So This is Love

by Elizabeth Lim

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The duchess picked up her fan and batted it carelessly. “I’m good at reading people. I only wish my brother were, too. Let’s just say you’ve got an honest way about you—and a sharper eye than I initially thought.” She brushed her fingers over the nearest table. “Not a speck of dust.”

  “Oh.” Cinderella felt little pride from the compliment. “It is my job,” was all she said.

  “I’m glad you understand that, girl. Though no one told you to reorganize my books.”

  There was a note of accusation in the duchess’s voice, and Cinderella didn’t know how to respond. “I apologize, ma’am. I—”

  “Most of my attendants arrange them like flowers, by color and size, but you did it by substance and author. You couldn’t have done that without reading them.”

  She swallowed. “I didn’t have time to read any, ma’am . . . but I couldn’t resist skimming a few.”

  “Which ones? The pirate adventures? Never mind, don’t tell me. There’s a library in the palace for good reason, you know.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “They’re books, not diaries, girl. I’ll tell you when you’ve committed a crime. The girl before you I caught reading my letters. I fired her on the spot. So far you’ve passed the test.” Duchess Genevieve paused. “Speaking of which, what is your name?”

  The past few days, the duchess had only called her “girl.” Now that she’d finally asked her name, Cinderella became tongue-tied. “It’s . . . it’s Cinderella.”

  “Cinderella,” repeated Genevieve. “An odd name, but you must be aware of that.” She sniffed, stifling a yawn. “Heavens, it’s four o’clock already? I’ve been dawdling so long with you and your mutt I’ve forgotten my afternoon nap. All this traveling has made it impossible for me to sleep. Over there, on my writing desk—bring me my sleeping draught.”

  Obediently, Cinderella grasped the glass bottle and followed the duchess’s instructions:

  “Three drops into my tea. And a squeeze of lemon, for good measure. No, child! That’s four drops, can’t you count?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Your Highness.”

  “I suppose one extra drop won’t kill me,” said Genevieve, bringing the teacup to her lips. She sipped, and almost instantly, her hooded eyelids drooped with drowsiness. “I don’t know how George drinks this stuff every night.”

  She finished the tea, then passed the cup to Cinderella.

  “Now off with you. It’s time for my afternoon nap. Be back precisely in an hour, you hear? I’ll expect a fresh pot of tea, and some biscuits would do nicely, as well. And Cindergirl—if you ever do go to the library, tell those overstuffed scholars there that the books you’re looking for are for me. Fewer questions that way.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”

  Cinderella took one of the silver trays from the duchess’s table, set the empty teapot on it, and slipped out of the apartments. No sooner did she step outside, though, than the duke’s attendant bumped into her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, but the man had whirled away from view.

  When she looked down at her tray, there was a sealed letter that hadn’t been there before.

  Heart hammering, she waited until she was down the corridor, away from the guards’ inquisitive eyes, before opening and reading the note.

  I await your report. Come see me at once.

  Cinderella dreaded meeting the Grand Duke again, and her apprehension only intensified when she arrived at his apartments.

  She’d simply evade his questions as best she could. That was all there was to it.

  He hadn’t been in his office by the servants’ quarters, so the palace staff had directed her to his apartments. They were even larger than the duchess’s, and room after room smelled of burnt wax and worn leather. She followed the smell past the sitting room into a short hallway whose walls were mounted with portraits of the duke’s forebears. At the end, a door had been left slightly ajar, the frantic scraping of pen to paper growing louder as Cinderella approached.

  Buried behind a stack of papers and a cup of tea that looked barely touched, the Grand Duke scribbled away at the sheet of paper, his back hunched and his neck bent toward the sunlight that pooled on his desk. His black hair, which had been neatly slicked back the last time she saw him, spilled across his forehead, and his mustache curled at its ends.

  Quietly, Cinderella slid into the office, her steps muffled by the wool carpet. She shuffled off onto the parquet.

  The duke didn’t look up.

  The minutes stretched, and finally, she cleared her throat. “Your Grace, you summoned me.”

  His fountain pen rattled against the inkpot. “Ah, it’s you.” He held a red stick of wax against the lone candle burning on his desk, then affixed a seal to his document before putting it aside.

  “At last. You must be brimming with news, my child. Come, what is your report?”

  Two key pieces of information clung to Cinderella’s mind. But she remembered what the duchess had told her about Grand Duke Ferdinand: that behind his sterling reputation was a sly old fox—a man not to be trusted.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure what to report, Your Grace.”

  “Not sure?” The Grand Duke eyed her skeptically. “You’ve had days to observe the duchess. I told you I wanted to hear everything.”

  “She takes her tea three times a day, steeped for four minutes—”

  “I don’t care about her tea-drinking habits!”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. You never told me exactly what you do care about.”

  He seethed at her. “Need I remind you that I gave you this position? I could easily take it away.”

  “I apologize, Your Grace,” she said quickly, fervently hoping to be released from this meeting as soon as possible.

  “There is nothing unusual about the duchess?” he asked impatiently. “What does she do during all her time? Write letters, go on long walks?”

  “She reads, Your Grace.”

  “Reads what?”

  “Novels. Mostly pirate adventures.”

  The duke let out a snort. “A front. Come now, there’s more. You’re twisting your hands.”

  Cinderella’s hands flew apart. She hadn’t even noticed.

  “You have learned something from the duchess. Something valuable. Out with it, my child, I haven’t all day.”

  “I . . .” Think of something, Cinderella urged herself. Anything.

  But all she could think of was the truth: the king was planning to abdicate.

  The duke inhaled in frustration before softening his tone. “Come, my dear, it’s all right. Sit down, sit down—I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?”

  He ushered her toward one of the plush chairs across from his desk, but Cinderella remained standing.

  “You can tell me. Do you not care about the kingdom? It is my duty to see to it that our country remains strong and safe. The king’s sister spends a great deal of time lobbying with the common folk, and arguing against laws that the council has passed to secure the future of our people. If she has shared something with you, it is your duty to tell me. It is your duty to Aurelais.”

  He said it so convincingly that Cinderella nearly believed him. Nearly.

  “Th-thank you, Your Grace,” she stammered, “but all the duchess and I talk about are tea, my dog, Bruno, and what books she’d like from the library.”

  Following a long exhale, the Grand Duke folded his hands over his lap. “Is something troubling Her Highness? A physician was seen leaving her chambers yesterday.”

  Cinderella tilted her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

  “I ask only out of concern,” Ferdinand pressed. “Is something amiss with her health?”

  The question seemed innocent enough. “Oh, no. She’s fine,” Cinderella responded. “But she has had some trouble sleeping . . . she takes a sleeping draught.”

  The duke leaned
forward with interest. “Come again?”

  “A sleeping draught,” Cinderella repeated. More hastily, she added, “Every afternoon after lunch with the king. It’s the same one His Majesty himself takes.”

  “No wonder he no longer takes tea with me,” the Grand Duke muttered, stroking his chin. “Interesting.”

  It seemed like a common enough thing for a woman the duchess’s age to do—and the king. She didn’t know why it interested the duke so much.

  “You needn’t look so frightened, Cinderella. The duchess is a powerful woman, yes, but she has had a turbulent past, and I would not be surprised if she harbored deep resentment toward her brother—and toward me and my late father.”

  “But why?”

  “There was an incident, you see. . . .” The duke frowned, as if he’d remembered something that tasted sour. “There was an incident revolving around the duchess that endangered the kingdom, and it is my duty to see nothing like it ever happens again. Genevieve is not to be trusted. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Very good,” he said. “You’ve done well, Cinderella. Very well. If you learn anything else of note, come find me at once. You are dismissed.”

  Not needing to be told twice, Cinderella left the room, breathing a sigh of relief once she was alone.

  What an odd man, she thought. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why he had looked so surprised to find out the duchess took a sleeping draught. At least it was better than his knowing the real truth—that King George was planning to pass the throne to his son.

  Or that she was the mysterious princess everyone was searching for.

  The duchess was already awake when Cinderella arrived to draw the curtains and help the lady out of bed.

  Forgetting her place and entirely too aware of the Grand Duke’s interrogation, Cinderella asked, “Are you feeling well, Your Highness?”

  “Now there is an impertinent question,” huffed Genevieve. “Didn’t you learn it was improper to ask a lady about what ails her?”

  “My apologies, Your Highness, but I thought—I was hoping I might be able to help you.”

  “Hah! There’s nothing you could help me with,” Genevieve said, stirring the sugar into her tea.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” asked Cinderella, concerned. “Nightmares?”

  The duchess scoffed. “You truly wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it isn’t any of your business, girl. End of discussion.”

  Startled by the duchess’s sharp tone, Cinderella bowed her head to show she understood.

  “I’ll be taking supper with my brother today. Be sure to have an extra pot of tea prepared for when I return, with a plate of shortbread. I’ll need extra nourishment for tomorrow morning. Charles suggested the most ghastly hour for a tour of the kingdom.”

  Cinderella’s heart skipped a beat. “Prince Charles?”

  “Do I have any other nephews named Charles I’m not aware of?” The duchess wrapped the shawl over her shoulders and reached for her walking stick. “All these girls swooning over my nephew. I hope you aren’t one of them.”

  “I wouldn’t be eligible, Your Highness,” Cinderella said, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in her throat.

  “All because of some silly laws that my silly ancestors made. The world is changing, Cindergirl, and anyone—I do repeat, anyone—can make something of herself if she puts her mind to it. Oh, to be young today!”

  “You think a servant could become a princess?”

  “My husband came from a family without wealth, but he was smart—and practical. He was a shrewd businessman, and became one of the richest men in Aurelais. Anybody can become anything, so long as they put their minds to it.” She eyed Cinderella. “Hard work and fortitude, Cindergirl, is what will get you ahead. Not swooning over my nephew.”

  Cinderella hid a smile. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Good. Besides, you wouldn’t want him anyway. He’s been so melancholy over that idiotic princess with the impractical shoes. He doesn’t even know her name.”

  Cinderella bit her lip and subconsciously reached out to rearrange the flowers before her. While it warmed her heart that the prince was still searching for her and had declared that he’d fallen in love with the girl he’d danced with at the ball, she couldn’t forget how he hadn’t recognized her outside the banquet hall.

  Her stepmother’s words echoed in Cinderella’s head. Look at yourself—you are nothing. An orphan and a servant. Who would want you? Certainly not His Royal Highness.

  “I blame my brother for young Charles’s romantic notions. George was always the sentimental sort, a believer in love at first sight. That would explain the ball.” Genevieve sighed. “Having Charles pick a bride in such a way, having all the women parade themselves about the palace. Love doesn’t happen like that. Love takes time. George used to have more sense when the queen was alive.”

  “What was the queen like?” Cinderella asked.

  “She was as kind as she was beautiful—far too good for my brother.” Genevieve chuckled. Then her expression darkened. “She died far too young. . . .” The duchess’s voice trailed off, and she quickly composed herself. “Anyhow, at this rate, the only way to find this mystery maiden of his would be to hold another ball!”

  Cinderella pretended to study the flowers she’d arranged so she wouldn’t have to meet the duchess’s eye. “But that isn’t happening, is it?”

  “Of course not.” Genevieve made a face. “Imagine, holding another ball simply so Charles can find this glass slipper maiden. What a ludicrous idea! Though now that you mention it, I’d better talk some sense into George before he comes up with such an idea. Wish me luck. If we are all to have some peace in this castle, I will need it.”

  “Good luck,” Cinderella said faintly.

  After the duchess left, Cinderella sank onto the plush carpet. She’d gone from “orphan” and “nobody” in her stepmother’s eyes to “this glass slipper maiden” in everyone else’s.

  Who was she now? She was still a servant, albeit one for the royal family—and she received wages for her work. It was a respectable job, one many would dream of, one she was proud of, and yet . . .

  “I’m not happy,” she whispered. She said it again, louder this time. “I haven’t been happy, not in a long time.”

  What a strange relief it was to finally admit that to herself. After years of wearing a smile for her stepmother and stepsisters, of pretending to be content to work in their household lest Lady Tremaine kick her out onto the streets, her heart couldn’t heal itself over a mere week or two. It would take time.

  Meeting the prince had made her happy, but that happiness had been fleeting. She needed something real for herself. A purpose.

  Closing the duchess’s door softly behind her, she allowed herself a long exhale. She had something in mind.

  Ferdinand, the Grand Duke of Malloy, straightened the scarlet sash draped over his torso and flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. Given that this nonsensical search for the maiden with the glass slipper was all but finished, he hoped he could get the prince to listen to reason.

  Doubtful. But he would certainly try his best.

  The morning was slowly aging, bright white light filtering in from the palace’s arched windows.

  After straightening his collar, Ferdinand turned to Charles’s attendant, whose profile bore a striking resemblance to the young prince’s. “What are you waiting for, squire? Announce me.”

  The sure-footed young man marched to the side and knocked thrice on the prince’s door before opening it. Then he cried, “Your Royal Highness, the Grand Duke.”

  Ferdinand was surprised to find the prince leaning against a marble pillar, his face to the sun-filled window, reading some nonsensical philosophy book. Ferdinand couldn’t make out the title occupying the royal’s attention, but before Prince Charles had left the palace for his studies at the Royal University, he had spent most
of his time avoiding his tutors and playing pranks on the staff. To see him absorbed in a scholarly book so early in the morning surprised Ferdinand—and worried him.

  The prince’s years away had changed him, his exposure to greater Aurelais clearly giving him ideas about how the monarchy needed to change. Ideas like welcoming commoners in the council, or rewarding merit over class, or taxing the nobles to distribute wealth among the poor. Ideas that Ferdinand knew he wouldn’t agree with.

  “Ahem,” began the Grand Duke.

  The prince flipped a page, absorbed in his book.

  A muscle twitched in Ferdinand’s jaw. These young people are so rude these days, he thought. So easily distracted.

  Still, the duke made no motion that he was irritated, and instead plastered on a smile. Heaven knew that any ambitious man who wanted the king’s ear needed to master schooling his features into an expression of placid obsequiousness. And by God, he had.

  Besides, he was aware the prince was frustrated with him for failing to find the maiden who could fit the glass slipper. Indeed, after he’d declared to the king that the search was futile and over, Charles’s expression grew so lost and forlorn Ferdinand could hardly imagine the youth as a suitable sovereign. Over the past three days, the prince had become obsessed with finding the girl—so obsessed that he’d ordered the cursed shoe encased in a glass box, to be displayed outside the palace in case the girl should come riding by and see it one day.

  A ludicrous idea. Ferdinand had almost laughed aloud when he heard it. The king’s money was obviously better spent building defenses or encouraging relations with the neighboring kingdoms, but upon realizing the prince was serious, Ferdinand did not dare voice his opposition. He was too wise for that.

  Let the boy lose credit in the council’s eyes. Let the council see, as Ferdinand did, that Charles was completely unsuited for the throne. In the meantime, the Grand Duke would orchestrate his own schemes.

  Beginning with this morning’s visit.