Cinderella's Not-So-Ugly Stepsister (Grimmer Fairy Tales Book 2)

by Lee Hayton

  Let me tell you something—that isn’t usual. Royals are creatures born to a mighty station. Far above the rest of us bedraggled mortals. They’re appointed by the Gods and the Fates to lead our people in times of need, through struggles varied and many. They don’t try to sneak a peek at dirty servant girls, tired from yet another long day spent cleaning.

  Yes, you’re right to catch the tone of sarcasm in that last passage. I do enjoy hearing how the “appointed ones” are more elevated than the rest of us. It’s so much fun to listen as the church leaders spout nonsense about divine prophecy and how it will be fulfilled by the birth of a male heir. You might find it strange too if you’d also heard the tales of firstborn female princesses being strangled like I had. Their tender baby bodies, plump and needy, being churned into the gardening earth to make the royal tomatoes grow.

  Still, nice to know that even Gods and Fates mess shit up sometimes. Do it too many times in a row, and hey-ho a new queen to take the dead one’s place.

  The feeling of being watched started to crawl up the back of my neck no matter where I traveled. At home one night, I ran my hands over every board that made up the walls of my shared bedroom. The rough surface poked splinters into my calloused flesh, but I couldn’t find a single knothole.

  When walking alone, I’d whip my head around at each sound, concerned that a big bad wolf would be upon me in an instant. All snarls and roars and gnashing teeth—the saber-sharp providers for a hungry belly.

  Not that there was ever anything there. At least, not that I could see. After a day of polishing, my eyes weren’t always the best judge of what was there and what wasn’t.

  So, time passed, as is its wont. A few days turned into weeks, turned into months. We were notified of a new party. Shown yet another cabinet bulging with silver, and the hardwood floor we could kneel on as we polished it to a shine.

  “You, girl.”

  The footman’s voice brought Anastasia and me to our feet. A few hours of polishing had worn my knees down into aching shards of pain. Both my sister and I scrambled and turned our heads, but his accusing finger aimed straight at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, speaking up as loud as my courage would allow me. If I stammered, it would be a waste of his valuable time and earn me a slap across my face.

  “You’re wanted upstairs. Come along. You.” Again, he pointed, only now it was at Anastasia. “You keep cleaning, girl. You’ll need to work double hard to pick up the slack.”

  Oh, for a union contract and human rights! As though, back then, I even knew those things existed.

  He led me up a staircase into a small bedroom. A servant’s quarters where no servant had laid their head for many years, based on the musty smell. The walls and floors were smooth wood, stained dark with a thousand trips and spills of the chamber pot. What would once have been a sharp tang of urine had faded instead into the mellow salt of age.

  “Sit there,” the footmen ordered. He pointed at the low dipping edge of a mattress that had seen better days. A tuft of hay poked out the side, a feather clinging to the worn fabric. Its innards, now outward.

  I sat, my heart beating into a cardiac tamponade, suffused with too much blood. Had I done something wrong? A question always in the back of my mind. Usually answered with a male voice listing each of my inadequacies.

  Footsteps outside sent a terrified shiver up my spine. This room, stored away upstairs like a forgotten secret, no one would think to search for my body here. My mother and Anastasia wouldn’t have the power to force the issue even though they’d suspect something was wrong. If a blade now cut my throat, a blunt instrument horrifically dented the side of my skull, my corpse would lie here forever after, rotting. No one who loved me would know where to look, and the powerful hands at play would draw a curtain over any curiosity.

  Oh boy, how grim! I can be maudlin at the first opportunity. Personally, I blame my upbringing, and by now, I hope you do too.

  But the footsteps were just the same man, this time with a ladies’ maid in tow. Her uniform was starched to the nth degree, as bright and clean as purity. In her arms, a gorgeous white gown was draped. Silk flowing like the fabric was crystalline waters. Lace dotted in a complicated spider’s web that made me catch my breath in awe.

  Beautiful things are meant to look at not to touch. I looked and looked and looked some more. My eyes feasted greedily on every detail. My fingers itched to stroke the material with such desperation that I sat upon them, trapping them safely away beneath my skinny ass.

  “Get dressed in this. You,” the footman pointed at the maid. “You knock when she’s done.”

  Get dressed? I stared at the two of them in confusion. Neither one met my eye. The footman’s gaze was on higher things. The maid’s was lowered in submission to the floor.

  When the door slammed, I put nervous hands up to my throat. “What’s happening?” I whispered. The servant girl only shrugged and shook her head.

  “You’ll need to get out of that,” she said, nodding at my attire.

  That. It was a good summing up of the garment I habitually wore. Not rags, not dirty until a day’s worth of polishing soiled it. My mother would have a stroke if she thought any of us were unkempt or unclean. But poverty and arduous work don’t make for pretty clothes. The cotton had worn threadbare in spots, the fabric losing all its shape. Wash after wash had bleached the initial colors into dull grayness. Soon, when the stitches to darn the hole found no original material left to sew together, we’d splash out and purchase something new. And by new, I mean third or fourth-hand.

  “I can’t put on this dress,” I replied, my statement correct in two different senses. I couldn’t wear a garment so expensive, so lovely, so delicate. The gown was so far above my station that I shuddered to think of my impoverished skin touching it.

  I also didn’t even know where to begin to get it over my head. Everywhere my eyes darted, there was another fastening, another stay, another ribbon tie. The complexity sent my heart into a second round of furious and frightening thumping.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” the maid explained. Suddenly understanding that I was no better than her, she risked her first glance at me. I stifled a gasp of horror at the wreckage of her face.

  An eye was gone, long scratch marks formed of scar tissue streaked viciously along her cheek. An animal must have been at her, though many years hence, judging by its healed state.

  The empty socket stared blankly out. A glare of accusation for whatever or whoever had been the last thing it ever saw. Echoes of my mom recriminating me for staring, shamed me until I looked away. I swallowed, and my throat felt narrow. My windpipe thinned into a wheezing straw.

  “Take your dress off,” the maid ordered. “Then hold your arms up over your head.”

  I unbuttoned my garment, loosening my shoulders from its tight confinement. Although I was used to undressing in front of company, it was solely in the presence of Anastasia or mother. Color crept into my cheeks as I thought of my worn undergarments, close to being fit only for rags.

  I chewed my lip as I slipped my dress down to the floor. Instead of raising my arms as instructed, they fell limply at my sides.

  “It’ll be okay,” the maid whispered in reassurance.

  She nodded at me, and I lifted my hands to insert them through the long silk middle of the beautiful gown. While she buttoned, pulled, tied, and smoothed, I wondered how she knew that everything would turn out alright. When I turned to ask, I saw again the damage done by some foul creature to her face. Then I recognized her expression as one of pity—for me. Her comforting statement was nothing but a lie.

  When the maid knocked her knuckles lightly on the door, alerting the footman, my body trembled with fear. The man ordered me to fall into step behind him, and I did so at once. He strode along darkened corridors, reaching farther and farther into the maze of castle rooms until I lost all sense of direction. The pit of worry in my stomach tightened harder into a knot of anxiety. Even i
f I were to run away now, there was no guarantee I’d find my way back to my sister. And wearing the provided finery, the footman would immediately give chase.

  Another room. Again, the air was thick with the scent of musk and abandonment. Dust lay piled in the crevices where a hastily swiped rag wouldn’t reach. In this one, a fireplace had been lit, and the flames crackled as they greedily ate up the dry wood. Instead of promoting a feeling of warmth and safety, all I could see was the fiery red glow of dying embers. A threat of burning skin and hair and bones.

  Didn’t I tell you? Maudlin. That’s me. Though it’s a habit learned through repeated application of misery, it still doesn’t make me a bundle of fun.

  The footman barked an order at me to wait, then turned and left the room. He clicked his heels, a gesture of respect born out of ingrained training, not actual emotion. The door closed behind him, leaving me frightened to the point of terror, and alone.

  Once you hear what happened next, you’ll wish—like me—I could have frozen right there, forever. Dread anticipation is awful, but many things are worse.

  ###

  Looking back over past events, I realize there are parts of my tale much better hidden from a waiting public.

  I could warn you of rape scenes, warn you of a young girl reduced to a set of open orifices. If you’ve been in the same situation, and I know you have, I can reawaken the shame and terror. I can crush your chest with the weight of fear until breath is a distant memory. Pound you with the knowledge that if you stretch your mouth wide in a terrified scream, you might find it plugged full of throbbing cock.

  Yes. I could tell you all those details.

  This episode is what you’re expecting, and I don’t like to disappoint. Life seems so sad and horrible until it descends into struggles of pure terror. No matter how well I think I’ve learned the lesson, events will teach me over and over again.

  I might still relate the story, I haven’t yet decided. But for the time being, there’s no need for a trigger warning. Relax for a moment. Lean back your head and draw a deep breath into your lungs. Feel your sprinting pulse soften into a regular beat.

  That part of the tale is coming for you. It will be dreadful. Whether I tell you the details, even their absence might rip a hole in your tender heart. I can hear it, dear reader—thumping away in a steady rhythm. Gentle and kind and still believing in happy endings.

  Your heart is safe with me. For the moment.

  It’s secure, the same way I was sheltered by the prince for a little while. That is the betrayal to wake me crying at night. Not the violence of a vicious attack but the long, slow dance preceding it. A dreamy waltz, which lulled me into a false sense of security, betrayed me into assuming all was right in the world.

  Of all the wicked things men do, that ranks among the worst.

  Chapter Two

  My father was a good man. He had a streak of disciplinarian about him but only to keep his girls safe.

  If he’d lived, if the disease hadn’t eaten his flesh away beneath his skin until he seemed comprised of only bones, I wonder how things would have been different. A good man as head of the household is so different from the rest of the childhood I knew.

  In a way, my father cheated me. First, he cheated me of his long and loving life, warm within his circle of protection. Next, he cheated me of certain knowledge that all men can be evil and the care that would have gifted me in future dealings.

  Grumble, grumble. What an awful daughter I am. Complaining so bitterly when my poor, old dad is the one who’s dead. Some of the hatred that story tellers point like a loaded gun in my direction must be warranted. Imagine being full of ingratitude because once someone treated me nicely. Spoiled brat.

  That evening in the castle, I thought the prince’s deep blue eyes reminded me of my father. Desperate to believe that something nice was happening, I jumped into his spell. Like an audience member straining to be noticed by the stage hypnotist, I didn’t even make him work hard for it.

  One beautiful dress, one nice evening meal laid out for us by servants, and I didn’t think twice. My father’s legacy was to raise a fool who still held hope for a better future in her heart.

  It didn’t occur to me at the time to question why this grandeur was tucked away deep in the secret dark heart of the castle. The prince paid me rapt attention without asking for anything except my company in return. When my words twisted and my brain stumbled, overwhelmed at the situation, the prince didn’t make fun of me. Not like my stepfather would have, or even my sister Anastasia if she were in a cross mood.

  The prince—sorry, I mean Francois—he just stretched a hand across the table and laid it on top of mine. “Take your time,” he said in a low growl. “We have all the time in the world.”

  How could he have known that time was a precious commodity to me? With so much of mine parceled out to other people, my work, my learning, my home, there was seldom any left for me.

  All the time in the world.

  He made it seem possible to exist in a world where there were no demands except for those I placed upon myself. His natural ease had grown out of a lifetime of wealth and wish fulfillment. Maybe I’d never reach that level, but looking into Francois’ twinkling blue eyes across the table, it seemed within my grasp.

  When the meal was over, the footman escorted me back to the servant’s quarters where the same maid helped me change back into my own clothes. They scratched against my skin where a few hours before they’d sat comfortably. The scent that rose from them was sad and old, compared to the crisp scent of freshly stitched luxury.

  “What happened? Where’d you go?” Anastasia asked, goggling when I walked back and knelt in place beside her just before it was time to leave.

  The footman glared a warning then tilted his nose up at an arrogant angle toward the ceiling. I shook my head at my sister and twisted a key across my lips.

  With the meal still sitting heavily in my stomach that night, Anastasia pestered me again to reveal my secret. First asking, then wheedling, then trying to guilt me into an answer because she’d had to do my job.

  I felt that last one. It was like a pull at my gut. Anastasia had worked twice as hard and all the time scared of what might have befallen me. I know how I would’ve felt if our positions were reversed, and Anastasia was more sensitive than I’d ever dreamed of being.

  The thought of the possible reprisals kept me from telling her.

  There was more to it than the stern expression from the footman. In my heart, a burgeoning warmth was growing, and I wanted to protect its flickering flame. To tell someone, to hear my doubts amplified through their thoughts, would douse it with a liquid of common sense and fear.

  A fool and their money are soon parted. So too, then, is a damsel and her heart.

  I could make excuses for my behavior now. Say how cruelly I was tricked. I was, that isn’t untrue, but I was also a willing victim. Here now, I had a secret. A handsome prince had stared at me across a table and whispered at how attractive I was. He’d whispered of how much I meant to him.

  It was mine. Francois was mine. As I grew older and my life became harder, something all my own was the thing I most desperately wanted. A secret, even though in the back of my mind I understood a price would be extracted soon.

  Why are my thoughts of downfall never wrong?

  ###

  Mindful of my sister’s weary hands, the next time the footman summoned me I gently asked if another servant could assist with my chores. He sniffed, and I gave in immediately, following meekly along behind. The third time he fetched me I broached the subject again. Once more my concerns were ignored. The fourth time, when I believed the prince had fallen as hard for me as I had for him, I insisted. While waiting for a decision my pulse rate shot up, and my vision wavered in and out with the racing beats. But then he gave one firm nod, and a young girl was summoned from another task to help Anastasia.

  Again, that roused my sister’s curiosity something fier
ce, but she knew me well enough to stop asking. Her empathy overcame her desire to know. With the understanding that I wouldn’t part with the information, she stopped bugging me.

  One night, at home over the dinner table, my mother frowned and mentioned seeing me in a different room in the castle than I should have been. Her tone clearly indicated she thought I was in the wrong place. Anastasia’s forceful denial provided me an alibi without even a persuading glance having to be cast her way.

  By then, the prince and I were thick as thieves. I fancied myself in love, and I imagined he was captured by the same emotion. The lingering glances that he stroked over my body like a caress, I took as symptoms of his desire. The ever-more-extreme charades I went through to dress, to dine, to dance with him, I interpreted as pleasurable games of intrigue. One day he took me horse-riding, propped side saddle in front of him, and jokingly let go. I almost tumbled down beneath the horse’s hooves before the prince jerked me back to safety. When I saw his grinning face, I thought it must have been a form of loving tease.

  Ha! I say “thought.” You can probably tell for yourself I wasn’t doing much thinking at all.

  Hurried fumbles near the stables sent my heart beating in excitement. Quick caresses in dark corridors made my head hot and light, as though it were exploding. I mistook grooming for enchantment, planning for spontaneity. One night I curtsied before a roomful of bawdy men, thinking it was an introduction to the prince’s friends.

  But we’re moving too quickly.

  After just a few weeks of stolen moments had added to a treasure chest of emotional loot, the prince walked me alone into the forest and got down on one knee.

  Bliss.

  For a long moment, I couldn’t hear his proposal over the beating of blood in my eardrums. I felt giddy, my head drifted away lighter than a feather. Only the grip of his warm hand on mine brought me back into the moment.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Confident to the last, Francois slipped a ring upon my finger without waiting for my answer. Just as well, I was so breathless there was no spoken answer to be had. A kiss, though. That I could do. Soft and warm and lingering. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the delicate tingle of his lips, gently pressed against mine. A tactile sensation, so light, so gentle. Yet it survived through the years when a thousand rougher touches melted away.