Disenchanted: The Trials of Cinderella

by Megan Morrison

Sharlyn looked pained, and Ella thought for one second that her stepmother might give in.

  “Then I ask you to make an effort,” Sharlyn finally said. “A real effort. This is your first appearance at the palace — do you fully comprehend the magnitude of this? If you wear a knitted smock, you’ll humiliate our family and injure Practical Elegance — and you’ll hurt your own prospects too.”

  “I get it,” Ella said. And she did. But Charming Palace wasn’t her world. She could dress in the queen’s own gown and she would still be out of place there, so she might as well wear something that didn’t make her skin crawl.

  When Sharlyn was finally gone, Ella reached under her bed and pulled out the box that held her mum’s Shattering Day dress. She’d packed it away after the burial, and she hadn’t looked at it since. Now, with gentle hands, she unfolded the old garment and held it up. She’d almost forgotten how beautiful it was — a white linen sheath, simple in shape, made special by the embroidery that blossomed in intricate patterns across it. The embroidery thread had once been bright royal blue, but with years of wear and washing it had grown dull. Still, the designs were extraordinary. Her mum had been as much of an artist as her dad.

  Ella grabbed the seam ripper from her workbasket. It was strange to know that her mum would have told her to go to the ball. She’d acted so proud, but underneath it all, she’d wanted Ella invited to royal events. She’d wanted her in the city. She’d even wanted her in the care of fairy godparents.

  She sat on her bed and pulled her mum’s dress into her lap. She hadn’t spent four months at C-Prep without absorbing something about the latest styles. A decade ago, this dress had been perfect, but now the sleeves were too long, the waist too low, and the neck too high. The skirt needed letting out too. Stupid big shoulders she would not do — nor sheer panels either. But she could make it modern without those things. She could make herself a gown fit for a palace. A gown that even Sharlyn couldn’t fault.

  Determined, Ella pulled out the stitches.

  HE left Jasper in the park and flitted sluggishly toward the Jacquard Estate, grateful that Jasper had taken on the bulk of today’s godparenting effort and left him some dust to spare. Lavaliere would require every speck of it.

  Three minutes after chiming, he appeared in Lavaliere’s chamber. Lavaliere, in a Prism-silk dressing gown, paced from her silver-framed oval mirror to her great four-poster bed, her glass slippers sinking into the sheepskin carpet. The heels of her hands were pressed to her temples. On her face was an expression of agony.

  “Where have you been?” she whimpered, kicking her slippers aside when she saw Serge. The prismatic shoes fell sideways in the carpet, sparkling. They were exquisite — cut all over into tiny facets so that they seemed to be constructed entirely of diamonds — and they were the only ones Serge had made in the past fifteen years that Jules hadn’t insisted on disrupting with her signature dots. For the Jacquards, Jules always made exceptions.

  “I’ve been calling all day. I’ve called hundreds of times. Hurry, please, it hurts so much —”

  Serge ushered Lavaliere into the blue chair. “Don’t move,” he said. “Relax if you can.”

  She shut her eyes. Her neck muscles stood out like cords.

  Serge closed his fists. He genuinely longed to see her out of pain, so his dust emerged at once. He moved his hands close to her face until he could touch the illusion that lay flush against her skin. Carefully, he pinched this invisible mask in his fingertips and pulled it from her face and neck, as if tugging a sheet from a statue. Lavaliere cried out, and so did Serge. He was not prepared for the sight of her.

  Every bit of skin on her face was packed with purple cankermoth pustules.

  “How bad is it?” she whispered. “How bad?”

  Two years ago, on her way back from a holiday in Lilac, Lavaliere had been bitten. Under Jules’s command, Serge had hidden the first outbreak on Lavaliere’s face, but the sores had steadily grown worse. Once a month, Serge removed the illusion so that Lavaliere could treat the pain, but the pustules had never looked as bad as this. Some had turned black. Some were open and weeping.

  “It’s serious,” Serge said, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. “You must have an infection. You need real treatment, Lavaliere. Numbing the pain isn’t enough. I can send you up north to a Hipocrath specialist. You have to leave the illusion off and let him do his work —”

  “Twill!” Lavaliere interrupted. “Where are you?”

  A waiting maid scurried from her corner with a white glove and a jar of cream. She smeared the cream over Lavaliere’s pustules with her gloved hand, and though Lavaliere never opened her eyes, her face contorted in pain as Twill’s fingers traveled over the weeping bumps.

  “Almost out,” said Twill, digging around the bottom of the jar with her gloved fingertips.

  “I still need it on my neck,” said Lavaliere. “Hurry.”

  Twill did her best to spread the last bit of cream thin enough to cover all the pustules. It was just enough to do the job. “It’s all gone, my lady.”

  “Serge will get more.” As numbness set in, Lavaliere’s muscles relaxed.

  “Pain doesn’t lie,” said Serge. “You put the last dose of cream on three weeks ago. It’s supposed to numb the pain for a month at least. You’re getting worse.”

  “Put the illusion back on.”

  “Lavaliere. You need to go up north and get treatment.”

  “And what, live in Port Urbane for the next five years with my face uncovered?” She laughed harshly. “Not a chance.”

  “Five years is nothing compared with the rest of your life.”

  “Dash Charming is the rest of my life,” she said. “Put the illusion back on me. Now.”

  “I need your mother’s permission.”

  “As if she won’t give it.”

  “She might not this time,” said Serge. “She needs to see how bad it’s gotten.”

  Lavaliere sank back into her chair. “Fine.”

  Serge pulled the bell cord and held the door nearly shut so that the maid who responded could not see into the room. She returned minutes later, panting.

  “Her ladyship is busy,” the maid gasped. “You have her permission for anything. She asks that you hurry, because she’d like to look Lavaliere over before you go.”

  “Tell Lady Jacquard it’s a contractual issue. I need her consent in person.”

  The maid looked terrified, but she went.

  Lariat Jacquard appeared in the corridor several minutes later, her smile tight. “Serge,” she said when she reached the door. “What’s the problem?”

  Serge let her into Lavaliere’s chamber. As soon as Lariat was inside, she gave a shout of disgust and turned her back on her daughter. Serge quickly shut the chamber door.

  “I told Jules,” Lariat hissed. “Keep it out of my sight. It’s humiliating enough to know it’s there without having to look at it.”

  “The sores are infected,” Serge said. “Lavaliere needs treatment, and soon. If I put the illusion back on her now, it might hurt her.”

  “What will hurt her,” said her mother, still facing the door, “is being seen like that. A cankermoth bite never killed anyone. Just cover her face. And do something about her mouth while you’re at it — make her lips fuller, would you? Then Chemise Shantung won’t have anything on her.”

  She left the chamber, and Serge heard Lavaliere’s muffled sobs. Both her hands were pressed to her mouth. She still had not opened her eyes.

  “Cover it up,” she managed through her tears. “Now.”

  But he couldn’t bring his dust to the surface. He strained internally, but everything in him rebelled. Masking her face was wrong, and his heart couldn’t be fooled by any argument to the contrary. To trick himself, he had to think of something else. Someone else. He tried thinking back on Rapunzel — the memory of her had helped him to drum up his dust a time or two — but to his surprise his mind fastened on Ella Coach. He saw her clearly
, standing with her mother’s letter clutched in her hand, her face hungry and lonely.

  He had to meditate on this vision for several minutes before he could begin the process of constructing Lavaliere’s illusion. He pictured her face as she wished it to be — the texture, the colors, the contours. He imagined a smooth throat. Dark eyebrows, long lashes. The new shape of her mouth. When his mental image was exact, he flung fairy dust into her face.

  In a moment, it was finished. The infection was concealed. Her mouth was not so changed that anyone would suspect she had been altered, but it would satisfy Lariat. He sank down in the nearest chair, exhausted at heart, as Lavaliere opened her eyes. She ran to the mirror and examined her face, first on one side and then the other.

  “Mother was right,” she said, touching her lips. “I’m perfect now.”

  “Shall I bring out the gowns, my lady?” asked Twill, peeking out from her corner.

  Lavaliere nodded. “Mother bought a few of the latest things, but only for inspiration,” she told Serge, as though nothing had passed between them. “Do something like these, but not quite — it has to be unique. When I arrive, everyone should look at me. Make that happen.”

  When she was satisfied, Serge left her chamber. He trudged to the edge of the Jacquard Estate, sat heavily on the rocky cliff top, and gazed out at the Tranquil Sea. A spectacular sunset lit the waves and sky, but he was numb to beauty. He didn’t even think he could fly. He tried to flutter his wings, but they were leaden.

  There had to be a way. A way he could give Jules and her clients what they wanted without losing his magic. A way to hang on long enough that he could get the Slipper for his own. He just needed something true — something to keep his dust flowing.

  He thought he knew what that something might be.

  SHE had been cutting and sewing for nearly five hours when it happened.

  She’d taken in the waist of her mum’s old gown and removed the sleeves. The hem had been let down, but it was still too short to be a proper gown; the skirt hung just past her calves, and the bottom edge looked raw. She shimmied into it to test the fit, being careful not to pull out the loose stitches that held everything temporarily together, and turned to the mirror to see how bad it was.

  She gaped.

  Somehow, her mum’s embroidery had turned bright blue. It even glinted like royal blue metal — Ella had seen gold thread that shone like this, but never blue. She twisted this way and that, watching the frock shimmer in the lamplight until she was certain that she wasn’t hallucinating.

  The thread was not the only change. The old linen was somehow clean, pure white again, with a heavy, flaxen sheen. Against it, the blue metal thread stood out a league; the contrast was sharp and perfect. Even the length of the skirt had changed since she put it on; it brushed the floor around her feet.

  For a minute, she could only stare at the dress and wonder if she had gone mad.

  Then it struck her. The fairies. Maybe they were here.

  “Hello?” Ella whispered, looking around. There was no answer. Quickly, she fished the seaweed scroll out of her boot and unrolled it, looking for the fairies’ names, which she’d forgotten. They weren’t written there. “Blue fairy?” she whispered. “Red fairy?” But no, that hadn’t been a Red fairy; she’d read that they were tiny and had red skin. The one who’d appeared in her room yesterday had been tall and pale as death, with the most outrageous and terrifying set of eyes she’d ever seen. “Crimson fairy?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  Something changed in her reflection. Ella looked quickly into the mirror and saw the charm that hung from the simple necklace at her throat, the golden E that had been her mum’s, turn to blown glass full of what appeared to be liquid diamonds.

  “No,” she said impulsively, putting her fingertips to the E. “Please — it was my mum’s.” The charm returned to normal, and Ella looked around, both delighted and disturbed. “Um,” she said to the empty air, feeling a little foolish. “Where are you?”

  No answer.

  “The dress is perfect,” she said. “It’s so good of you — but I have to take it off so I can stitch it up properly. So if you could, you know, not look at me …”

  Even as she spoke, she realized that removing the gown would be unnecessary. Along the lines she had basted together, an invisible force was at work. The waist cinched closer; the bodice hugged her ribs; the hem straightened until the gown hung perfectly around her, showing not a single excess thread.

  “Grats,” Ella whispered. She gazed at herself in the mirror for a moment and then whipped her head toward the window, where she thought she heard someone giggle.

  A knock at the door made her gasp.

  “Ella?” called Sharlyn.

  She grabbed her old robe and threw it on over the dress, then opened her bedroom door.

  “Lady Jacquard agreed to let Clover and Linden play the first hour,” said her stepmother, beaming. “They’ve already left for the palace. You’ve given my children a huge gift tonight. Thank you.”

  Ella nodded.

  “I came to see your gown so that I can choose the right jewels,” Sharlyn went on. “I do wish you’d at least consider wearing the gown I bought for you….”

  Ella untied her robe and removed it.

  Sharlyn drew a breath. “Where in all of Tyme did you get that dress?”

  “It was my mum’s. I remade it.”

  “You made this?”

  Ella glanced toward her window and nodded. For a second, she thought she caught sight of something fluttering again — something dark red.

  “It’s strange,” said Sharlyn, raising her pince-nez to study the embroidery. “It’s not the fashion, but somehow …” She shook herself slightly and lowered the glasses. “Shoes?” she asked.

  Ella hadn’t thought about shoes. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out the clogs she usually wore on Shattering Day, knowing full well they wouldn’t pass inspection. As she picked them up, however, they changed in her hands. The leather became soft and supple, studded with beadwork. The toes tapered and lengthened. When she slipped her feet into them, they glittered pale gold, like the E on her necklace.

  “Lovely,” said Sharlyn. “I have the perfect earrings.”

  “My mum’s necklace is all the jewelry I want.”

  Sharlyn sighed. “Well, I’m sending in my hairdresser,” she said. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

  When she left, Ella ran to the window and threw it open. She stuck her head out and looked around but saw nothing fluttering except the leaves in the trees.

  “Grats,” she whispered again anyway. “I appreciate it.”

  She sat before her mirror when the hairdresser came, and she wondered whether she would have to dance with anyone. She hoped not. She was pretty sure she remembered all the court manners — they’d made her take an etiquette course first thing upon her enrollment at C-Prep — but there was a stupid huge number of court dances, and they were all complicated. She was sure she’d forget some of the steps.

  When the clock struck eight, she left her bedroom, hesitated, and went back. She fished in the pocket of her mum’s old cloak, where she’d hidden Queen Maud’s ring, and she tucked it into her bodice. Maybe she could leave it at the palace somewhere. That was where it belonged, after all.

  “Ella,” she heard Sharlyn call. “The carriage is waiting.”

  She hurried downstairs. When her dad caught sight of her, he made a noise of joyful pride.

  “I recognize that dress,” he said, his voice creaking a little. “Don’t I?”

  “Yeah.” Ella turned in a circle to let her dad see the whole thing.

  “And wearing Ellie’s necklace too,” he said, really choking up now. “I wish she could see you, Ell. She’d be so proud.”

  There, for a brief moment, was the dad she knew.

  She sat between him and Sharlyn in the carriage, barely listening as they talked about the evening ahead. Charming Palace came into view, aglow with
countless torches in the near-darkness. Ella pressed her hands to her stomach, reassured by the feeling of her mum’s embroidery against her palms.

  “I imagine he’s doing it to prove that there’s nothing to worry about,” her dad was saying. “That even though Queen Maud’s gone missing, everything’s under control.”

  “And to give the scribes something else to talk about,” said Sharlyn.

  “True, true …”

  They came to the grand front staircase. On the wide steps were dozens of people wearing shoes and gowns and headdresses so fine that she probably looked like she was going to a picnic by comparison.

  But these people didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Their money didn’t make them better than the people back home. She thought of Lady Jacquard’s maid, sentenced to a month on Ragg Row. She thought of the sixty dead laborers up in Coldwater that the Criers hadn’t mentioned once. She thought of the letter her mum had written to those fairies.

  She would not be afraid to go to a ball with these people. They only ran the world — they didn’t know anything about it.

  Ella lifted her chin.

  “That’s it,” Sharlyn said quietly. “Shoulders back.”

  The carriage door opened, and Ella followed her stepmother onto the steps of the palace.

  GREETING guests at a ball was uncomfortable work. Standing under the weight of his formal suit and royal sash, amid the heat of candles and lamps, Dash sweated profusely. His hose itched and his feet hurt, but families kept marching through the doors and down the long blue carpet that led to the grand staircase, where they presented themselves to him and his father. Music thumped through the ballroom as the first-hour musicians played. They were called the Current, and Dash had never heard of them, but the beat was stirring and the fiddle was intense. He thought he would have liked it if he hadn’t been so miserable.

  “EXALTED MAVEN GARRICK, NEXUS OF THE BLUE KINGDOM,” the herald cried. “TAM PERIWIG GARRICK. MERCER PERIWIG GARRICK.”

  The Garricks moved toward them, and no one’s face showed a shadow of the distress Dash knew they all must feel. The king’s affair with Nexus Maven had ended, but that made things no less uncomfortable.