Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  Or would they? The cinder-girl had escaped from the factory. No, someone had helped her. Henry must have helped her.

  But Henry was weak. Henry couldn’t do something like that.

  But what if he did?

  “I will stop him. I will stop them all,” Darcy whispered, clutching the pen. With a swift flick of his hand, he signed the paper. There. Marius was out of the way.

  Being the second son was like coming in second place. Marius was first, so he got all the glory. Henry was third. He was the baby, coddled by their mother until her health declined. But Darcy had the worst of both worlds. He was both older and littler. Neither young enough to be loved, nor old enough to be heir. Of course his parents said they loved him. But he didn’t care.

  He didn’t need them. He didn’t need any of them. No one could be trusted. Well, no one except Ophelia. She was a fairy godmother; therefore, her sole purpose in life was to serve others. A foolish occupation for her, but useful to him.

  Darcy smiled at the thought of Ophelia and set down his pen. How kind she’d been to him, how willing to help! If only all the world were like her and would simply step aside for him to take charge.

  He rose, paced to the window, and looked out upon the city. He scowled. Arcadia had become a machine. In the days of old, the days Darcy’s nursemaid had told him stories about, magic had lived in the city too. Progress and special ability had lived side by side, those with magic always having the last word.

  But some people hadn’t liked that. They didn’t like being weak and powerless.

  You are weak and powerless, a little voice reminded Darcy. You rely on another to provide you with your magic.

  Darcy shoved the voice aside, replacing it with a memory he clung to, his memory of the fountain’s destruction.

  The royal family stood in the courtyard of the palace, smiling and waving to the gathering crowd. But nine-year-old Darcy didn’t smile. He only stared blankly ahead.

  “Citizens of Arcadia,” King Cygnus called out. “You are witnesses to the greatest day in Arcadian history. Today we are ridding ourselves of evil! Wiping a source of temptation and destruction from the city! Look before you. What do you see?”

  Darcy looked in the direction his father pointed. The fountain.

  “As you all know, the magical waters contained in this fountain are property of the royal bloodline of Arcadia. It is my family’s sacred duty to protect this fountain and delegate the water only to those who are worthy. But this fountain has become a source of division in my kingdom! The palace is not safe. Looters, greedy for more magic, dare to break into the royal house.”

  Whispers ran among the crowds. Darcy bit his lip. What was his father doing?

  “So, to rid the kingdom of this problem once and for all, I hereby order this fountain to be destroyed! No more will the worth of Arcadians be determined by how much magic is in your blood, but by hard work, good character, and successful enterprise!”

  The crowd burst into applause. Darcy heard them cheer. He heard them clap.

  He scowled.

  “Pierre, if you please,” the king said to a thin man standing behind him. The man promptly rolled out a cart with a cloth-covered object on it. With a dramatic sweep, Pierre removed the cloth. The ugliest conglomeration of metal sat on the cart, an eyesore beside the beautiful white marble fountain. Pierre picked up the machine and dropped it into the waters. He pulled something out of his pocket; a little copper box with a crank on it.

  “The mechanism is ready, Your Majesty,” Pierre announced in a nasally voice.

  The king smiled and turned back to the crowd. “Citizens,” he cried, spreading his arms, “behold what Arcadia can accomplish, not by foreign magic, but by her own strength!”

  Apparently this was the cue for Pierre. He hastily turned the crank a few times and stepped back.

  The mechanism shuddered and whirred to life. To Darcy’s horror, cracks began to form in the fountain’s base. The water quickly dried up and then—

  BAM!

  Chunks of marble flew into the air. The crowd screamed and covered their heads. But before the chunks ever neared the earth, they exploded into tiny sprinkles of silver. The rest of the fountain’s base began to crumble, the dust of the marble methodically sucked up by tubes sticking out of the mechanism.

  “This is the beginning of new age,” Cygnus announced. “An age of progress!”

  The memory stung every time. Darcy knew the real reason for the fountain’s destruction: Lucernis, the city in control of the fountain’s source, had been pressing for more tribute. Cygnus wanted an independent Arcadia. That meant an Arcadia without magic.

  “But it’s not all gone,” Darcy whispered, a crooked smile spreading across his face. He opened a little drawer in his desk and removed the false bottom. A small glass vial winked up him in the lamplight. The last bit of magical water. He’d been saving it for just the right moment.

  Darcy picked up the vial and looked out the window. The time was right.

  14

  Marius stared vacantly at the plate in front of him. A crust of bread. He deserved less. His mind flashed back to that awful image: Rosalind’s crumpled corpse underneath the steam carriage. He dropped his head into his hands and wept, the clink of chains echoing with every shudder of his body.

  I should be happy now. She’s gone. That’s what I wanted. Well, what I thought I wanted.

  “Having a good cry?”

  Marius slowly raised his head and scowled at his brother. Darcy leaned against the prison cell bars, grinning like the devil he was. “You,” Marius hissed. “You miserable traitor. Can’t even stand by your own brother, can you?”

  Darcy shrugged. “Not when he’s the only thing between me and the throne. Don’t take it too personally. We all know you would’ve made a horrible king.”

  “Have you come to gloat?”

  Darcy ran his thin fingers down one of the cell bars. “Actually, I came to reassure you. Rosalind’s not dead.”

  Marius’s heart skipped a beat. “What? Is she all right? Where is she?”

  “Don’t worry; I’m keeping your Rosalind safe and well.” Darcy smiled in his insinuating way. “I might just pop in and see how she’s doing later. She’s probably confused, scared, and alone. Eager for comfort.”

  Marius flew to the bars. He shot his hand through and caught his brother by the shirt, dragging him hard against the iron so that he could snarl into his wicked face. “What have you done to her?”

  “I think I’ll keep you hanging,” Darcy whispered, giving him a wink. Then with surprising strength he twisted himself from Marius’s grasp and adjusted the lines of his shirt. “Sorry, but I have business to attend to. Business with Father. Sufficiently miserable now? Good. You can go on blubbering, if you like.”

  And Darcy vanished.

  The door of the ramshackle townhouse was locked. The lock appeared weak, but no matter how hard Henry and Evelyn shoved it, it wouldn’t budge.

  “She’s probably enchanted it,” Henry said, panting and stepping back. He gave the door one last kick. “Open up, Ophelia! We need your help.”

  “Wait,” Evelyn said, crouching before the lock. “Even if this lock is enchanted, it’s still made by the factory I work for.” She fished around in her apron pocket and pulled out a slender metal rod.

  “You can pick locks?” Henry said.

  “I can do many things,” she replied, giving him a quick smile. With a few twists and clicks of the metal rod, the lock gave way and swung open. Henry stepped inside first, blinking in the dim light.

  “She’s probably upstairs,” Evelyn whispered behind him. “Come on.”

  The staircase let out a cacophony of groans as they ascended. Henry pushed aside the curtain at the top. A cozy but musty-smelling room awaited them. So did the fairy godmother.

  “Hello.” She sat in a dusty old chair in the corner of the room, reading a book. She didn’t look up. “I wondered if you’d return, Evelyn.”
>
  “Do you know a man named Darcy?” Henry demanded.

  “What does it matter? Is it a crime?” The book closed itself with a loud snap and floated onto the table beside her. Ophelia looked up. Although she smiled, Henry saw fire in her eyes. The pistol in his coat pocket felt heavier.

  “What did he ask you to do?” Henry inquired quietly, slipping his hand into the pocket.

  “That’s none of your concern. And I know what’s in your pocket.”

  “Can it hurt you?”

  “Yes.” Ophelia rose from her chair. “But I can hurt you too.”

  Henry’s hand returned from his pocket empty. “I believe you know where a young woman named Rosalind is.”

  Ophelia smiled and moved to the rusted stove in the back of the room. “Would you two care for some tea? I also have sandwiches.”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” Henry replied. “And no, thank you, I don’t want tea.”

  Pausing, Ophelia laughed. “You’re much politer than Rosalind. She yelled at me when I offered her tea.” She turned to face them, kettle in hand. “What about you, Evelyn? Tea?”

  Evelyn folded her arms. “Have you hurt her?”

  The smile disappeared. “Of course not!”

  “Then where is Rosalind?” Henry said, stepping forward. “Whatever Darcy’s threatened to do, you don’t have to fear him. We’ll stop him.”

  Ophelia turned away again. “He didn’t threaten me,” she said quietly. “He asked.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” Evelyn suddenly exploded. She marched up to Ophelia and snatched the kettle from her hands, banging it down on the stove. “Prince Marius is being charged with murder, and you’re going to stand by and watch? I thought you were supposed to help people!”

  “I am helping someone,” Ophelia replied softly, picking at the lacy cuff of her sleeve. “I’m helping Darcy.”

  Evelyn took her hand. “To do what? Take over the city with treachery?”

  “Good heavens,” Henry muttered. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?”

  Ophelia froze. “Yes. Is there a problem with that?”

  “You would stand by and let Darcy banish an innocent man because you have feelings for him!”

  Ophelia blinked rapidly; tears shone in her eyes. “But . . . I think he likes me too. No one’s ever liked me before!” She stopped for a moment to wipe the tears away. “That’s why I became a fairy godmother. My friends all found someone to love them. They all married. But I didn’t find anyone.” Ophelia let out a sob. “I am a burden to my father. Mum died ages ago and his job doesn’t get him much. He can barely support himself. I thought, maybe, with magic . . . someone would . . . maybe . . .”

  “Love you?” Evelyn whispered. She took Ophelia’s hand.

  “I know I sound terribly selfish,” Ophelia sniffled, “for a fairy godmother. But I only want to be loved.”

  “You helped me out of kindness,” Evelyn said softly. “I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

  Ophelia let out a laugh. “But I broke the glass slippers,” she said, her voice somewhere between a sob and a giggle. “That’s how this all started. I dropped them—I always was clumsy. I didn’t have time to create more. That sort of magic takes time. So I summoned a pair.”

  “Summoned?” Henry raised an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t know they’d be Rosalind’s. It was a random summoning. And I didn’t notice the R on them. Don’t you see? I always make bad choices. Becoming a fairy godmother, summoning the slippers, helping Darcy.” She sighed. “I’m a disaster. Can you believe it? This whole tragedy is because of broken glass.”

  “People can change,” Evelyn replied. She cast Henry a knowing look then returned her gaze to Ophelia, squeezing her hand. “You can change.”

  “Or you could let Rosalind go, and we’ll leave you in your misery,” Henry cut in. “Really, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is the throne at stake. Putting a crown on Darcy’s head would destroy the kingdom and him.”

  Ophelia, her eyes still watery, looked from Henry to Evelyn. Then she bowed her head and said very softly, “All right. I’ll let Rosalind go.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Evelyn said, smiling encouragingly.

  “I hope so.” Ophelia’s shoulders sagged. “I’ll be right back with her.”

  Ophelia disappeared into the other room, leaving Evelyn and Henry alone.

  “I didn’t know you had it in you,” Henry said quietly.

  Evelyn turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  “To yell at Ophelia like that. It was impressive.” He gave her a smile.

  “You are an inspiration yourself, Henry . . . Your Highness. The way you broke into the factory to save me!” The smile Evelyn turned upon him was brighter than he would have believed possible on a somber cinder-girl’s face. It was a warm, lovely smile. “I honestly didn’t think you were capable of that.”

  “Really?” Henry tilted his head.

  “You were very nice the first day you came, but you seemed weak. Downtrodden. I see men like that all the time at the factory. They have the potential to be strong, but they allow themselves to be pushed aside.”

  Henry shoved his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t sure he liked hearing this evaluation of himself coming from Evelyn. “And I seemed like that?”

  “Yes. But today you changed.”

  He glanced up hopefully. “Was it a good sort of change?”

  Evelyn opened her mouth to answer when another voice interrupted her.

  “Really, you are insufferable. One minute you’re locking me in your cellar and the next—” Rosalind appeared in the doorway and stopped. “Henry,” she said rather flatly. “What are you doing here? Who’s that?”

  He looked at Evelyn and grinned. “A friend.”

  Rosalind crossed her arms, turning her head to one side and narrowing her eyes. “Where’s Marius? I thought he’d come.”

  “He would’ve, I’m sure, but he’s detained in the dungeons.”

  “What?” Rosalind’s face paled. “What do you mean?”

  “Father thinks he murdered you,” Henry replied.

  “But didn’t you stop him?” Rosalind cried, flinging up her hands. For a moment Henry half-expected her to fly at him in a rage. “You knew he didn’t kill me!”

  “I tried!” Henry shouted back. “I tried at everything! I tried to please Father. I tried to please you. I tried to love you.”

  Rosalind froze, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open in a little red o. Slowly, the hard lines of her face melted into something that may have been vulnerability. Seeing this, Henry forced himself to adjust his tone, speaking a little more kindly than before. “But these last few days, I’ve realized something: I don’t love you, Rosalind. Not like you want me to. You are a beautiful young woman and you deserve a good man. But that man is not me.”

  “Well then,” Rosalind said slowly. Then she laughed, and her cheeks flushed bright pink. “That works out rather nicely. You see, I actually fell in love with Marius. I tried not to. But . . .”

  “He’s hard to resist,” Henry finished. He wondered momentarily if he should be jealous. Or even just a little vexed. But he found to his satisfaction that he wasn’t. Not even a bit. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He smiled wryly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be crushed.”

  “Excuse me,” Ophelia called. “You should see this.”

  Three heads turned in her direction; Ophelia stood in front of the mirror, wringing her hands. Only the mirror wasn’t a mirror. It was a window into the palace. And Darcy was in full view.

  15

  Darcy could feel the power coursing through his veins. It burned painfully, but it was a pain he relished. He was strong.

  He let out a laugh, waving his hand in the direction of a vase. It flew from its stand in the hallway and smashed on the ground. Though he strode through the widest hallway in the palace, his surroundings seemed too close, too small to contain such power as h
is.

  The doors to the throne room flew open with only the slightest flick of his fingers. The throne was vacant. King Cygnus and a few of his advisors stood around a small table, conferring over a map. At a mere mental command from Darcy, the map burst into flames and shriveled up. The councilors and the king turned in his direction, their faces expressing astonishment.

  “I was not informed about this meeting,” Darcy stated. He sauntered over to the throne, running his hand along the armrest. “But I trust you won’t let that happened again.”

  Cygnus blinked rapidly. “My son!” he cried. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Magic,” one of the councilors hissed, pointing at the char marks on the table. The table suddenly levitated and knocked the man in the head. His unconscious body dropped to the floor.

  Darcy smiled and lowered himself into the throne. “You fear me, don’t you?” His head tipped toward his father. “You especially.”

  “I do not fear my own son,” Cygnus replied stoutly.

  “But your thoughts betray you, O King, for I can hear them like the frightened cries of a child.” Darcy’s smile widened. “Isn’t it marvelous? And to think you could’ve had power like mine. But you destroyed it.”

  The color melted from Cygnus’s face. “You . . . you saved some of the fountain’s water?”

  “It’s funny how it happened,” Darcy laughed. “Marius dared me to steal some. I was young and wanted to prove my worth. But, after I had done the deed, I thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be better to save this for a more auspicious moment?’” Darcy’s fingers clenched the armrests. “And what better time than now, when you’re just about to banish your heir?”

  “Darcy, I command you to come to your senses,” Cygnus barked. “I destroyed the fountain so that this would never happen!”

  Darcy tilted his head and stared at his father. “You feared me even then. Even when I was a boy. Splendid.”

  “I didn’t fear you. I don’t fear any of my family. But I did fear for you and for Henry—the seed of jealousy is easily planted in the younger sons of kings. It could’ve been you. It could’ve been Henry.”