Cinderella Necromancer

by F. M. Boughan

  “If there are mice about, I’ll have that cook’s head.” She sniffed the air and I snapped a hand overtop the flame of my tallow, sucking in breath through my teeth as the fire extinguished against bare flesh.

  A shrill female voice pierced the space beyond the room. “Mice! Oh, Mother, no!”

  Who on earth was that?

  “You mustn’t jest so,” the voice continued. “If this house has mice, why, I won’t be able to stay a minute longer. I’ll take the first coach back to—”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Charlotte. I’ll have a trap set in the morning.”

  “Will you?” The waif sounded breathless, and as squeaky as a mouse herself.

  Celia’s footsteps echoed away from me, though I dared not breathe. Dust from the passageway still sat in my nostrils and I pinched my nose until my eyes watered.

  “Yes, my pet,” she said to the mouse-girl. “I’ll have it taken care of. Off you go. I’m sure you need rest after your journey. Wait in the parlour, and I’ll send someone down to fetch your bags.”

  Fetch her bags?

  But Celia had loosed the house staff.

  Ah, but not all capable hands were now beyond her control. At least one set sat underneath a desk in her father’s office, fearing the wrath of a usurping boor.

  It appeared my new sisters were here, and I was about to meet them whether I liked it or not.

  I scrambled forward from beneath the desk, though my limbs felt like sacks of flour under the weight of panic. How could I reach my room in time?

  Though I suspected my desperate prayer would go unheeded, still I offered the promise of confession and penance should Celia be delayed long enough for my return.

  Hit the latch, swing the bookcase. Light the candle. Exit the room.

  Take the wrong turn.

  I might have wandered for days, lost between the walls, had I not turned left instead of right and tripped over an object on the ground. Both knees and hands slammed sharply onto the cold floor.

  The tallow rolled away, snuffed again, but I kept silent.

  Beneath my throbbing knees, I felt a large, Faust-heavy book. Though tempted to curse it for adding injury to injury, instead I lifted it in my arms, accepted the candle’s fate, and returned the way I’d come.

  Seconds were as hours, and minutes as days. Surely, Celia had discovered my absence by now. Surely, she would leave me in my room to starve and find a way to block every passage.

  Surely, she would be my end.

  I ascended a set of stairs—finally—and turned left. Pulled the lever to my right and prayed I’d chosen correctly, and that it wasn’t too late.

  In the same breath, I entered the room and shut the wardrobe back against the wall before diving under the covers. The instant my toes met the sheets, Celia strutted through the bedroom door.

  “Your sisters have arrived,” she announced. “Get up and come down to greet them. You’ll fetch their bags and carry them up here to the landing.”

  Secrets made me bold. “I’ll do no such thing.” I sat up in bed and pulled the blankets tight to my chest. “I’m too weak from hunger. Can’t they wait? Master Bert—”

  “Is no longer in our employ.” The fury on her brow sparked and burst into flame. “You will also cease your insolence immediately and do as you’re told.”

  “I’m not strong enough.” If she wouldn’t listen to reason, then perhaps practicality.

  She glared, all trace of softness gone. Oh, for Father to see her in this state.

  I blamed myself, and still do, for I should have told him my misgivings the moment he declared his journey.

  But as I hadn’t done so, the intensity of her gaze and the fear of my secret being discovered were enough to send me to my injured, burdened feet.

  She looked me over, wrinkled her nose, and sniffed. “Change your clothes, too, girl. You look like rubbish.”

  I folded my arms across my stomach and matched her stare as she left the room. How I hated her, then. I did, in that moment, believe it couldn’t get worse. Though the portrait above the fireplace had shown naught but empty shells of girls, surely they couldn’t be worse than her.

  Still, I did as I was told and changed into a simple robin’s egg blue dress, with ivory lace at the bodice, sleeves, and hem. My obedience only extended so far, however, and I chose to slide the passageway book out from under the bed rather than rush off to play servant to girls I was supposed to call sisters.

  With a heave, I laid the book on the bed and ran two fingers across the embossed leather binding. Dust had collected in the creases and ridges of the spine and cover, and the faded gilding along the page spine suggested an age to the book far beyond anything I’d seen before.

  Yet these stole the least of my attentions, for on the side, holding the book closed as though it contained some terrible secret, was a thick metal clasp.

  A tiny keyhole in the center of the clasp piqued more than a simple measure of curiosity—I needed to know what was inside.

  A tug on the clasp proved unsuccessful, though in truth, my physical strength left much to be desired. A stronger woman might have broken the lock and turned the pages, but I stood staring and yearning and aching for knowledge. One secret this day was not enough.

  My inner self nudged and I sprang for my robe. From the pocket, I drew the object Father had tucked into my hand that morning.

  A shout from below suggested Celia would wait no longer for my presence.

  I opened my hand.

  A key about the length of a child’s finger rested in my palm, its polished cream length ending in teeth as sharp as knives. This key was not iron or bronze or copper, as keys should be.

  No, this key was made of bone.

  And it fit inside the book’s clasp.

  9

  The Sisters

  As time did not favor me, I slid both book and key beneath my bed before leaving the safety of my room. Soft slippers covered the fresh scabs on my feet, but even long sleeves and a pleasing smile couldn’t hide the cuts on my hands and bruised chin.

  Without time to wash, I looked quite the opposite of a regal daughter of the nobility.

  “Here she is,” Celia proclaimed as I descended the stairs. The three ladies entered the front entrance hallway as I hit the bottom step. “She’ll take your things to your rooms.”

  “She looks a fright,” said mouse-voiced girl, whom I assumed to be Charlotte. “I’m not sure I want her touching my things.” Her cinnamon-brown ringlets bounced as she tilted her head this way and that, studying my approach as one might observe a monkey at the zoological gardens.

  “Presuming you haven’t brought a bag of bricks, I’ll do my best,” I said, though I doubted I could even do that much.

  “She speaks!” Charlotte whipped her gaze from me to her mother and back again. And then, without an inkling of prescience on my part, she stepped across the floor, pulled off a white satin glove, and snapped the back of her hand against my cheek.

  I gasped and clutched my face, the shock of being struck more painful than the actual sting. I’d had far worse many times on this day alone.

  “Charlotte,” huffed Celia, “meet Ellison, your stepsister.”

  No rebuke for her daughter? Not even a pretense of apology?

  “Oh,” said Charlotte, pulling her glove back onto a pale, delicate hand. “How do you do?” In a quieter tone, she added—with a surreptitious glance at her now-gloved fingers—“Your face is filthy.”

  And that gave one a reason to strike another? Why I remained silent is a mystery to me even now, but I wonder if some small part believed that if I didn’t acknowledge their existence, they would not, in fact, exist.

  “My bag contains no bricks,” said a soft, feminine voice from behind Charlotte.

  By deduction, Victoria.

  Her ebony hair, much like her mother’s, cascaded in an elaborate plait down to the small of her back, with sec
tions pinned and twisted in strange ways to hold up a colourful, feathery hat.

  I offered no retort, and both Charlotte and Victoria took their leave to the parlour. As they passed, I noted the brilliance of Victoria’s hat, but a second look revealed that the feathers were, in fact, entire wings. Some milliner had crafted a hat from a dead bird’s wings and, if I saw correctly, several entire birds’ heads.

  I felt ill at the sight. This was high fashion?

  “Once you’ve carried the bags,” Celia cleared her throat and fixed upon me like a snake, “as punishment for your delay and your refusal to apologize, I wish you to change the sheets of each bed and refill the wood stack next to the parlour fireplace.”

  I would never be clean again, at this rate.

  “May I have some assistance from one of my sisters?” The last word stuck behind my teeth, and I pushed it out with force and regret. “Following the afternoon tea, of course. So that we might get to know one another better.”

  And though I didn’t want help at all, mild familiarity sounded preferable to being slapped across the cheek at someone’s whim.

  Celia folded her arms and offered up the pretense of a smile. “We shall see.”

  From the parlour came a shriek of aggravation. “Mother! I’m tired and I must have tea. I can’t stand another moment without it, I swear, I’ll die.”

  I took this as a sign of the conversation’s end. I had work to do, for until it was finished, the book waited alone.

  From that moment until sundown, I carried bags, fetched tea and desserts, scrubbed the entrance hall, and changed the sheets in every room. The stack of wood was forgotten amid the scuff, though it appeared that Charlotte delighted in asking small tasks of me under the guise of wanting assistance.

  At first I preferred it to being locked away, though as the day wore on, I thought solitude a more appealing alternative to unceasing labors. Only once did I see Edward, timid and yet bursting with anticipation as we dined at our finest table, eating from Mother’s china and drinking from Father’s crystal goblets.

  No doubt Edward thought the prospect of two more sisters to read him stories and bring him sweets as thrilling as a white Christmas morning.

  “How is your schooling, girls?” Celia sipped her beetroot wine and tapped the glass for more. Only when she tossed me a fierce glare did I realize she meant I was to refill her glass.

  Was she so helpless?

  “Dreadful,” said Charlotte, guzzling her own. “Did you know we’re expected to do our own wash? And iron our own dresses? It’s ludicrous. I shan’t return.”

  I might have expected a comment about education and not the hardships of housework, but those were early days and I remained foolishly optimistic concerning our future.

  “You poor thing,” Celia murmured. “If all goes well, you may not have to.” I started, nearly dropping the wine. Whatever did she mean?

  Victoria cleared her throat with a polite cough. “How about you, Edward? Do you and your sister attend an academy?”

  As Edward’s mouth contained peas and potatoes, I thought to answer for him.

  “We have a tutor.” Though doubtless Celia would release him as well. “We receive lessons during the winter months, and are free to explore our own interests during the rest.”

  Victoria stared as though she’d thought me a mute. “I didn’t speak to you.”

  “Now, now,” said Celia, “no need, child.” To me, she added, “We can’t have that, now, can we? The Devil finds work for idle hands.”

  Talk of the Devil and he’s sure to appear, I wanted to say.

  Little did I know.

  “I’m sure we’ll find something to occupy your time.” Celia dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  I set the bottle down and returned to my seat, though my tongue could not be contained. “And Miss Charlotte and Miss Victoria, will they find their time occupied as well?”

  The girls snickered as though I’d said something amusing.

  Celia folded her hands on the table. “Doubtless so.”

  They stopped their twittering.

  “But seeing as how they’ve just come off a tiring journey and months of tedious schooling, I believe some slight recreation is in order.”

  My mouth opened of its own accord, but Celia continued to speak.

  “Don’t trouble yourself about it, child. You’ll have plenty to fill your time, and you may begin by clearing our table. Edward may assist, if you like. Come, girls. Evening tea and cakes in the parlour, Ellison.”

  With smarmy glances and wicked grins, the three rose and took their leave. Edward and I remained at the table.

  “Shall I help?” he squeaked, appearing more perplexed than I. The poor child was unaccustomed to being left out.

  “No,” I said, lifting a plate of uneaten pheasant and potatoes. They’d barely eaten enough to fill a teacup. Father would never tolerate such waste.

  “I can,” he urged, “then you can read to me. Stepmother said you didn’t want to read with me anymore, but that’s not true, is it?”

  The pheasant teetered in my hands. “Of course it’s not true. I’m so sorry, Eddie. Celi … Stepmother had, ah, other plans for me. Did you wait long?”

  He grinned and bounced on his heels. “No, she read to me instead! Though I didn’t much like the story. She didn’t read it like you do.”

  How dare she. So she was a liar and a thief, if trust and time could rightly be stolen.

  “We will read together. Let Cook know we need another pot of tea and some thin cakes, and change into your nightclothes. I’ll finish here and be up before you know it.”

  I hoped I was right.

  10

  The Key

  My hands trembled as I drew the book and key from underneath the bed, candle at the ready. With the rest of the household abed—including Edward, who’d lasted all of three pages into a tale of a racing hare and tortoise—I finally had a moment’s peace. Though my limbs ached for rest, how could I with such a mystery at my very fingertips?

  I grasped the bone key and twisted. It turned easily in the lock and the clasp released with a gentle sigh. I took hold of the cover, held a breath, and opened the book.

  The room plunged into darkness.

  I relit the tallow and returned to the book.

  Again, darkness.

  Three times I relit the wick, and three times the flame died.

  On the fourth try, I did one thing differently, as strange as it seemed. I begged the candle to stay alight—the words of a desperate girl in need of some happiness, if only for a moment.

  The tallow remained lit, and I resolved to place a linen beneath the wardrobe from now on to stop the drafts from extinguishing my small fire.

  The opening pages of the book were yellowed and rippled with wear, crackling as I turned each one. Upon seeing the Latin phrases that covered the second and third pages, my eagerness waned. Had I waited all this time to find nothing but the Vulgate?

  Or perhaps not, for dedications and warnings in Latin and German sprawled across the pages that followed, though in my impatience, I did little more than glance at the words.

  At last on the seventh page, a title: The Book of Conjuring.

  Beneath that was a faded stamp containing a barely legible inscription, though enough of the lettering remained to make its point clear. This book belonged to the Bibliotheca Regia Monacensis—the Royal Library of Munich.

  What had my father been doing with a book from the palace archives, let alone possessing the key to open it?

  Pleased as I was that the book had not been another text of the Holy Scriptures, as I turned still more pages, many of the words and phrases seemed reminiscent of those used by a priest at mass.

  But not quite.

  On some pages, circles were drawn within circles, words between each line. On others, I found strange symbols such as double crosses, lined boxes, and pentangled shie
lds with names listed in each corner.

  There were many circles, and many names.

  I didn’t understand.

  A heaviness settled across the room as I read, and each breath became thick with effort. My hands trembled as I touched the next page, and the next.

  The book was not right.

  I shivered with fear for what it might be, but I couldn’t stop. Something led me onward, glued my fingers to its surface, refused to release me from this pressing need to understand.

  I turned page after page after page without ceasing until, like a hawk alighting on its chosen branch, my fingers came to rest on a near-blank leaf, save for one simple line which read: “For the Conjuring of Illusions.”

  I turned the page.

  There, the text’s author had depicted another circle inside a circle with writing between, and a name in the center.

  “To reveal that which is hidden, or hide that which is revealed,” I read, striving to keep my place despite the tallow’s flickering flame. “In the third hour of night, and dressed in white, find a secret place on level ground. Trace a circle as such appears here, without deviation, writing all that is shown amidst it.”

  I couldn’t help but glance at my wardrobe. What would I do, should Celia discover the passage?

  And while I didn’t understand its lure, nor why my simple curiosity had grown to a lusting wonder, in that instant I felt compelled to do as the words instructed.

  Was this magic?

  I knew little of such things, but what I did know of it didn’t inspire confidence. While forbidden by priests and clerics and the Scriptures, it had never seemed quite so different from the sorts of miracles performed by the Christ in his day.

  Was this, then, a book of miracles? Or simply a fanciful tome, meant for children and left in the passage by mere chance?

  Whatever its purpose, the pain of the day and the toll of hours stolen increased my yearning for this moment of peace. I could not stop reading.