by Kaylin Lee
Zel must have guessed my thoughts. “Even if you looked full Kireth like me, you still might not have inherited mage powers. Those Procus fools at the Royal Academy need to learn not to base everything on appearance. Besides, if you truly were a mage, you’d already be in the Mage Division, and they all know it.”
I nodded and leaned back in my chair. She was right. Anyone who did have mage powers—a natural tendency to either absorb or expel magic—was required to enter government service or Procus patronage. It was a public safety issue, as every Royal Academy student knew. The city government wouldn’t to risk letting mages roam free. I had to stop letting my classmates get to me.
Zel sipped her coffee and went back to her section of the Herald. I listened to Alba with half an ear as she rambled on about Prince Estevan and his ball.
“The article talks all about last year’s ball—who was there, what they wore, and which beautiful ladies the prince favored. Oh, I would give anything to be there!”
And I would do anything to avoid such a spectacle. Good thing neither of us would ever attend a royal ball.
I stretched in my chair, tired from studying for the final exam all morning and most of last night. Fragrant herbs and raised, wooden vegetable beds filled the rooftop so tightly we barely had room for a table, but it was warm and breezy in the late spring sunshine. The scent of lemonburst and mint nearly blocked out the smell of rotting garbage in the street below.
“The gowns, the music, the food … Did you know that last year they invented a new drink, just for Prince Estevan’s first selection ball? It’s called chry … chro … chrysos, I think. Sparkling liquid gold that tastes like sweetened frostberries. Can you imagine?” Alba feigned a swoon in her seat.
I made a face at Alba, and she giggled. Then I shuffled my notes together and shoved them to the side to make room for a second honey scone on my plate.
“Oh, Ella, do you mind that I borrowed your ribbon?”
“Ribbon?”
Alba fingered her long, wavy black hair and bit her lip.
Ah, that one. She’d tied a glossy red ribbon around her head, and it was quite pretty, setting off her rosy cheeks and lips and highlighting her soft, pale skin. I thought about saying so but kept quiet. Her pale skin was the only thing that kept her from looking Fenra, and she read enough of the Procus Society pages to know that everyone who was anyone wanted to have bronze-colored skin. “That’s not my ribbon,” I said instead.
“But I found it in your room. It was right there on your bed this morning when I went to put away your washing.”
I raised my eyebrows and gave the ribbon a closer look. “Definitely not mine. I don’t have anything like that.” All of my possessions were either serviceable, stain-hiding brown or part of the Royal Academy uniform. There was no place for a red ribbon in my life.
Alba looked confused. “But it was right there, on your—”
“Don’t worry about it, Alba. Wear it if you want to.” I stood and picked up my plate. “I have to make a few deliveries before school, so I’m going to go get ready now. Have a good day.”
“Be careful!” Alba waved the newspaper at me. “There was another Crimson Blight attack yesterday.”
“On a trolley?”
She shook her head. “A market in the River Quarter.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll be fine.” I blew her a kiss and smiled to reassure her. Alba gave me a troubled smile. Zel waved to me but didn’t speak, and Bri only glanced at me before returning to her breakfast. Everyone was feeling off today. Maybe they’d feel better by the time I came home after school to open the bakery shop.
~
Back in my cramped bedroom, I changed out of my house dress and put on my worn school uniform. The shirt was as white and crisp as I could make it, and the navy skirt, let out too many times to count, hung just below my knees. The length was barely within dress code regulations. Good thing I hadn’t grown much in the last two years, and that I only had to wear it a few more days.
I splashed water on my face and hands for a makeshift bath and twisted my hair back into the neatest bun I could manage, then paused for a moment in front of the small mirror above my sink. A tired, green-eyed girl stared back at me, her dark hair already sticking out from her bun. I grimaced.
At least my hands and face were clean of cinderslick’s telling golden glimmer. Who had time for the three hot water washings it would take to remove the sweet, fiery odor of cinderslick from my hair? I rolled my eyes at my reflection. Certainly not me. My time was better spent studying and working.
I slung my battered book bag over my shoulder, walked into the kitchen, and shoved my school texts and pencils out of the way on the big wooden work table. The loaves were ready to go, neatly wrapped and waiting for me on the kitchen shelves, but the scones still needed wrapping now that they’d cooled.
I took a long whiff of the fresh, buttery scones, but then the distinct scent of burnt cinderslick made me cough. Cheap, government-made cooking fuel. As I baked and studied in the early hours of the morning, the smell of cinderslick would cover me, clinging to my hair, skin, and clothes the rest of the day.
My Procus classmates at school hated the smell. After all, I doubted any of them had ever set foot in a kitchen, and their families certainly had no need for cheap cinderslick rations. Quality cinderslick didn’t have such an overpowering smell.
They claimed my stepmother hated me so much, she refused to heat my bedroom and forced me to sleep in front of the kitchen oven to soak in warmth from the cinderslick. Cinderella, they called me. As if I cared.
I shouldered the canvas delivery bag, careful not to squash the wrapped loaves inside, and stepped into the front shop, only to stumble to a halt. A young man stood by the door with Zel. My stepmother never spoke to strangers. Had we been discovered?
I surged forward to rescue her, forcing myself to take slow breaths and trying not to appear as tense and terrified as I felt. “Stepmother, Alba has been asking for you upstairs,” I said. It was the script we’d planned years ago, but my voice wavered as I pushed the words out. I kept my eyes downcast subserviently like I was the defeated, weak-willed stepdaughter everyone assumed me to be. “Please allow me to help this gentleman with whatever he may need.”
Instead of leaving me to deal with him, Zel said, “Ella, I’d like you to meet someone.”
I dragged my gaze from her to the man. Disaster.
He had to be a mage. He appeared to be a little older than me, and was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair hanging over his forehead and nearly reaching his gray eyes. No one with such clear Kireth heritage and fine, rich garments could be anything other than a mage. But where was his gold mage service armband? His brown slacks and plain white shirt were crisp and clean, and he wore the latest fashionable cut. His head had an arrogant tilt as he looked me up and down.
A mage, right here in our bakery. We were in trouble. I nodded a greeting as he took my small hand in his large one. Something about his gaze had my cheeks growing hot, as though he liked what he saw and wanted to keep looking. What was wrong with him?
“Weslan, this is my stepdaughter, Ariella. Ella, this is Weslan Fortis,” Zel cast him a smile and looked back to me. “He’s going to be staying here and helping you with the bakery now.”
He was— Wait, what?
I dropped his hand like a hot stone and glared at my stepmother. “I don’t need any help.”
“You’re about to graduate from the academy, and who knows what your apprenticeship will be like? Don’t you think it will be nice to have someone to help with the baking and deliveries so you don’t have to do it all yourself?”
I willed Zel to understand, so I wouldn’t have to say anything that might give us away. “But that’s beside the point, Zel! Do you really think that someone like … him … should be here with us?”
Zel only smiled at me and placed a calming hand on my bare arm.
Weslan took a reflexive step backward. Did that mean what I thought it did?
“Weslan is exactly the right person to be here with us.”
I stared at her, silently begging her not to speak the words I had dreaded hearing for so many years.
“He knows.”
Click here to get Fated: Cinderella’s Story, Book 1 of the Destined series.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kaylin Lee lives in the Pacific Northwest with her real-life hero husband and sweet toddler girl. After a lifetime of staying up too late reading stories, she now wakes up too early writing them. It was probably inevitable. She loves to connect with readers on social media (find her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter), so come say hey!
