Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  I try to sleep. My body aches and my mind is tired, but every time I close my eyes, I see Liv lying in that ditch.

  Sleep is something I can do without for a while.

  I sit anxiously on the edge of my seat, watching Constance sleep. I want to get moving, but I don’t have the heart to wake her. She stirs and rolls over, eyes still closed, lips parted, her hair a tangle of tight ringlets spread out under her head like a crimson cushion. Her eyes flutter open.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Morning.” She rubs her eyes, sitting up. Her bare legs jut out from under the blanket. She gives me a once-over. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

  I shake my head. “I’m eager to get going.”

  She stands up and stretches. “We should go into town for supplies.” Constance lets her gaze pass over me from head to foot. I’m still wearing the pants and tunic she gave me in Cinderella’s tomb. She smiles. A little shudder of excitement pulses through me. “You’re already dressed. I just need a minute.”

  Constance rummages through a large burlap sack in the corner, producing a wadded-up ball of clothing that she tosses onto a chair. She turns back to her bag and retrieves a pair of boots to add to the vests and tunics.

  “Where did you get all this?” I ask.

  “You know how people can be. They go swimming, want to show off a bit, so they strip down and dive in. They almost never put their clothing in a safe spot, and more than once, I’ve come across a perfectly good pair of britches.”

  I raise an eyebrow and laugh. From the look of her stockpile, there are at least six or seven people naked in the woods somewhere. She picks out a pair of tan trousers very similar to mine, except hers can only stay up with the help of a pair of leather suspenders.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asks.

  I can’t keep from grinning. “You look lovely.” Her immediate frown makes me worry I’ve offended her. “No, it’s just— I meant you look good. You look just fine.”

  “Not really what I was going for. Two women traveling alone would bring too much attention,” she says, pulling on a shiny black pair of riding boots. She tosses me a wool-lined coat.

  “This clothing is our best shot at getting out of town without anyone noticing,” she says.

  I look down at my chest. “I’m not going to fool anyone dressed like this.”

  She doesn’t try to hide the little smile that creeps across her lips. “Just keep your shirt loose in the front, and don’t tuck it in.”

  My cheeks flush hot.

  “We’ll braid back your hair, and if you keep a hat on and your head down, we should be okay.”

  Constance nudges me toward the chair in front of the fire. She stands behind me and pulls her fingers through my hair, parting it, and braiding the loose pieces so they lie flat against my head. My mother sometimes braided my hair this way when I was little, decorating the ends with little glass beads, singing songs to herself as she worked, and tugging at my scalp a little too tightly when I nodded off or tried to scoot away. The memory stings.

  Constance repeats the process from ear to ear, gathering the tails into a tight bun at the back of my head. As she finishes up, her fingers brush over the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck and send a shiver down my back.

  The final touch is an oversized wool cap, fitted snugly over my head. Constance produces a small mirror from her bag, thrusting it at me as she looks on, proud of her handiwork. I understand why she’s so confident in this disguise. Anybody passing me on the street might think I am just another young man.

  “I may need your help getting my hair in order,” she says. She sits down and sections off a piece. “If you could just hold the rest back while I braid this part.” I stand and gather her hair, nearly a foot longer than mine, behind her shoulder. It’s soft and thick, smelling of rose water, and I let my hands linger in the tangle of curls. I’m drawn to her, and I keep waiting for her to tell me the same things Erin had—that I am longing for something impossible—but she doesn’t, and I’m dizzy with the excitement of it and torn by the guilt I feel.

  When she finishes braiding her hair, she can’t fit the tail ends under a cap, so we settle on tucking them down the back of her shirt. She then winds a thick scarf around her neck.

  “Look at us.” She does a full turn. “I like this outfit more than any dress.” She shoves her hand in her pocket and smiles.

  “I like dresses,” I say. “But I’d like to wear this sometimes, too.”

  Constance smiles, and I can’t get past how stunning she looks. I shake my head. I need to get ahold of myself.

  “We’ll head to the market,” says Constance. “I have a small cart. The horse should be able to handle it for us.”

  I follow her around the outside of the house where her horse is tethered. As she loads her belongings into the cart, I notice that the house is built in a square arrangement, the middle of which opens to a courtyard. An enormous tree, a type I’ve never seen, stands in the center, its branches resting on the roof of the house. Its massive trunk is as wide as the ones that line the drive, but this tree has a distinctly different color. Instead of the faded shades of brown that mark the trunks of the others, this one is a silvery gray with patches of yellowish gold along the underside of its branches. Moss hangs from it like a curtain. The chirping of sparrows that have taken up residence in its wide canopy filters down.

  “That’s where Cinderella’s mother is buried,” says Constance, gesturing to the tree. “In the story, she doesn’t even have a name.”

  As if on command, the wind gusts, sweeping back the moss to reveal a small marble headstone at the base of the tree. Constance walks to the side of the house and pulls up a handful of wild lilies. She arranges them in a bouquet as I follow her to the headstone that reads: Alexandra Hochadel, Beloved Mother, Wife, and Friend.

  “I wish I knew more about her,” says Constance, placing down the bouquet.

  “Why do you think she was left out of the story?” I ask.

  “Because she was determined? Smart? Willing to die for her family? Take your pick. Any of those reasons are good enough to warrant suppression.” Constance stands and stares up at the tree. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I say.

  “Apparently, it sprouted the evening Cinderella escaped to the ball.”

  I am overcome by the notion that the tree is watching, listening, like a living, breathing thing.

  “Strange,” I say.

  “Strange indeed,” says Constance.

  A strong gust makes me pull my coat in around my neck. My fingers brush against the necklace my father had given me, and his callous words replay in my head. I take it off and place it on the headstone. If remembering Cinderella’s mother is considered an act of defiance, I’m happy to do it.

  16

  We’re a mile outside the city center, settled in next to each other. With every passing bump in the road, my apprehension grows. What will happen if the guards in town find out I’m the girl they’ve been searching for? I’d be arrested for sure, but maybe my punishment will be worse. And what will happen to Constance? I’ve made my decision that any existence is better than the one I’ve been living, but I don’t want Constance to have to suffer for it.

  “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” Constance says, glancing at me from under her hat as she steers the horse toward town.

  “I do. Everything feels different to me now. I didn’t intend for all this to happen, you know. When I left the ball, I just wanted to get away from the madness.”

  “That’s how things happen sometimes,” Constance says thoughtfully. “Something small. A choice we make because, in the moment, we needed to make it. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less important. I believe that things happen for a reason, Sophia. If you hadn’t left the ball when you did, we never would have met.”

  “Must be fate,” I say. She nods. It is comforting to know she’s on my side. “Since I’
ve been here with you, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what it’s like to not have to watch what I say or pretend to be something I’m not.” I want to be open, but I feel terribly exposed, like I’m showing her the most delicate, guarded parts of myself.

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand, causing that familiar little spark to course through me again.

  “My mother taught me that I am a whole person with or without a husband,” she says emphatically. “Who I am inside and how I treat others are the only things that matter. The same goes for you. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling. Another question pushes its way to the front of my mind as the cart bounces along the road toward town. “You’d like a husband, then? Or at least, you’d consider that an option?” I try to sound curious to hide how incredibly nervous I am to hear her answer.

  Constance pauses for a moment. “No. That’s not for me.”

  I don’t press her, even though my mind races with a dozen questions.

  “Can I be honest with you?” she asks.

  “I thought that’s what we were doing here,” I say.

  “I don’t just want equal footing in Lille. I want much more than that.”

  I look at her, confused. “Equal footing sounds pretty good to me.”

  “It’s a start,” she says. “But you know what will happen? We’ll have to force people to give us what we’re asking for.”

  “When you say we, you mean you and I?” I ask.

  “Yes, but there are others,” Constance says. “At least, there were.”

  I sit straight up. “Others?”

  “Not many, but yes. Others. People who have slipped through the king’s fingers, mostly women who feel like they have nothing left to lose. You’ve heard of the incident in Chione?”

  “That was you too?” I ask in utter disbelief.

  “No. It was Émile, an ally of mine. But she’s gone now.”

  The flyers the king had handed out made it clear that the people responsible were executed. I can tell by the look on Constance’s face that she saw them, too.

  “The watchtowers guard every border,” I say. “No one in or out without the king’s say.”

  “Not all of Lille’s borders are guarded so heavily. The western edge that butts up to the White Wood has only two towers and the guards are complacent. They think fear of the wood is enough to keep people from crossing into it.” Constance huffs loudly. “The palace underestimates the resourcefulness of women forced into a dark and dangerous place.”

  I remember the seamstress’s husband, and how he was so completely offended by the thought that she’d kept one cent of the money she’d earned. I think of her terrified son and the bruise on her neck. Those things might be enough to make someone risk an illegal crossing.

  “What do you think needs to happen in Lille?” I ask.

  She stares at me, her brown eyes glinting, a deadly serious look on her face. “I think we need to burn the whole thing to the ground and start over. The entire system, the ideals that have been woven into this society. It all has to go.”

  “That feels like an impossible thing to do,” I say.

  “If I had told you a week ago that you would flee the ball on foot and discover Cinderella’s tomb, what would you have said?”

  “I would have said it was impossible.” I turn to her. “But a week ago I didn’t know you. If it wasn’t for you, I might not have even made it out of the tomb.”

  “And if it wasn’t for you, I might not be going to the White Wood to find some remnant of the one woman who knew the whole truth about why Cinderella went up to the palace that night, or about what curse afflicted Prince Charming and what that has meant for us over all these years.” She smirks. “It’s you and I together that will make the difference.”

  I’ve never been very good at making myself small, and with Constance maybe I don’t have to. I want to knock our king off his throne, and she’ll help me do it.

  17

  We ride into town and wind through the streets, keeping our heads down. People are going about their business as if only a day ago their daughters hadn’t been snatched away from them, as if Liv hadn’t died. I resent being back here.

  The market is bustling and crowded as usual. Shouting from the livestock auction mingles with the mundane chitchat from the other marketgoers, and it grates on me. Even with the throngs of people milling about and almost none of them looking in my direction, I fear that my disguise won’t be good enough. That someone might recognize me. Constance backs the cart into an alley between two shops and climbs out.

  “We’ll need a sack of rice and root vegetables, things that will stay good for a few days or longer.” She puts a handful of silver coins in my palm and reaches up to adjust my hat, letting her fingers brush over my ear and down the side of my neck. A ripple of delight surges through me. “Meet me back at the cart in thirty minutes. Do not stop. Do not talk to anyone if you can avoid it. Try to blend in.” Constance squeezes my shoulder and rushes off.

  The market is set up in the town square, where all remnants of the bicentennial celebrations have been cleared away. Larger booths ring the outer edge of the area, and smaller stalls and tents crowd the inside. The smell of animal dung wafts through the air, and this warmer-than-usual morning makes it particularly pungent.

  The merchants yell, advertising their wares, none of them paying attention to their surroundings. I watch a young boy pocket a silver spoon from a table as the man attending it bargains with one of his patrons. My first thought is to alert the merchant, but when he makes a comment about the length of a young girl’s skirt and how her legs are simply too inviting to resist, I stop in my tracks. He deserves to have his things stolen.

  Winding my way through the crowd, I catch bits and pieces of people’s conversations.

  “… went up there in her mother’s dress. They found her in a ditch. Killed herself, she did.” The man speaking is chuckling so heartily that his cheeks are ruddy and a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. I look away. Familiar anger creeps up and heats my face.

  “… they were beautiful, best lot in a few years. I heard a baron from Chione took two brides.”

  “Is that allowed? Two at once?” I hear a woman ask. Slowing my pace, I look up again. Her husband shoots her a dagger of a glance and turns his back to her.

  “I’d have taken two if I had thought of it at the time, but now it’s just you I have to deal with.” Her husband and his friends laugh while the woman smiles one of those fake smiles, all mouth and no eyes. I know the smile, and a little piece of me dies every time I have to use it.

  I turn sharply to head away from them. Constance is right. Even if we can find a way to end Manford’s reign, men won’t suddenly start keeping their hands to themselves, or allowing women the same rights that they have. We’ll have to fight for it, and I cannot help but wonder what the cost will be.

  I push forward and find the stall selling grains. Sacks and barrels of everything from rye and buckwheat to milled flour and rice are all stacked on top of each other. A small boy swats mice away from the sacks as an older man sits at a wooden table near the front of the stall. He doesn’t look up as I approach.

  “Excuse me,” I say, before stopping short. My voice is sure to give me away. I pretend to cough, covering my mouth with my hand and using it to muffle my voice. “I need a sack of rice.”

  “Five or ten pounds?” asks the man, glancing up.

  “Ten,” I say. We’ll need as much as we can carry. I continue to feign a cough.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I kick myself. I’m trying to avoid suspicion, and I’ve only managed to pique his. I clear my throat. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  The man stands and leans across the table. I take a step back. “Your voice—it’s all singsongy like. You always sound like that?”

  Now he’s just being nosy. The boy lugs over the sack of rice as I toss four coins onto the table. I pick u
p the sack by its fabric handles, give the man a quick nod, and hurry away. I look back to see him scratching the top of his head and craning his neck in my direction. He knows something is off.

  I haul the sack to the bed of the cart and lean against the wall, waiting anxiously for Constance to return. If the man has followed me, I can’t make him out anywhere among the many faces. The crowd ebbs and flows, women carrying their children, men chatting away with their friends. My mother might be here somewhere. I scan the crowd, and a familiar face appears.

  Erin.

  I haven’t even considered that she might be here.

  I catch myself in the act of calling out to her, a habit I no longer have the luxury of indulging. I stare at her through the web of unfamiliar faces, and she turns toward me as if answering my silent signal. When she meets my eyes, she seems confused, but I’m horrified.

  Erin’s left eye is swollen, her bottom lip is puffed out, and she has a purple bruise on the right side of her neck. I step forward, trying to get a better look. Confusion melts into recognition, and she smiles. Even in this disguise, she knows me. She whispers something to the man who stands next to her and quickly zigzags through the crowd toward me, positioning herself at the corner of the wall. She pulls the hood of her cloak up around her neck and looks down as she speaks.

  “I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “I was so worried. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  “Erin, what happened to your face?”

  “I’m betrothed now, Sophia. Isn’t that wonderful?” She chokes back tears.

  “You were chosen?” I ask. Of course she was. She is everything I have ever wanted. That someone else sees her this way doesn’t surprise me. I just don’t want to believe that someone who chose her would hurt her.

  “Yes, first round. My father is ecstatic.”

  How could her father possibly be happy? Has he seen her face? “What did he do to you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she says, fumbling with her purse.

  “You’ve been betrothed for little more than a day and already your face is—”