Werewolf Cinderella

by Amanda Milo

  ***

  I change to human, something I’m getting better control of everyday. I ignore the chill of the stones under my foot, and the roughness of each brick that scuffs the ragged bottom of my stump. I wash my face and hands in the pail in the sink, leaving the water a bit murkier than it started, and dress in a simple shift that is so stained it looks like I fell in the slop bucket.

  Sadly, I did. It’s hard to adjust from three legs to two. As I’ve said, when I’m a wolf, I carry on fairly well with only one rear leg.

  As a human, I… don’t.

  I keep an ear tuned to the stairs. There’s a servant woman bustling about this morning. Of course she’s none the wiser about my existence, and it’s best to keep it that way. Most all of the mouthwatering food was already carried upstairs so it could appear fully prepared like magic on the side table. But laid out for me down here are all manner of tarts and treats and goodies.

  My eyes tear up at my stepmother’s care, which, as far as she’s concerned, she’s only showing in a small way. However, it’s far more impactful to the recipient when a meal—one that doesn’t bite back, or veer and dash and run faster than you—is provided so damn lovingly. Prepared meals can’t be seen as anything but precious forevermore.

  When I glance around at her workspace, which looks like a madwoman abandoned it—flour dust everywhere, rolling pins, Stepmother’s favorite crust-pressing fork, odds and ends and the like—my eyes fall on a sugarloaf.

  Stepmother always keeps the cones of sweetness on hand for her creations. And perhaps it’s because my emotions were already tapped like a spigot being driven into a maple tree in February, but sweet memories rush to my forefront. Gareth, prince of our realm, sitting beside me and my sisters in our humble (compared to his) kitchen, making use of his long arms to take up the pair of creaky sugar nips and break off bits of sugar chunks for us girls whenever Stepmother pretended not to be watching.

  I sniff, and give myself a shake. My eyes fall on a plate of butter cookies, with a little jar of lemon curd beside them.

  A lump forms in my throat. Every time I enjoy this particular treat, I hearken back to when my stepmother pointed a yellow, curd-coated spoon at Gareth’s face, demanding he taste it and give her his male opinion.

  “Why his opinion?” I’d asked in a huff. “You could’ve asked me.”

  She’d pointed a flour-coated finger at my nose, making me cross my eyes before I tugged my head back and met her sparkling gaze. “That attitude right there. Best be glad your beau here likes tart things, or he’d be sick of your sassy tongue!”

  “I looove her sassy tongue,” Gareth had growled as he reached his finger into the batter bowl for more, earning a sticky slap on his hand with a curd-covered spoon. Not enough of a punishment; he only grinned triumphantly at Stepmother and licked the yellow custard smear from his paw. Then he’d sent me a wink that earned him a pinch on his ear.

  I’m so lost in memories, I’ve stopped listening for interlopers. But some wolfish sense alerts me; I’m suddenly aware of another presence. I twist to latch my eyes on the intruder.

  It’s Winifred Crosby.

  Hellfire and damnation!

  Winifred isn’t a bad person, but she can chinwag like no other. If gossip-mongering were a sport, Winifred would have the gold, and nobody’ll be surprised when she wins because she’ll have informed the whole realm of her placement a fortnight before the damned game.

  Winifred is goggling at me in horrified glee. Up and down she looks me over, cataloging every detail. Without a doubt, she’s going to enjoy telling everyone that she saw me—and that she saw me in this stained, ragged-looking state.

  I bare my teeth without being aware I’m doing it.

  Stepmother appears at the top of the stairs as if she’s conjured by the danger. Immediately recognizing our predicament, concern and dread and fear all flash over her face, like the myriad of startled expressions on the ponies at the merry-go-round.

  Winifred turns on her, nearly as much excitement in her eyes as rebuke. “You—you’re keeping the girl down here? For two years, you’ve lied to the king?”

  “No!” I shout at the same time my stepmother hedges a too-guilty sounding, “Well…”

  “NO,” I correct firmly, my eyes fastening with cold threat on Winifred. I gesture harshly at my ravaged limb. “I keep myself down here, because I don’t want to be seen.” I glare at her. “By anybody.”

  “But the prince...” Winifred says, and even her euphoria at gossip fodder of this magnitude dims. She’s genuinely feeling sorrow for our sovereign's eldest. “He’s been devastated! Prince Gareth loved you and—”

  I flinch as if she’s reached out and slapped me.

  “Would not benefit from learning of Ella’s state,” Stepmother cuts in. “As you can see, she’s…” my stepmother sends me a look of abject apology, “...damaged goods now,” she finishes, looking as if providing this as a reason pains her enough she could vomit.

  Eyes round as cake platters, Winifred repeats, “But the prince!” As if she didn’t slice my heart open with the words the first time. “And the missive clearly stated all females of eligible age.” She waves a lace and ruffle-covered arm in my sooty, slop-smelling direction. “And for that, our Ella qualifies.”

  Our Ella. As if I’m still the kingdom’s little darling, the ever-present shadow to her best friend and playmate, the handsome little prince.

  “Prince Gareth will want to know!” Winifred says shrilly.

  “Don’t say his name,” I growl, and I feel entirely literal hackles emerging between my sharp shoulder blades, thankfully still hidden by my dress. To distract myself, I bite out, “What missive?”

  “What missive?” Winifred parrots. “What missive? My dear girl!” Her eyes drop to my dirty stump. “My poor, poor dear girl.” She shoots a venomous look at my stepmother, who—damn her, takes a guilty step back, as if she really is in the wrong for all of this.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say under my breath, mouthing the words with emphasis so that she can read them even if she can’t hear me.

  She looks away.

  She will never forgive herself for the events of that night, no matter that she caused none of my circumstances.

  “There is to be a royal ball,” Winifred announces—and it is an announcement for her; you’d think she imagines herself the royal page at this very moment. “A splendid affair; all the lovely ladies in the whole of the kingdom must attend,” she stresses, once again sending a reproachful eye in my stepmother’s direction.

  “Yes, well—there you go.” I sweep my hand to indicate the stinking, tattered whole of me, including the mess of my lower leg. “I am not lovely, and therefore, I shan’t be in attendance. Good day to you, Winifred. See that you take your leave. Visitors upset me nowadays,” I add, unable to keep the warning edge from my voice.

  Clearing her throat, Stepmother steps forward and catches Winifred by the arm. “It really is best if you head for home. I’m quite sorry to end your visit so abruptly.”

  Winifred is huffing indignantly. “But you must go to the ball!” She whips out a decorated fan, waving it at her face. “I dare say, when everyone finds out, we’ll see about this!”

  Without an acceptable way to prevent her from spreading her tales, I dare say, she’s right.

  CHAPTER 10

  Well, I’ve caught you up. Word spread like wildfire, the parlor is packed with concerned citizens; Winifred has been a busy, busy bee. Fortune Parnell, Avis Bardon, Maude Apilby, and Frideswide Hugeford are the loudest, but the other people present are no less upset—and growing more agitated with every shrill and thundered word aimed in my stepmother’s direction.

  When I can’t bite back my growl, Stepmother stays me by placing her hand over mine. I keep my seat, but I glare around at the too-many unwelcome bodies adding scents and emotions to the air. “If I agree to go to this dance, will you all leave?”

  Instead of meeting my defeat with grace
, Frideswide tuts. “You’ll never secure a gown at this late date.”

  I give her a wide-eyed death stare. “Are you shitting me—”

  My stepmother’s hand covers my mouth. “Perhaps one of Anastasia’s dresses will fit. We’ll make something work,” she adds peaceably.

  Ergo, I soon find myself in a pale blue dress that sets off the white-gold of my hair. My sister, Drizella, does a wondrous job making me presentable—or rather, as presentable as possible. Only if she wielded magic could she do any better, and if she could, she’d turn me into a beautiful whole woman—but I’ll be attending the ball as myself, because those kinds of transformations only happen in fairy tales.

  The ball is every sort of beautiful you can imagine. It’s breathtaking, what with all the young women twirling about in their best frippery. But there are things that, although I never questioned them before, I can’t abide by now. Not for me. Corsets are so tight, a man could span his hands around the nipped-in waists. It’s the fashion, but just the idea of the boning and lace prisons makes me panic, just a little. They’re all very pretty, but I feel as if I’m trapped in a room of painted, unnaturally proportioned dolls; it’s eerie.

  We all have a moment of panic when the herald is about to announce our arrival. But rather than break down our appearance into the room by name, the herald, looking in dire need of sleep, or a drink, or a vacation, rings out, “The daughters of Wakefield Manor!”

  We glide into the party quickly, having discussed this part before our arrival. We don’t want to stand out. We don’t want to attract the notice of the royal family who might, might not know of my reappearance yet. We want no questions, no recognition. Among all these bodies, it might be possible.

  In order to move without hobbling or overt limping, my stepmother ingeniously suggested a system of small straps with buckles to attach my stump to a shoe with a higher platformed heel than its twin. My sisters and I spent hours fashioning prototypes until we found something that worked. It’s not perfect, it’s not comfortable, but it’ll do for tonight.

  I stay on the move, avoiding anyone not wearing silks and tulle, because I don’t dare run into our king, Gareth, or any of his brothers. For the same reason of self-preservation and avoidance, I keep a careful eye out for the queen, but I don’t spy her anywhere. I’m surprised she’s not present for an event of this magnitude. She’s always on her husband’s arm.

  But our king, I see, is very much alone, and he looks grim, grave, and older. Far, far older than his years.

  Likewise, his boys have grown up into somber-looking men seemingly overnight. The king and queen have five sons, and four of them are going to dance their legs off tonight with the way they’re engaging partners for every song. I don’t see Gareth, thankfully—my heart can’t take the sight of him with another woman yet, but each time one of his brothers takes a new lady in their arms, they scrutinize her face, searching for… something—and I shiver, glad I’m not under such scrutiny.

  This ball makes sense; the boys are all coming of marriageable age, one year after the other, like dominoes. And just as the king chose his bride for love, he’s giving his sons the opportunity to do the same. It makes sense to round up the whole of the kingdom’s female crop for the boys to sift through for a wife. Employing a face-inquisition is a strange way to go about it, but maybe all that intense staring will do the trick and they’ll recognize their fated lady and vice versa. But someone should warn the boys that their partner’s breathlessness may be less due to nerves and more due to her tight-as-fuck corset stays. The princes are probably thinking they’ve taken their dance partner’s breath away—meanwhile, the moment their turns on the floor are done, she’ll be looking for the closest fainting couch and a pair of shears sharp enough to cut her ribs free of the over-confining whalebone, the poor dear.

  If it were Gareth and me on the dance floor, we’d be biding our time, just waiting to sneak off alone together. The last time we were to attend a ball, I ended up bent over the arm of a fainting couch while he held me by my hips and—

  I tilt my wine glass to examine it and decide that drinking is no longer for me. I’ve done a good job of avoiding memories, a damn good job, and now is absolutely not the time to reminisce. Time to lose the loosening agent.

  Passing a large potted plant, I consider watering it, but I’m not really certain that alcohol is good for plants. I cast my gaze around for staff, or goodness forbid—a table I can set my drink on and leave it without looking like a rude cow, and finally, I spy a footman—

  I gasp, and slosh the rest of my drink on the polished marble floor.

  The footman of course sees this, and hurries over to me—and stops just as suddenly. “Ella?”

  “Bruno,” I croak, not able to look Gareth’s childhood friend and my fellow playmate in the eye as grief and rage and shame and hurt take giant bites out of me. “You’re footman now?”

  “Second footman,” he responds faintly. “Where have you been? Gareth’s been searching everywhere for y—”

  “Here, please take my drink,” I say too quickly, and with a too-wobbly smile I’m not even sure if I manage to raise high enough in his direction for him to see. He doesn’t take my glass, and I’m fairly sure the only thing he can see of me now is the crown of my bowed head as I stare in the direction of my fee—

  My foot.

  I hide my face in my hand. “I’m sorry. I must be going now.”

  “Going?” Bruno says with too much alarm. “Ella, no—Gareth is—”

  “Goodbye!” I blurt, panicked, and shove my wine stem into his fingers before I trip and shuffle away as fast as I can limp.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” Bruno asks, concerned.

  “I’m fine!” I return, not able to so much as look back. “Thank you for your concern!”

  I race out to the balcony, in much need of fresh air, and thank God—out here, the very moment I step beyond the doors, the titters and swishing of gowns and slippered feet and the scent of floral grooming waters and the near-deafening murmur of voices fades to background. Out here, it’s crickets, soft night-calls of birds and various animals, and the lull that permeates a quiet outdoor night.

  It’s a little cooler, the heat of so many people not reaching out here quite this far, but I still feel claustrophobia wrapping around me, so I raise my head, breathing hard through my nose, my lungs expanding as far as my loosely-fitted corset will allow. I check the bunny ears of my stays (the sets of laces that, when teased, will unleash the whole confounded mechanism’s grip on me), knowing they’re tucked in an easy-to-reach spot, but needing the reassurance that I can strip and run wolf if I have to.

  The night sky is dark, the clouds not hiding the glory of the stars. I stare up at them a long moment before taking in the castle grounds; the gardens, the stables—and not far away, the king’s woods.

  There will be no wolfhounds on the prowl tonight. They’ll be penned up during the whole of this event that’s teeming with humans.

  Suddenly, I’m suffocating. With gasping breaths, I reach behind myself, fingers scrambling to find the bunny ear loops, and I tear at them like I’m a wild animal.

  Because inside, I’ve become a wild animal. Ballgowns and parties and beautiful young men aren’t for me, not anymore.

  I belong in the woods, with moss underfoot and rabbits to stumble after and chase, and mice to feast on.

  “Madam—is there a reason you’re getting naked on our balcony?” asks a baffled, hard voice.

  A voice I’d know anywhere.

  I don’t move. I don’t breathe—a thing I can do now without restriction, thanks to my corset gapping in the back—and I don’t turn around.

  “This is my territory—and you’re infringing it. Get dressed, and get gone.”

  God in heaven, of the two of us, you’d think he was the wolf. It’s not hard to stifle my instinct to snort, because just the sound of his voice has stunned me. Mutely, I manage a nod.

  But this doesn’t
appease him. He heaves an aggravated sigh. “Did I frighten you? I’m not trying to be an ass, but this is private—”

  He stops when I turn slightly, keeping my face away from him. Evidently, he either sees something in my profile that strikes his memory, or some part of him simply recognizes me.

  Just like all of me recognizes him.

  “Ella?” Gareth breathes.

  I whirl, intending to run. I don’t care that I’m now half-dressed. If it weren’t for these cursed, heavy skirts, I’d have leaped over the balcony railing and raced into the woods to finish stripping, and changed there.

  But, thanks to my cursed skirts, I’m fairly certain I’d catch myself on the railing, and my trajectory would take me face-down on the stones below us rather than the grass, and I’d split open and die painfully.

  I’d very much like to avoid pain.

  So much so, that I’d like to postpone this meeting for the rest of our lives.

  Pity Gareth doesn’t quite yet feel the same.

  He tackles me as if I’m a burglar making off with a baby’s crib. He’s so ferocious, he clutches me tighter than my corset ever has. At this rate, my ribs will never forgive me, and my lungs may stay permanently constricted. High fashion and royal men are hard on a body.

  Gareth growls into my neck, his breaths burning my skin, his cheek scratching my throat. “Ella.”

  There’s so much pain in his voice when he whispers my name. A knot forms a couple fingerspans behind my tongue, preventing me from the ability to swallow, or talk. Somehow, it doesn’t at all prevent the urge to cry. “G-Gareth,” I manage.

  He squeezes me so hard in answer. He’s going to break me. But not my body: my heart.

  Unbidden, I feel the change roll over me, like a blanket that’s been jerked on. My eyes close and I groan. “You have to let me go!”