Disenchanted: The Trials of Cinderella

by Megan Morrison

  “Exalted Nexus,” said his father, smiling. “Welcome. How are all the Garricks this evening?”

  “Delighted to be here, sir,” said the Nexus. Her amulet gleamed against the bodice of her gown.

  Her husband’s face was placid as he bowed to his sovereign. He bowed in exactly the same way to Dash, who blushed with guilt that wasn’t his. Their son, Mercer, had long been among Dash’s circle of friends; now Mercer gazed at him without expression, like they’d never met.

  Dash worked for something neutral to say to his classmate. “So awkward,” was what blurted out of him. And though it was true, this was not a moment for truth; it was a moment for superficial pleasantries, for making pretend that nothing was the matter.

  The Nexus’s expression froze. The king went still. Dash flushed with horrible heat.

  Both Mercer and his father, however, appeared to thaw slightly. They glanced at Dash, who thought he saw a smile touch the corner of Mercer’s mouth as his family retreated.

  “Oh, excellent,” the king muttered. “Is this what’s left of you, now that the curse is broken? A social illiterate?”

  “You wanted me at this ball,” Dash managed. “You’ve got me.”

  “LADY CAMEO SHANTUNG. CHALLIS SHANTUNG. CHEMISE SHANTUNG.”

  “The Shantung fortune is all but gone, you know — Jacquard Silks has put them nearly out of business,” said his father. “Perhaps you’d like to throw that in their faces when they greet us.”

  The king fell silent as Lady Shantung and her daughters drew close enough to hear him. If they were on the edge of ruin, it didn’t show; they were dressed in sharp gowns with sheer panels peeking from the skirts, and high, jeweled shoes. They curtsied, and Chemise regarded Dash with interest. His voice caught in his throat as he remembered the things he’d said to her under the curse. Satin skin, graceful hands, eyes that hypnotized his heart. Lips as succulent as berries. He’d actually said that while kissing her. Succulent. His face boiled.

  At least during the formal greetings he wasn’t expected to speak much. If anyone asked him his name right now, he didn’t believe he could choke out the syllable.

  “SIR GORE FARTHINGALE. CHANTILLY FARTHINGALE. TIFFANY FARTHINGALE. ”

  His father chuckled. “Here comes your lovesick pup.”

  “Shut up,” Dash said hoarsely. He had not recovered from facing Chemise; he could not deal with Tiffany. But on she came, with her father and sister, and she positioned herself right in front of him. Her limp blond hair was tortured into a system of curls that looked like a fancy hat. Big glass baubles the size of lemons hung from her earlobes. Dash knew it was all meant to impress him, but it only infected him with the impolite urge to laugh — an urge that was quelled by the desperate gaze Tiffany fixed on him, her big blue eyes full of unchecked hope.

  “How marvelous to see you, Sir Gore,” said the king cheerfully. “Your daughters are the picture of loveliness. Aren’t they, son?”

  Dash willed himself to say something polite, but no helpful lie occurred to him. Tiffany ducked her head demurely, and her glass earrings wobbled. “Your earrings,” Dash said. “Very — big. Very clear.”

  His father was right. He was socially inept. A complete buffoon.

  “Thank you, sir,” Tiffany whispered, glancing up at him again. “I hoped you’d like them.”

  Dash was relieved when the Farthingales moved on. His father laughed heartily.

  “You know,” said the king. “There’s nothing wrong with a simple ‘Good evening.’ You should try it.”

  They greeted the Batiks and the Panniers, the Brogues and the Zoris, the Quebrachos, Trapuntos, and Whipcords. Dash said nothing but “Good evening,” to any of them.

  “LADY SHARLYN GOURD-SOURWOOD-COACH,” cried the Herald. “EARNEST GOURD-COACH. ELEGANT HERRINGBONE COACH.”

  Dash looked at the ballroom doors and was arrested.

  Ella. The girl with the smoking bag. The one who had run away from him.

  She stood between her parents, looking like one of those statues in the War Museum, with her shoulders flung proudly back and her chin thrust out like she was issuing a challenge to the whole room. Her bronze curls, simply arranged, shone around her face. Against the brown of her skin, her white gown shocked the eye, and as she drew closer, Dash saw that she was unembellished except for the embroidery on her dress — no feathers, no heels, and no jewels — just a simple golden chain at her throat.

  “New blood,” the king murmured. “Always interesting.”

  The whole ballroom watched the Gourd-Coaches approach. Scribes scribbled furiously in their corners. Students from Coterie pointed at Ella and whispered to one another. Some of them glared at her, Dash noticed; others laughed behind their hands.

  “Your Majesty.” Lady Gourd-Coach curtsied, and Earnest Coach inclined his head. Ella bobbed awkwardly. “Your Royal Highness.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” said King Clement.

  “Our family has not had that pleasure, sir.” Lady Gourd-Coach met the king’s gaze with ease. “My cousin, Royal Governor Calabaza of Yellow Country, sends his regards.”

  “Calabaza! My best wishes for his health. I understand that our talented musicians tonight are your children?” Upon the dais at the side of the ballroom, the drummer shot showers of colored sparks from his fingertips, making people’s faces glow purple, then gold, then green.

  “My daughter and son, sir. Their band is the Current.”

  “An auspicious debut. And is this your youngest?”

  “Ella’s my daughter, Your Majesty,” said Earnest Coach, speaking for the first time. He had a slight southern accent; it reminded Dash of his mother’s voice. “She and I have lived in Quintessential for just about four months, since moving our headquarters to the Avenue — Practical Elegance, if you’ve heard of it.”

  “The famous Cinder Stoppers, of course,” said the king. “Little Cinderella, isn’t that what the scribes call you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Ella looked ever so slightly pained.

  “Dash left Quintessential about six months ago, so these two won’t have met at school. Say hello, son,” his father prompted.

  Ella flicked her eyes to Dash’s, and he stood dumb, burning inwardly. The triumphant way she carried herself made him nervous.

  “Good evening,” he managed.

  “Good evening, Your Highness,” she replied.

  Her family joined the crowd. The king followed them with his eyes. “Reminds me of Maud,” he said. “With her country necklace and her terrible curtsy. Watch out, son.”

  They greeted another handful of Coterie families, and then the line of entrants came to an end with a final flourish.

  “LADY LARIAT JACQUARD, DIRECTOR OF THE GARMENT GUILD, FIRST CHAIR OF THE HOUSE OF MORTALS. LAVALIERE JACQUARD.”

  “No insults.” Dash’s father glanced at him. “I mean it. Speak well or be silent.”

  The first ladies of Quintessential glittered at the opposite end of the velvet carpet. With faultless poise, they approached the staircase, and the crowd watched their progress like one many-headed monster, alive with curiosity and envy.

  “Your future bride,” the king said in a low voice. “And looking like it.”

  Every bit of Lavaliere Jacquard was beautiful, graceful, and restrained, from the crystal circlet that bound her dark hair to the shimmering silver gown, delicate as a spiderweb, that clung to her elegant figure, its train floating in sheer wisps behind her.

  “Lariat, you’ve outdone yourself,” said the king, gesturing overhead at the lights and flowers that cascaded with elegant effortlessness around them. “I hope you’ll save me the fifth dance. Let’s all of us make it the highlight of the evening, shall we?”

  “I would be honored, sir,” said Lariat.

  Lavaliere extended her hand to Dash. Out of habit, he kissed it, which was far more attention than he’d paid to any other girl. It sent up murmurs all around the room. Lavaliere lowered her lon
g lashes. Lady Jacquard and King Clement exchanged smiles. The scribes at the walls nearly broke the nibs of their pens writing down every detail.

  The musicians finished the last song of the hour with a flourish of bright white sparks that elicited a noise of approval from the crowd. As the Jacquards swept away from the grand staircase, the Current left the stage and Pulse replaced them, oozing into position with their instruments poised, long blue hair hanging in sheets past their elbows.

  “Time to dance,” said the king.

  Dash approached Chemise without meeting her eyes and led her to the center of the blue-and-white marble dance floor. He’d danced in public a hundred times, but the eyes of Quintessential had never crushed him like this. He felt faint. He held up his sweating hands, palms out. Chemise placed her fingers against his and stepped close, smelling of lilacs.

  “It’s good to see you, Dash,” she ventured. “I couldn’t picture you without hair, but it looks nice, actually.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Are you feeling all right?”

  He knew she meant the curse.

  “I don’t want to talk,” he choked.

  Chemise’s eyes registered hurt, but she quickly turned the subject. “I love Pulse, don’t you?” she asked. “All the old dances feel so fresh to their music….” She chattered amiably on to fill the uncomfortable silence, and Dash shut his mouth before anything else unpleasant fell out of it.

  At a nod from the king, Pulse struck up the first song. The rhythm rolled and undulated, stirring the dancers into motion. Dash raised his arms along with Chemise and mirrored her in the series of angular, jerking motions that had been in fashion for the last few years. Under the curse, he had always been a fine dancer, confident in his movements. Now his arms didn’t seem to belong to him. He couldn’t remember the next move — he panicked and went the wrong way, nearly slamming into Mercer and Loom, who sidestepped him with twin looks of reproach. He lunged back toward Chemise and smacked her arm, hard. She sucked in a breath.

  “Sorry,” he gasped.

  She gave him a weak smile, but in her eyes he saw the light of judgment flicker. She thought him strange. He was strange. When the dance ended, she evaporated from his side.

  Paisley Pannier stepped up for her turn, wearing a gown so elaborate that Dash had no idea how to get near enough to hold her by the waist. He had to try a couple of angles before he figured it out, and Paisley watched him struggle, one eyebrow raised. Fortunately, she was happiest when she was listening to herself talk, so Dash was not required to speak for the duration of the second dance.

  Dimity Gusset was not so easily borne. Her gleaming red hair was piled on her head and topped with a crystalline ornament that looked like a bird’s nest full of transparent eggs. When Dash gaped at it, she laughed at him. “You used to say such nice things about my hair,” she teased, and throughout the course of their dance together, she acted almost like a scribe, asking personal questions and pushing for details, though he did not answer. She needled him until the end of the dance, then made her way over to Lavaliere to gossip about him, no doubt.

  The dancers changed partners, and he turned. To his horror, Tiffany Farthingale was before him. Dash stared at her in shock. He’d forgotten it was the fourth dance. Tiffany was already on the verge of tears; her chin wobbled as violently as her earrings.

  “I missed you,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  They had been math partners in school last year. Every day, for that hour, the curse had given Tiffany Farthingale its full attention. The other girls in his set had always seemed to understand that his flattery couldn’t be helped and shouldn’t be believed, and apart from a few kisses, they’d left him to Lavaliere. Only Tiffany had treated his attentions as though they were real.

  She held out her hands to him. Dash took them because it was part of the dance. She clasped them and leaned in close. “I don’t care about the curse being broken,” she whispered. “I’ve always known the real you.”

  But she hadn’t. No one had. She laid her head against his shoulder, though that was not part of the dance, and he cringed as every scribe in the room began to scribble madly.

  “Don’t.” He shrugged his shoulder to get her off it.

  Tears appeared instantly in her eyes. “Before you left, you said I was the only girl who —”

  “That was the curse! You knew it wasn’t real.”

  He didn’t mean to shout it. Around them, dancers stilled. Scribes nearly combusted in delight.

  Tiffany fainted.

  Guards bore her away. Everyone was talking — laughing — their voices were an oppressive buzz. Dash saw Lariat Jacquard going from guest to guest — he saw his father speaking with Cameo Shantung, who gazed at Dash with pity. There was only one thing he could do.

  He ran.

  SHE hid in the royal privy for the second and third dances.

  Somehow, like magic, Sharlyn had managed to arrange a dance partner for her within five minutes of their being in the palace, and Ella had been forced to endure Oxford Truss, whose cologne smelled like medicine and who spent the entire dance instructing her to be lighter on her feet. At the end of the song, when she saw Sharlyn beckon, she ducked into the crowd and made her way to the far end of the grand ballroom, where she asked an attendant for the privy chamber. She was shown down a corridor, and she gratefully escaped.

  But she couldn’t stay in here all night.

  The sound of heavy footsteps in the hall decided things. Somebody needed the privy, and she would have to hide somewhere else. Ella pushed the door open, stepped into the corridor, and collided with a very tall person who was running like someone had set dogs after him. He tripped and brought himself to a brief halt, panting.

  “Sorry!” she said. “Sir,” she added, as she realized whom she’d slammed into. Prince Dash stared at her in wide-eyed panic. His smooth head shone with sweat. He turned and ran again, just a few more steps, before pushing open a door and stumbling through it into the darkness of what appeared to be a garden.

  She peered down the corridor toward the ballroom, but no one had followed the prince. Slowly, she approached the garden door. She looked both ways to be sure no one could see her, and then she plucked the queen’s ring out of her bodice.

  She would give it back to him now, while there was a moment of privacy. She’d thought about leaving it in a plant somewhere, but then someone might steal it. Of course, the prince might think that she had stolen it, but she could explain what had happened. Or she hoped she could.

  She stepped into the garden.

  IT was a very small garden, dark and cool, and it smelled like soil, and the sea. He slumped against one of the vine-covered walls, breathing in huge gulps of air and trying, with sweating fingers, to loosen his cravat.

  He loved his mother. He would not tell his father where she was. But this ball was torture.

  “Your Highness?”

  Dash spasmed and smacked the back of his head against the wall. Ella Coach stood just inside the garden door, one lip between her teeth.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “Sir,” she added. She took a step toward him and offered him something small and sparkling. “Just wanted to give this back,” she said. “Your mum — the queen — Her Majesty, that is — she gave me this on her way out of town.”

  Startled by the mention of his mother’s leaving, Dash snatched the sparkling thing from Ella’s fingertips and held it up. He gaped at the sight of his mother’s wedding ring.

  “She gave you this?” he demanded, incredulous. “When?”

  “Right before she caught her ship. I must’ve left C-Prep at the same time she did, and we both wound up in the same —”

  Dash cut her off. “You know she caught a ship?”

  Ella shrugged. “I know she got off at the docks.”

  “Who have you told? The Criers?” His voice was harsh.

  Fear gleamed in Ella’s eyes. “Nobody,” she said. “It’s not like tha
t, I swear.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Nothing! Look, it’s a royal ring, right? I brought it back where it belongs, that’s all. Good evening, sir.” She curtsied unsteadily, then hurried away from him.

  “Wait!”

  She did not stop. No sooner had she fled the garden than Spaulder stepped into it, in his official dress uniform and plumage. Dash shoved his mother’s ring into the pocket of his trousers before the head guard caught sight of it.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Spaulder glanced back in the direction where Ella had gone, and he arched a bushy eyebrow. “His Majesty the King commands you to return to the ball.” He pulled a watch from his pocket and stepped aside to give Dash access to the corridor, where two more guards awaited in the shadows. “If you’re not moving in one minute,” he said, “we’ll carry you. Fair warning.”

  Dash wasn’t about to give his father the satisfaction — and anyway, he wanted to go back. Ella Coach was in that ballroom, and Ella Coach had spoken with his mother before she left. She knew too much. He needed to know what she planned.

  He swept past the guards, down the corridor, and back to the ball.

  WHEN she returned to the party, Sharlyn found her at once.

  “Where have you been?” she hissed as she and Ella’s dad flanked her on either side, swift as dragons. “I arranged dances for you — it’s been embarrassing. You can’t just disappear like that. You’ll hurt the company.”

  “How does my not dancing hurt Practical Elegance?” Ella asked, glancing over her shoulder to see if Prince Dash was after her and hoping very much that she wasn’t about to get into royal trouble. The prince hadn’t been too happy to see her with his mum’s ring.

  “You’re making us look socially incapable,” Sharlyn hissed. “That matters to these people just as much as their profits do. Stay right here, do you hear me? I’ve arranged for the Garters’ son to dance the fifth with you.”