So This is Love

by Elizabeth Lim

  Then she took his arm, letting a whirlwind of excitement sweep over her as they began to dance.

  Was she imagining it, or had the music suddenly gotten more lush and romantic? The violins seemed to swoon with her every step, or maybe she was simply happy. Happy to have found Charles again, to have this second chance with him.

  She wanted to get to know him. It had become apparent that she hardly knew anything about him other than what everyone knew about the prince: that every morning he rode his horse across the palace grounds, that he had been close to his mother, that he didn’t enjoy attending royal balls.

  But where to start? Their conversation now certainly wasn’t stilted, but she was forcing herself to be polite and on her best behavior. Was it because he was the prince, and now she couldn’t help being more nervous and thus more ceremonious than before?

  “What’s on your mind?”

  He sounded tentative, as if he were worried she’d run off again.

  She smiled shyly at him, becoming all too aware of how her heart skipped when their eyes met. It was like they were meeting for the first time. The night could stretch as long as it needed to this time; Cinderella did not have to be back by midnight. She had no magic spell to worry about, and knowing her stepmother and stepsisters, they were too busy fawning over and following the imposter prince.

  And yet . . . there were hundreds of people in the ballroom. The music swam in her ears, the murmurs of other dancing couples buzzing. Over the prince’s shoulder, she finally spied Louisa waving at her from the edge of the floor. Her friend had found her own dance partner, and she winked at Cinderella, mouthing, Who is he?

  Flustered, Cinderella pretended not to understand, and she turned to the prince. “Could we . . . could we walk through the gardens again?” she asked. “It was so lovely the last time.”

  “I rather enjoyed the walk myself,” said the prince. “It’ll be good to get away from here. It’s hard to talk over the music.”

  Soon the ballroom glittered behind them, a silvery dome beyond the labyrinth of rose-studded bushes, leafy hedges, and marble fountains.

  A cool breeze tickled the back of Cinderella’s neck, gently rattling her green beads.

  “My mother would really love it out here,” she sighed.

  “Do you still help her tend her garden?”

  “No, she passed away years ago.”

  “I lost mine at a young age, too,” said Charles. He removed his mask, slipping it into his coat pocket.

  “I remember,” Cinderella said softly. Though everyone had loved the gentle queen—and no one more than the prince—their mothers had died in the same year, and Cinderella recalled wondering if everyone in the town was wearing black to mourn her mama. “My father used to tell me that my mother was in heaven with the queen. He had a feeling they’d become friends, and they would watch over each other. That helped a little, to think that she was in a good place.”

  “Were you very lonely without your mother?”

  “Yes,” Cinderella admitted. “We did everything together when she was alive. She’d take me out to the gardens to play on our swing. She could name every bird in the sky and paint them, too. We were supposed to travel Aurelais together and collect flowers from every city, then paint them once we returned home.” She swallowed at the memory, one she had long forgotten until now. “Papa used to tease us for always being lost in our imaginations together. I still have a bad habit of falling into my daydreams.” Before he could ask her more, she said, “Were you . . . lonely?”

  “Yes, but you wouldn’t have thought so if you’d been there. I was always surrounded by people. Tutors, advisers—everyone sought to shape how I thought because I’ll be the future king. There was no one I could really . . .”

  “Talk to?” Cinderella finished for him.

  Charles smiled. “Exactly.”

  “I understand. Better than you know.”

  Shadows flickered across the manicured bushes, and a chill swept over Cinderella. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Creeping up toward the bushes, the prince surveyed the area. He grimaced. “The Grand Duke again, I’d wager. He must have talked to Pierre and gotten suspicious.” He stood. “Let’s get away from here. Why don’t I show you more of the grounds?”

  Cinderella nodded. “I’d like that.”

  Little by little, her nervousness faded, and she laughed when the prince told her how he used to run into the garden when he was a little boy, chased after by his tutors.

  “I loathed my history lessons,” he confessed. “All the tutors always trying to impress upon me that I was related to these great kings, all of them with the same names. Always a variation of George, Louis, Charles, and George again. At least it made my exams easier.” The prince chuckled. “I must be boring you.”

  “You’re not,” she assured him. “Though history was my favorite.”

  Her father had hired tutors for her, but soon after he had died, her stepmother had put an end to her education. Sometimes, when she had to dust the library, she’d pore through the books on the shelves when no one was looking. Her stepmother had sold off the valuable ones long ago, but Lady Tremaine recognized that books looked impressive to the few guests they had to the house, so she’d kept them as decoration—at least until she caught Cinderella reading them.

  “My father traveled often when he was alive,” Cinderella explained, “and he used to bring me curios from all over the world and tell me their histories. I loved it.”

  “Then maybe you’ll appreciate this,” Charles replied as he directed her through the endless maze of marble stairs and pruned hedges. They soon found themselves before a glorious fountain of angels, illuminated by a constellation of silver lanterns and surrounded by a coronet of swans with wreathes of ivy over their elegant necks. Water tinkled steadily from the sides, like soft percussion against the wind’s song.

  “This fountain was commissioned by my great-grandfather,” said Prince Charles. “Aurelais had just ended a twenty-year-long war with its neighbors, and he had this fountain made to celebrate peace, but also to remind us of the bitter costs of war.”

  Cinderella brushed her fingertips against the water, its gentle ripples tickling her skin. “Like the fountain in the city center! My father used to take me there when I was young.” She folded her hands over her lap. “I haven’t been back there in many years.”

  “I’ll take you one day. Though I have to confess, I don’t get a chance to visit the center of the city much. It is not easy to go around without being recognized.”

  “But you have Pierre,” Cinderella joked.

  “Pierre can only fool so many. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much luck with my father or the Grand Duke.” He gently guided her away from the fountain. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

  They walked through the gardens, the lilting music from the ballroom growing softer and farther away. Whenever he thought she wasn’t looking, he stole a glimpse of her, his lips parted.

  “It’s been a long time since I could talk to anyone this way,” he confessed. “Without feeling like I was . . . different.”

  “What about at the Royal University?” As soon as the question left her lips, Cinderella blushed, realizing she’d revealed how much she’d asked about him. “I mean, I heard that you’d been studying away from the palace for several years.”

  A grin widened on Charles’s face, his eyes brightening so much Cinderella swore they shone. He took a deep breath. “Even when I was a child, I never had many friends at school. All the boys were ordered not to offend me and to always agree with what I said. I used to beg my father to send me abroad and give me a different name, but he always refused.

  “He didn’t understand that I simply wanted to fit in. When I arrived at the university, I tried enrolling under a false name, but it was no use. I could have said my name were Peter the Pauper and everyone would have still known who I was. I could have never set foot in the classro
om or opened one of my textbooks and still have passed every course with honors.”

  “So you made no friends?”

  “I had a few,” he said. “But even then, we weren’t close.” His gaze met hers, and there was such tenderness in his warm brown eyes that Cinderella wished time could stop so she could memorize the way he was looking at her. “I don’t feel that way with you. I feel like I’ve been looking for you my entire life.”

  His confession sang in Cinderella’s ears, the intensity of his words arresting her in her place. “I know the feeling,” she whispered.

  A chime punctuated the end of her words, and she instinctively looked up the clock tower. It was midnight.

  She lurched, giving in to a momentary flare of panic before remembering that the time didn’t matter. She didn’t have a magical curfew—no coach that would turn into a pumpkin, no horses that would turn back into mice, and no glittering ball gown that would turn into rags at the stroke of twelve. She could stay out all night if she wished.

  Finally, they arrived at the end of the garden, and not far from the entrance of the palace, a glittering glass box atop a marble pedestal awaited.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” Charles said, unlocking the box and lifting her lost glass slipper. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Cinderella held the shoe close, treasuring it. “I wanted to bring the other slipper to the duke when he was searching for me, but it shattered, and I worried . . . I worried I’d lost the only keepsake I had of the most wonderful night of my life in years. I thought I’d never see it again. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “You’ll never have to worry about finding me ever again. I promise.” Charles gestured at the slipper, then at a nearby bench. “May I?”

  With a shy nod, Cinderella returned the slipper to him. A soft breeze swept past her mask, and she lifted it, letting the cool wind temper the heat in her cheeks.

  Neither of them had made a move toward the bench, and Cinderella, ignoring the sudden swoop in her stomach as she realized Charles was staring tenderly at her, sprang onto her toes and kissed his cheek.

  When she let him go, the prince rocked back on his heels dazedly, clutching the glass slipper against him as if he feared he’d drop it. “What was that for?”

  “A thank-you,” replied Cinderella, smiling at the confused but happy-looking prince. “For reminding me that not all miracles have to end at midnight. I’ll explain—”

  Charles drew her close, and her voice drifted.

  “I’ll explain . . . later . . .”

  As he bent forward to kiss her, trees rustled, and the click-clack of heeled shoes stomped nearby. Cinderella lifted her head, distracted by the sound. Voices—in the near distance—rose above the ripple of fountain water in strident tones. “There she is! Anastasia, Drizella—follow me.”

  Cinderella immediately lurched, untangling herself from Charles’s embrace. Her vision reeled; the moon became watery, the hedges a haze of green.

  Panicking, she twisted away from the prince, but his fingers were laced with hers, so gently she could have pulled hers away . . . but she didn’t just yet.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

  What’s the matter? The familiar words echoed inside her. It was the question he had asked before she’d fled from the last ball.

  She faltered, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to explain.

  Charles bent to retrieve her mask, which she must have dropped when he kissed her. He held it out to her in both hands, but when still she wavered, confusion knit itself in the prince’s brows. Confusion—and hurt.

  “Hurry, girls!” Lady Tremaine’s voice cut through the garden.

  Remorse burned in her throat. The thought of hurting him again tore at her. But she couldn’t risk an encounter with her stepmother. She wanted to tell him who she was—she’d meant to, but she’d thought they would have more time. Now she recognized her error, and it was too late.

  “I’m sorry, but I—I . . . I have to go.”

  “Wait, please.” Charles held out the mask to her. “I . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Cin—”

  “Your Highness!”

  At the sound of her stepsister’s shrill call, Cinderella panicked and drew away her hand from the prince. The mask slid from her fingers, falling into the pond beneath the bridge.

  And, for the second time, before he could stop her, she rushed down the stairs.

  Her heart thundering in her ears, Cinderella dashed across the royal gardens, making for the servants’ quarters. Even when Drizella’s and Anastasia’s shouts had faded, she didn’t stop.

  Follow the clock tower north, Louisa had instructed her, then make a left at the purple tulips.

  Cinderella trained her eyes up at the clock, its iron hands ticking minutes past midnight. By the time she reached the purple tulips, she was out of breath, her lungs tight with exhaustion. The entrance to Blooms and Looms was just ahead, the sentries she’d encountered when she first arrived still standing guard.

  “Look, it’s the new girl. Trying to get back before Madame Irmina does her curfew check?”

  “Y-yes . . .”

  He chuckled. “You’re a bit late for that, I think. Luckily, you’re not the only one who sneaked out—”

  Cinderella’s eyes widened. “Did Louisa . . . ?”

  “Got off with a warning from Irmina hours ago. She’s gone home already.”

  “Oh.” Relief swept over her.

  “Don’t worry,” said the guard kindly. “Irmina won’t discharge you for going to the ball. If she did that, she’d have not a soul left working for her. But I would expect a stiff talking-to in the morning.”

  Cinderella offered him a faint smile.

  Shuffling into her room, she took off her borrowed dress and flung it over her chair. Then, burying her face in her hands, she collapsed onto her bed.

  The moment she’d heard her stepsisters, her first instinct had been to run away. But should she have stayed? She could have explained things to him before dashing off. Or at least told him her name.

  It doesn’t matter. It’s best he doesn’t find out who I am . . . a maid in his own home.

  And why not? she countered herself. Am I afraid he’d never want to see me again?

  Cinderella shook her head, hardly able to believe that she was wrestling against her own feelings. No, I’m not. Because he isn’t like that.

  She clenched her fists, remembering how he hadn’t recognized her when she’d worn her palace uniform. A cord of bitterness knotted in her throat.

  Sooner or later, he would find out who she was. For all she knew, her stepsisters had recognized her and told him already.

  Would Charles have her dismissed from the palace if he knew the truth? Would he ever want to see her again?

  Lady Tremaine’s words rang in her head over and over. An orphan and a servant. Who would want you?

  She gritted her teeth at the memory. Knowing her stepmother, she’d tell the prince that Cinderella was a thief and a liar, a troublemaker who deserved to be sent away for good.

  No one’s come for me, she reasoned, curling up against the wall tiredly. Her hands went up to her neck, clutching her mother’s beads. They didn’t see me. They only saw the prince.

  Uncertain what tomorrow would bring, she finally closed her eyes, drifting along the edges of her dreams until sleep finally claimed her.

  “Get up, get up!” cried Madame Irmina, rapping on her door.

  Cinderella sprang up from her bed. The green beads rattled over her chest, and she quickly stuffed them into her pocket before greeting Louisa’s aunt.

  Irmina scowled at her. “Amelia has taken ill, so we need an extra serving girl at breakfast this morning. That means you, Cinderella.”

  Cinderella’s gaze flew up. “Me? Serve the royal family breakfast? I couldn’t. I—the duchess is waiting for me—”

  “Well, you’ll have t
o deal with two shifts, won’t you?” Irmina said, crossing her arms. “And, for not being in bed by curfew, I’ve a list of extra tasks for you after breakfast. Now hurry up and change. I expect you in the main hall in five minutes.”

  Five minutes later, harried footsteps pattered outside her door, followed by another knock.

  “I’m the worst friend,” Louisa cried. “One of the valets last night told us Madame Irmina was about to do her curfew check. I couldn’t find you.”

  Cinderella swallowed. This wasn’t the time or place to tell her about the prince. Already her head was throbbing with panic over what she’d do when she had to serve him breakfast.

  I’ll keep my head down, she said, inhaling. And I’ll hide behind the other girls if I have to. He won’t see me.

  “Cinderella?” said Louisa. “Are you listening?”

  “It’s all right,” she assured her friend quickly. “I can handle the extra work.”

  Together, they assembled in the main hall, along with a dozen other girls who’d stolen out to the ball.

  One by one, Madame Irmina doled out their punishments. When at last she reached Cinderella, her mouth thinned into a tight, disappointed line. “When I set rules, I expect them to be followed. That goes especially for new hires such as yourself. Here I was starting to think there might be some hope for you.”

  Cinderella felt heat rush to her cheeks.

  The bells chimed for the serving maids to get to work, and Madame Irmina threw an apron and Amelia’s orange sash at her, then pushed a tray into Cinderella’s arms. “Once you finish serving breakfast, report here immediately for the rest of your extra tasks.”

  “The dress is in my room,” whispered Cinderella to Louisa as she tied on the orange sash. “I’ll bring it to you after I’m finished with the breakfast service.”

  “Follow me.” Madame Irmina grabbed her by the sleeve, dragging her toward the kitchen. She motioned at a large tray sitting on one of the shelves, heavy with jams, a porcelain teapot, teacups, pastries, and silverware, all meticulously arranged.

  “Bring that into the royal hall,” said Irmina. “And for the love of God, don’t drop it!”