Disenchanted: The Trials of Cinderella

by Megan Morrison

  Dash’s fists curled.

  “Spare me the righteous look,” said his father. “I have every right to punish any possible accomplices upon the disappearance of my wife.”

  “Aunt Tallith doesn’t know —”

  “I am king,” bellowed King Clement. “No one helps my queen to leave me.” He sat up suddenly and fixed Dash with his bloodshot blue eyes. “Not even you.”

  He leapt to his feet. He was a tall man, but Dash’s most recent growth spurt had finally brought them level. They stood with gazes locked, and Dash willed his breath to slow down. His father had never struck him or his mother — never once. But he was not himself. Or maybe he was very much himself. Maybe, under the Charming Curse, his father had seemed a kinder person than he really was.

  “Where is she?” His father took a step closer, bringing with him the stench of sweat and liquor. His golden locks hung in a damp fall over his tanned forehead. “Where. Is. She.”

  Dash held his ground, though he longed to take a step back.

  The king’s brilliant blue eyes burned furiously for another moment, and then his broad shoulders sagged under some invisible weight.

  “She’ll come back,” said the king, but his voice was faint. “She loves me.” He moved the hand that had the crumpled paper in it. “She said so in this letter. She left because she thinks I don’t love her. But by the sea and the sky, I do.” His eyes watered. “I’ve never loved another woman. There’s only ever been your mother.”

  Dash laughed before he’d thought about it.

  Rage distorted the king’s expression. “I understood my father,” he said. “We forgave each other — we were cursed, so there was no blame. But though you suffer what I suffer, you have no pity in your heart.”

  “No,” said Dash. This lie he would not accept. “The curse is broken, and you know it. So does my mother. That’s why she’s gone.”

  “She’s gone because you helped her. And until she returns, you will have no peace.”

  Dash gave his father what he hoped was an insolent shrug.

  “You will not live in the dormitory. You will be here, with me, under full guard at all times. Every letter you write will be read before it is sent. Every class you attend, you will attend with escorts.”

  “You think I care?”

  “Don’t you?” said the king, holding up the crumpled letter. “Well, thanks to your loving mother, I can concoct a more fitting punishment.” He smoothed the letter to make it readable once more. “She writes, ‘Don’t take this out on Dash. You know he has been hit hard by the witch’s death, and though he is free, he is fragile. Be gentle with him, Clement. Don’t push him into full society. Returning to school is enough of a challenge for now.’ ”

  Dash heard his mother’s private words with some bitterness. She was wrong: He was not fragile. But it was true that school was all he was prepared to handle. He had no wish for full society, with all it brought. The nobles, the Criers, the dancing, the gossip — no. Not yet.

  “Let’s have a ball,” said the king.

  Dash went cold all through.

  “We haven’t had a royal ball in ages. We’ll invite the scribes and let them have a look at you — the Criers have been starved for months.”

  “No.”

  His father smiled. “But the country — nay, the world — is desperate to hear about your encounter with the witch, and your wonderful good fortune in getting the old family curse broken — and your mother’s departure, obviously. The scribes will want to know how you feel … And you’ll want to dance with the girls in your class. I’m sure they’ve missed you.”

  “I —” Dash’s mouth was dry. “I won’t ask them.”

  “You won’t have to,” his father replied. “You’ll be assigned a list of partners. Lady Jacquard will choose the girls and tell them beforehand that they’re on your schedule. They’ll all be so eager when they arrive, won’t they? If you want to get out of the dances, you’ll have to reject them one by one, in public.”

  Dash couldn’t embarrass those girls like that. He’d already hurt most of them with his empty flirtations. He didn’t want to humiliate them.

  “Please,” he managed.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” said his father. “Tell me where your mother is hiding, and there won’t be a ball.” He waited several seconds in the silence. “Not going to give in so easily, eh? Very well. We’ll see how your mother feels when she reads the Criers next week and sees that we’re having a fine time together without her. I won’t sit here heartbroken, if that’s what she thinks.”

  King Clement plucked the glass slipper from the carpet and opened the door.

  “Wait.”

  His father turned and fixed Dash with a questioning look.

  “Leave Aunt Tallith alone.”

  The king snorted. “I’ll do as I please.”

  “My mother doesn’t hate you yet,” said Dash. “But if you hurt her sister, she will.”

  For a long moment, his father was still. “Write an order,” he finally said. “And sort out a messenger. I’ll sign it.”

  He left Dash alone in his chamber.

  THE Corkscrew Inn and Tavern was a big, delightfully ramshackle place that stood on a sea cliff overlooking the mouth of the busy Salting harbor. On the docks, sailors tied up their boats while travelers disembarked, hauling their baggage and gripping their children’s hands.

  Ella climbed out of the carriage. The tavern doors were wide open, and patrons milled in and out, some with drinks in their hands, others locked in embraces. Crouched beside the front door and fiddling with the doorstop was a skinny, aproned girl. Ella had never been gladder to see anyone.

  “Kit,” she cried, and Kit jumped up and whirled. Her whole face throbbed with the violently red pustules of a cankermoth infection. For one moment, Ella was sickened by the sight of them. Before leaving Eel Grass, she’d been used to the bumps; now, having had a few months’ distance, they shocked her eyes. Nobody in Quintessential — at least not the plush western half of Quintessential — had to worry about cankermoth bites.

  “Ella!” Kit seized her. “You’re here! You really did it, you came back! Can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since your dad married that quint! What’s her name again? Shirley?”

  “Sharlyn,” said Ella. “Not that it matters. I’m not going back there.”

  “ ’Course you’re not. You’re no quint. Come on, I’ll get you something to eat and introduce you to Tallith.” Kit pulled Ella into the Corkscrew. Lively pipe music greeted them as they navigated through the crowd of customers.

  “Tallith’s looking busy,” said Kit, pointing to the bar, where a woman with frazzled blond curls and clear blue eyes was serving ale to what seemed to be ten people at once. Ella tilted her head, looking at the woman. She’d seen her before somewhere. Recently, even.

  “That’s Tallith Poplin?” she asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “She looks familiar.”

  “That’s because there are always pictures of the queen in the Criers,” said Kit. “They’re sisters, you know. Right, well, I can only take a quick break for a chat.” She steered Ella toward a small, empty table, where she sat on a wooden bench. “Then I’ve got to get back to serving. But we can talk all night, once I’m finished at midnight or so.”

  “You work that long?”

  “Two to twelve is the best shift,” said Kit, settling down next to her. “And Tallith’s giving me six nights a week. I started with three, but she liked me — and she’s a good one. Tallith doesn’t hire kids just so she can pay them less. This is a proper lawful apprenticeship.” Kit looked proud. “I get my meals and my days off for family, and I don’t have to pay for my own aprons. I even room here nights.”

  “Since when do you work full-time, hey?” Ella asked. “I thought you still did half days at school.”

  “Dad got injured fishing, and I had to help. Apprentice wages are better than nothing. You know how it is,” sa
id Kit with a little sigh. “How’s your dad’s business?”

  Ella didn’t want to say that Practical Elegance was spooling millions. “Did my trunk get here?” she asked instead. “Did you get your present?”

  Kit’s eyes lit. “Yeah, and I love it,” she said. “You knit the most beautiful things.” She hesitated. “But I couldn’t figure out the sleeves.”

  “They’re not really sleeves, they’re just long cuffs — where is it?”

  “Your trunk’s in my room upstairs.”

  “Do we have time to go up?”

  “Just.”

  The two girls ran to the second floor of the Corkscrew, where Ella draped the knitted coat over Kit’s shoulders and helped her wiggle her hands through the tight cuffs. The rest of the garment sat loosely over Kit’s frame, just as Ella had pictured. Fat, horizontal cables wrapped about her shoulders and vertical ones draped almost to her heels in the back.

  “It’s not practical for work, I know,” said Ella. “But it’s pretty.”

  “Pretty?” said Kit. “It’s gorgeous. I can’t believe all the cables.” She pulled the coat around herself and hugged it, and Ella tugged up the draped hood. “I feel like the Empress of Pink,” Kit said. “All I need is a fur lining.”

  “Any Eel Grass gossip?” Ella asked as they made their way back downstairs.

  “Not much,” said Kit. “Except Mum’s pregnant again. Oh, and she’s got a job! But then, I’m sure you knew. She’s in the workshop.”

  Ella stopped on the steps. “Which one?” she demanded. “Not the shop in Fulcrum —”

  “Skies, no. That’s why I got this job here. To keep Mum out of Jacquard if I could.”

  Ella exhaled. For one awful moment, she’d envisioned a pregnant Mrs. Wincey shivering through the winter in the dim, cramped Jacquard building, listening to people cough up blood and getting struck by the cane whenever she fell behind.

  “There’s roop up in Coldwater,” said Kit.

  “How many dead?”

  “Near sixty people. The Jacquard and Garter shops both got hit.”

  Sixty people dead in Coldwater, and she hadn’t even heard about it. News like that was serious in places like Eel Grass, but nobody cared in Quintessential. There hadn’t been a single word about it in the Criers, just as there hadn’t been a single word during the Fulcrum outbreak. Ella shook her head and started down the steps again.

  “So where’s your mum working if she’s not with Jacquard or Garter?”

  “She’s at the workshop in Eel Grass, you mule. Obviously.”

  “In Eel Grass?” Ella repeated. “Who built a shop there? Batik? Quebracho?”

  Kit’s mouth hung slightly open, and now it was her turn to stop walking. “You don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “Your dad … he didn’t tell you?”

  Ella’s insides turned cold and jumpy. “Tell me what?”

  Kit put a hand to her mouth. “Crop rot,” she whispered. “I’d’ve told you forever ago, but I thought you knew.”

  Ella waited, frozen.

  “Your dad built a workshop in Eel Grass,” said Kit. “Oh, Ells, I’m sorry that you’re finding out from me….”

  The wooden stairwell seemed to sway beneath Ella.

  “Your old cott was knocked down months back,” said Kit. “Now there’s a workshop on the land. For making plush clothes, you know, and odds and ends.”

  “What workshop?”

  Kit looked at her pityingly. “Your dad and Shirley’s kind,” she said. “It’s a — what’s it? Elegant Practices shop.”

  “Practical Elegance,” Ella mumbled automatically. What Kit was saying couldn’t be true. Her dad would never destroy their home to build a Practical Elegance workshop. He’d think of Ella’s mum. He’d refuse. “Where can I borrow a horse?” she managed.

  “Outside, stables. But it’s ten nauts to get a horse for the day, it’s too expensive; I’ll just walk down with you tomorrow —”

  “No,” said Ella. “I’ll be back.” She ran from the Corkscrew.

  REVIVING Jasper was difficult. He came halfway back to consciousness, babbling something about hopes and dreams, and Serge had to slap him to rouse him completely. He gave Jasper a moment to gather his wits before they vaulted up to the penthouse in the Slingshot.

  The penthouse of the Glass Slipper afforded the most beautiful view in Quintessential. It was one big, clear crystal window gazing out in panorama upon the sunlit sea and the glittering city. The glass ceiling sloped steeply upward from the doorway to the apex of the slipper heel. At the high-ceilinged end of the room, at a massive crystal desk, in a stupendously tall white chair that was shaped like an egg, sat a short, curvy woman in a tight, glittering blue dress. Her hair was spiky and frost blue, to match her wings. Her eyes were closed, her eyebrows raised. In one hand, she held a glass of something liquid gold and smoking; with the other, she gesticulated in large, fluid circles as she dictated instructions to her tired-looking assistant, Thimble.

  “Prince Dash won’t be boarding at Coterie after all, and that’s confirmed. Alert all godparents,” said Jules in her husky voice. “And tell Gossamer,” she continued, still waving her hand in circles, “to stop sneaking unauthorized names onto the List. Another charity case came up tonight — a girl from some village I’ve never even heard of. Eel Sauce?” She sighed. “Put Gossamer on my schedule. Ta, babe.”

  Thimble departed. Jules leaned back in her chair and took a long drink from her glass. Her gaze fell on Serge and Jasper.

  “Serge.” She had a way of giving just one word the weight of an entire speech. “Babe, it’s so good to see you. It’s been weeks, hasn’t it? It feels like weeks.”

  It had been two days.

  “You’ll never believe this,” she went on, “but I just got word that Queen Maud has disappeared from Quintessential. Apparently she ran away on purpose.” Jules shook her head in disgust. “Some people don’t know what’s good for them.”

  Serge disagreed. It sounded like Maud knew exactly what was good for her.

  “In any case, if the scribes try to get anything out of you, just tell them that we have no comment,” said Jules. “There’s no reason for us to be associated with the situation.”

  Except that we created it, thought Serge. Maud Poplin had been Jules’s goddaughter, and Jules had sensed a big hit in the demure, impoverished beauty whose head was full of girlish dreams. She’d introduced Maud at a royal ball, where King Clement had been delighted by her beauty and simplicity. Within weeks, he declared he would marry her. The Essential Assembly opposed the match — he was a young king, and she was a villager who barely understood court life — but Clement always suited himself, and they were wed. It had been a huge success for the Slipper.

  Now, of course, it was a disaster from which Jules would distance herself.

  “Jules,” he said, “this is Jasper, my new apprentice. He’s quite a fan.”

  Jules flicked her frost-blue eyes to Jasper, and in one head-to-toe glance, she collected all the information she needed. It wasn’t difficult, Serge knew. Jasper was leaning slightly forward, his hands were tense at his sides, and his crimson wings shimmered with emotion. And — Serge wished it weren’t true — there were tears in Jasper’s eyes.

  “Jasper,” said Jules, smiling a long, slow smile that spread across her blue face like a cat’s. “Sweetheart, I just love you already, honestly I do. I want to hear everything you have to say. Tell me what brings you to our little shoe.”

  Jasper drew a shaking breath. “Bejeweled,” he whispered. “It’s an honor — it’s a privilege — it’s —” He pressed one hand to his stomach.

  Jules set down her glass. “You’ve come a long way,” she said, her husky voice very soft. “It couldn’t have been easy leaving home.”

  This hit the target. The tears that had stood shivering in Jasper’s eyes spilled over, becoming miniature glittering butterflies that fluttered around his head. A tiny moan of embarrassme
nt escaped him. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this,” he said, swiping at his face as the butterflies dodged his fingers.

  “I won’t lie,” said Jules. “I’ve never approved a Crimson godparent before. But I have a good feeling about you, yes I do…. What’s your magic?”

  “Hypnotics,” he said, “but I don’t use them. I swear you can trust me.”

  “Obviously. If anyone even suspected you’d used those eyes of yours, you’d be thrown out of this country in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?”

  Jasper squirmed.

  “But any Crimson can hypnotize,” Jules went on. “I meant your real gift. Your own talent.”

  Serge looked curiously at Jasper. He hadn’t thought to ask, but it was true: Crimson fairies were a bit like Kisscrafters in that way. Each one had a unique ability.

  “Embellishment,” said Jasper.

  “Show me.”

  Serge’s left sleeve began to glow. He nearly protested — this was his favorite jacket — but instead he watched as delicate, intricate webs of periwinkle light carved patterns into the blue velvet. When Jasper was finished, the webs of light flowed like tiny rivulets of pale water, illuminating the sleeve in a way Serge had never before seen. He extended his arm to admire the work. It was exquisite.

  “I can undo it,” said Jasper. “Or do your other sleeve to match.”

  “I prefer asymmetry,” said Serge, and he met Jasper’s anxious stare with a genuine smile.

  “Truly Slipper-worthy,” Jules said. “Clients will adore you.”

  Jasper clasped his white hands to his heart. “To hear you say that,” he whispered. “You have no idea. Bejeweled, you are simply the ideal. The things you’ve done for children — the lives you’ve saved — you’re everything. You gave me the courage to start a new life.”

  Jules’s eyes glittered. “You remind me of Serge when he was new to the shoe. When I chose him as my apprentice, he fainted.” She gave her husky laugh, and Serge’s spine stiffened. “And now here he stands, my Executive Godfather. I mean, would you just look at him?”

  Jasper’s eyes went from him to Jules and back again, and as they did, his apprentice’s eager expression faltered. He looked suddenly confused. He blinked his crimson eyes and gave his dark head a little shake.