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

by Lee Hayton

  Ah. I really must stop this now. Maudlin may be okay in small doses but any more today and, dear reader, you’ll be long gone.

  Maybe the only thing you really need to know is that Gerald was a gentleman. Raised correctly, with respect drilled into the servitude of his soul. A good man in a castle where that type of creature was a rarity. When he saw what was done to me, he took it very badly indeed.

  Yes, he was there, and no, I didn’t blame him for not intervening. It never occurred to me that he would, and there’s no need to blame others when they’re so busy blaming themselves. When my pain-filled eyes turned to him in a beseeching look of terror, he didn’t turn aside or laugh as the other men would. He didn’t step forward then, but when I haunted his dreams, he always came to my rescue.

  Although I didn’t grasp all of this at the time—how could I—instinctively I believed that he would help me. Or maybe even that’s a lie. There’s a good possibility that I turned to him due to a lack of knowing anywhere else to turn.

  The white dress.

  After the first night, there’d been other dresses, other outfits, other garments made to my exact specifications. Clothes that I would no longer fit, or which were torn and stained beyond repair.

  But that gorgeous white dress. The one that I’d worn the first time. It had ties and stays that would adjust with my changing size. It had the delicate lace that offset the bloom of my skin to perfection. It may not have been made for me but at the time that was an advantage, not a drawback. If I could wear that dress, the same as I’d worn the first time we sat down to talk together, sparks might fly again, and magic might reoccur.

  Gerald helped me. Even though his face flushed the deepest crimson and he spoke with a stutter, he agreed to find it. He agreed to bring it to me. He agreed to get it to me the night before the ball.

  I was so relieved it’s hard to express. My sisters and I would now all go to the ball together. If I was wrong in my assessment, and the wriggling worm of anxiety in my belly told me I was fine to keep my doubts, then at least I’d have someone to talk with. Maybe we could even spin each other around the dance floor. If the best we could hope for was a good night out, then that was what we’d have.

  Otherwise, for that period, I seemed to live in suspended animation. My world had reverted to its previous routine. Now that the nausea was at an end, and my body was changing only slowly, some days I could pretend the past months had been nothing but a dream.

  Or a nightmare. You pick.

  My mother would be staying home that night. As a married woman, she wasn’t eligible. A night in with her husband, I felt sorry for her, but at least she could stuff herself full of our abandoned portions. The ball was to be catered. Anastasia and I could have guessed that solely from the polishing. Cutlery drawer after cutlery drawer upended in a tarnished pile in front of us.

  The long hours began to weary me as they never had before. Sometimes Anastasia’s ceaseless chatter thumped down on the same nerve until it was left raw. At times, I bit down on my retorts so hard, I’d bite through the edge of my tongue. It ulcerated from the constant damage, leaving me in an even sorer mood.

  These women, the ones who enjoy their pregnancies from start to finish, there’s something wrong with them. Oh! I’m glad to see that you agree. Either they’re lying, which rubs me up the wrong way, or they’re not, which is a thousand times worse.

  My feet would swell randomly. My back would ache, even though my belly hadn’t grown much more than an inch or two around. My breasts were sore and fuller. My nipples rubbed with painful friction against my dress during the day and against my nightgown and sheets at night.

  These bras you girls wear now. I can only imagine the agony. Rub, rub, rub. All bloody day, it must drive you mad. It amuses me to pity you for a change.

  Of course, that assumes you pity a fool like me at all.

  One day out from the ball and Gerald was as good as his word. He passed by me in the kitchen, rubbing tarnish from knives and trying not to think how’d they look poking out of various people’s backs. He gave me a nod and tapped on the side of his nose. I smiled and nodded back, but inside I was rolling my eyes. Why not shout out, “Hey, I remember that secret thing,” while you’re at it? Nod, nod, wink, wink, indeed.

  I met him out by the stables. A place where it made sense for us both to be. The poor horses had the indignity of the ladies’ privy nearby, and Gerald was charged with keeping tabs on Francois’ horses.

  “I’ve left it for you, under the giant fig tree on your way home,” he said. “It’s wrapped securely in a water-tight package, so you don’t need to worry about it being damaged.”

  Despite all my bad moods, my tender nipples, and my aching teeth as the baby stripped their calcium until they were nothing more than nubs, I flung my arms around Gerald’s shoulders in pure gratitude. For a moment, I bent my head down and sheltered in the warm curve of his neck.

  Gerald was old, Gerald was a widower, Gerald was kind, Gerald was safe. My heart was overwhelmed with how much he’d done for me, never demanding payment in return.

  When I drew back, his face was again dark crimson. This time the flush was of pure pleasure rather than shame. “Now, now,” he said, his voice gruff as a big bad wolf’s. “There’s no need for such displays.”

  I curtsied then, a deep one that made my knees crack. It was almost a joke given Gerald’s response but was the only way I could think to show my sincere gratitude. The other method I’d been shown wouldn’t have worked on such a man.

  I scurried back to my position in the kitchen, forgetting to actually use the privy I was in such a hurry. A decision that gritted my teeth tight together with regret as I waited the four hours required until I could next take leave from my position. My baby might not be big, but he sure lay heavy on my bladder.

  The hardest thing that night was splitting off from Anastasia and Mom for long enough to retrieve the package. Luckily, I used my overworked bladder once again as an excuse.

  The fig tree wasn’t the largest tree in that forest, but it might have been the oldest. Its gnarled branches formed faces, trapped in terrified expressions beneath the bark. All around it, the fleshy fruits matured in bulk and dropped to spoil upon the ground. No one ate them—no one, ever. The tree grew twisted on poisoned land. If you ate anything from it, you would surely die.

  I crept on my knees underneath the lowest branches. My eyes scoured the ground as best they could in the dying light of the day. As I crawled forward, my knees broke the rotting fruit open, releasing their pungent fragrance into the air. Like honey and meat that had gone bad many days before.

  A wasp darted past my face, a bright flash of color jerking my attention from the ground. Another buzzed its shrill siren past my ear, and the hairs rose on the back of my neck. A nest must be nearby. Wasps don’t travel far unless they need to. As the light faded, I grew more careful, and my sister Anastasia called out in distress.

  “Where are you? Do you need some help?”

  My heart pounded as I realized I’d been gone too long. Even though my sister was easily worried she was also sensible. If she was calling out, it meant my mother had grown anxious too.

  “I’ll just be a moment,” I called back. “It’s too embarrassing. Don’t come near!”

  Hopefully thinking that would ward her off for a few minutes more.

  The fig tree trunk was hollowed. Long ago some noxious creature had split the bark from its wooden body, leaving part of the tree exposed to die. Insects and burrowing animals had done the rest of the work, creating a deep crevice in which to hide.

  And there the package was. Tied neatly with a piece of string, showcasing Gerald’s dexterity. My eyes filled with easy tears as I grabbed it and hugged it close against my body. Though I knew my family was waiting, growing concerned, I took a moment to give thanks. It’s been a long time since I prayed. A long time since I believed in anything other than misery, but then I still held some faith. I offered up my tha
nks and then tied the large package tightly to my leg and covered it with my long skirts.

  The waddle home after that seemed endless. I was fearful that at any moment the bundle would slip. But I’d had the luck of giving myself the perfect excuse. I rubbed my belly, shook my head, and just apologized for my long privy break. My mother pulled Anastasia back from touching me and warned her of how easily these bugs spread.

  I managed to get home safely, package intact. Once at home, I hid it underneath my mattress. My mind itched to open it up and try it on, but there’d be ructions if I were seen in anything that didn’t belong.

  Suddenly Cinderella was the high and mighty queen of our humble abode. Her father’s attitude change sickened me, but she just grew proud and tall under this new strange spell. Careful of her health and well being for the first time in . . .Well, ever—he’d seat her at the table and make sure she got enough to eat.

  That man. My ire rose as I saw the hands that had once beaten me for daring to help his daughter caress her golden hair and rest lightly upon her shoulders. The hands I’d once seen twist my mother’s arm up behind her back until her shoulder crunched close to bursting out of joint and she squealed higher than the pigs we kept out back.

  I don’t understand the point of view that allows that dichotomous behavior to exist.

  But, to be fair, it meant the hollow feeling at the base of my stomach that I felt whenever I dwelt on my stepsister’s situation, disappeared. The twist of guilt that I was better off settled down so I could fully focus on my own misery.

  Hope is a terrible thing to bear. I once heard a woman say that hope was really another word for despair. It’s what you clutch hold of when you’ve lost against all the odds. It’s what’s left when everything else is forcibly wrenched away.

  Late that night, when I could discern the subtle sounds of every member of our household sleeping, I pulled out the package carefully and tiptoed out the door and round the back. While the animals blinked at me in sleepy surprise, their jaws stretching wide in yawns that I soon mimicked, I opened the package to pull out the gown that I remembered so fondly.

  In the moonlight, the silk highlights caught and reflected as though spun from the same silver I spent all day polishing. The lace was as delicate as a puff of smoke, disappearing and reappearing in the dim light.

  My breath hitched in my throat. My mind flooded with the memory of the girl I’d been when I last wore this. I remembered that horrible dread that sat heavy in my stomach as the footman left me alone in the room. I recognized the tread of steps upon the stone floors outside, drawing ever nearer down the corridor. When the handle of the door turned in a slow semicircle, I’d thought a beast would come roaring through the door. My heart was drumming, my eyes saw everything in incredible focus, my ears could have heard a pin drop across the courtyard, even over the constant pulsing rush of my blood.

  With so much pent up fear, for a moment after the prince opened the door to reveal himself, my eyes painted a roaring beast upon him. Jaws open wide to snap, teeth sharpened to bite and tear, a hungry belly to prompt him into the fight.

  But I blinked my eyes, and that image disappeared. In its place stood the charming prince, a visage enough to keep any young girl’s heart pumping.

  Standing in the mud of the outside courtyard, my heart filled with sorrow as I realized my first instinct was right.

  Why was I even pursuing him, then?

  A good question and one that doesn’t bear scrutiny. I could talk about being poor, being powerless, and the difference when you suddenly weren’t. I could talk about being in thrall to a demon and never get within shouting distance of the truth.

  I pursued him because he’s the one who got me into trouble and it was only fair he be the one to rescue me out of it. Deeper still, I blamed him. I wanted to ruin his life the same way he’d ruined mine.

  Well. I said I wasn’t ugly. I never claimed I wasn’t bitter and twisted.

  I’ve seen worse things than that since. I’ve seen woman kept captive underground for years, turn around and marry their captors. I’ve seen child brides married to aging men, throwing themselves on the funeral pyre to burn to their death.

  The world is a cruel place. The more twisted I am, the better I fit in it.

  Besides, at the heart of every beautiful girl is an urge to win, to be named the best. If I caught the eye of the prince of our Kingdom, then I could claim superiority over everyone.

  My hands are shaking. My head is thumping so hard that I’m finding it hard to hear. This tale isn’t an easy one for either of us, me to say, you to hear.

  Perhaps things will go quicker if you cease to question my motives?

  So, there I was, outside in the mud. Alone and frightened, but looking upon a true work of art. Even though I yearned to try the frock on, there was no way I was risking it falling into the mud. I needed to keep it pristine so that I would matter.

  Still, before I tucked it back inside its waterproof package and found a safer hiding place, I held it up against the length of my body. It flowed like liquid down my thighs. When I’d put it on, it would push and pull my curves into all the right places.

  There was a shelf above the highest chicken roost. Meant for storing extra feed, though we weren’t well enough off to ever stock it. I stood on tiptoe to place the dress up there, pulling straw across to disguise its bulk. When I relaxed down onto my heels again, I was face to face with a chicken. It tilted its head in jerks, taking little bird pictures to fit into its little bird brain. A single tear tracked down my cheek as I imagined how easy that hen had it. Lay an egg in the morning, then spend the rest of the day running around and pecking food off the ground. Tuck her head under the wing and night and, hey-presto, asleep.

  No tossing and turning while the bed covers twisted up around its legs for the chickens. When I crept back inside and tucked myself back in bed, I stuck my head beneath my armpit to see if the same trick worked on humans. Maybe the softening feathers were the missing ingredient, but all that happened was I could acutely smell my own sweat.

  With only one day to go until the ball, I was a nervous wreck. My hair seemed to have decided now was the time to lose its shine, hanging like tangled blond seaweed around my shoulders. My entire body had begun to retain water like it thought I was about to trek into the middle of the desert. My ankles swelled up like inner tubes. Even stretching them out, flat on the floor in front of me, as I polished, did nothing to relieve the pressure or the swelling.

  I was desperately sad that I wouldn’t be able to fit into the gown I’d so carefully arranged. Terrified that for some reason malign fate would send my stepfather’s hand furrowing along the top shelf. Without warning, a cloud of misery settled down over me. It was all I could do to take the next breath.

  Meanwhile, Anastasia, sensing some of my sadness, chattered away a mile a minute to ease my mood. Even when my answers were morose and interspersed with prolonged periods of silence, she kept going. Knowing through our shared bond how to raise my battered spirits.

  “You can have the dress,” she sputtered after midday.

  I’d fallen into a spell of boredom watching the metal begin to gleam under my polishing rag. It took a moment for my sister’s words to sink their way down into my brain.

  “What? No.”

  Anastasia’s face crumpled as though it were made of tissue paper. Great sobs started to pull at her chest.

  “Ana? What’s the matter?”

  I dropped the knife I was holding to the floor and clambered over to her. Even though spying eyes would no doubt be reporting me up the food chain already, I held her close, rocking her convulsing body to and fro.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said. The fight she had to get her words out over the force of her sobs, tangling her features into a knot of frustration. “What’s wrong with you?”

  My close hold on her eased, and I began to pull away. But her clutching hand caught me in a vice-like-grip before I could f
lee.

  “There’s something wrong with you. Where did you go all those times you left me alone here? What were you doing? Why won’t you even tell me?”

  She collapsed onto the floor again, her fingers loosening their grip on my upper arm. Tears threatened at the back of my throat, my nose began to drip, and it grew moister to breathe.

  “There’s nothing—”

  “You’re such a liar,” she shouted, pounding her fist upon the floor in frustration. “I’m your sister. I’m your flesh and blood. You tell more to that slave in the cinders than you do to me!”

  My whole body flinched away from the violent implications of her statement. Our close bond snapped in two like it was a dry twig. Is that how she saw our poor abused stepsister? A slave who was beneath her contempt? My world started to spin and turn upon its axis. Even kneeling on the floor, I felt like I could fall at any second.

  “I don’t tell anybody anything,” I whispered. Steps advanced down the corridor toward our room, and I forced myself to pick up a knife and start working again.

  “Ana, stop crying. Someone’s coming.”

  But Anastasia pounded her fists on the floorboards like a baby. Her face scrunched up until her entire bone structure transformed into one giant pout.

  I looked away from her, focusing on the job in front of me. My heart beat faster and faster as adrenaline ran through my body in a flood.

  “Anastasia?”

  Gerald stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the wooden frame. He wouldn’t catch my eye, even though I tried to chase it down.

  “She’s just upset for a moment, sir. The thought of the party tomorrow night is quite overwhelming,” I babbled.

  Anastasia gathered up her skirts and rose to her feet. She smoothed her dress down over her flat stomach. “I’m Anastasia. What is it that you want?”

  Her posh voice. The one she’d used to great amusement at school when we were much younger children. Now the dubious gift of seeing my sister in a new light was upon me, buried memories pushed through. Anastasia’s mimicry could be accurate, but it could also be cruel. A handful of girls had always tagged along behind her as she skipped through the playground. Sometimes their faces were full of wicked merriment, other times stretched in terror, afraid they’d be targeted next.