curtsied, or tried to. She could never seem to curtsy without wobbling like she might tip over. She felt warm — really warm, as though she had her back to a fireplace.

  Suddenly, the prince shoved his chair back, looking almost wild. He grabbed a goblet from the table and hurled its contents at Ella. She gasped as the orange juice hit her full on, stinging her eyes and soaking her tunic. All around her, the students of C-Prep began to laugh. “Turn around,” the prince shouted, and he grabbed another goblet. Ella flinched and turned away to keep from being soaked again, and this time the prince’s liquid missile struck her square in the knapsack. She heard a sizzle.

  “Your bag,” said the prince, who was panting. “It was smoking —”

  Ella’s insides lurched. She dropped her knapsack to the floor and stepped back as the prince tossed the water from his glass toward the bag at her feet. He struck true. The flame went out. Ella crouched and rifled through her knapsack.

  She drew out her knitting, singed and dripping and severed from the skein. It was ruined.

  The last of the wool from Eel Grass. The last wool her mum had spun herself, on the great wheel back at the old cott. Ella had been making slippers out of it. Something small and warm to remember her mum by.

  Stunned, she lifted her gaze to the head table, where she found Lavaliere Jacquard’s laughing eyes upon her.

  Ella dropped the ruined woolen slipper. She snatched up her knapsack, fled to the nearest door, and stumbled though it as waves of laughter swelled toward her from all around the room. She heard “Halt!” from one of the royal guards, and “Miss Coach! Stop!” from one of the teachers, but she bolted anyway. She didn’t care anymore if they saw her run off. She didn’t care who they sent after her. She was going home to Eel Grass and she was never, never coming back.

  SHE ran. He tried to remember anybody ever running away from him before, and he drew a blank. People weren’t supposed to run from him; they were supposed to be excused from his company. And they were definitely supposed to say thank you if he stopped them from being on fire. Whoever the strangely dressed girl was, she was profoundly out of place at Coterie. And she had left something soggy on the floor in front of the head table. It was grayish blue and looked like a dead rat. />
  Royal guards surged toward the door through which the strange girl had gone, and Dash realized that they meant to chase after her. “Stop,” he called out, holding up a hand. The guards halted, and Spaulder, their leader, turned to him.

  “But, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “She set fire —”

  “To her own bag?” Dash shook his head. “Let her go.”

  The guards relented, but now Madam Wellington was before him, hands clasped to her heart. “Sir,” she cried, “are you hurt? Are you burned?” Her voice quavered. “May I fetch a Hipocrath?”

  Dash realized with a surge of deep discomfort that a hundred of his peers and the entire Coterie staff stood waiting, their gazes trained on him.

  “No,” he muttered.

  The headmistress breathed a great, gusty sigh of relief. “What a dreadful event,” she said. “When you have recovered, we will start the meal at your convenience. Would you like to address your classmates before we begin service?”

  “No,” he said again.

  She looked at him, and so did his table companions. He knew they were all expecting more words. Glossier ones. But he didn’t have to do that anymore.

  He sat. So did everyone else in the hall. “You were heroic,” Lavaliere murmured.

  He wasn’t sure. The strange girl had seemed terribly upset over the contents of her bag. Why had she looked so harrowed? She couldn’t have cared about the soggy dead rat. A servant came to collect it from the floor, and Dash gestured for it, curious. The servant wrapped it in a napkin and passed it to him.

  “She knits,” said Dimity sourly. “You saw how she was dressed. Like a scullery maid.”

  “Worse,” said Paisley, adjusting the ribbon in her hair.

  Dash lifted the soggy thing in two fingers to inspect it. So it was made of wool. No wonder it smelled like wet, burned sheep. But though it was badly singed, he could more or less tell what it was supposed to be. A woolen slipper: the sort one wore to bed on very cold winter nights when one was up in Lilac for winter sports. “She knits?” he said, not sure what to make of it. “And she goes here?”