Cinderella Is Dead

by Kalynn Bayron

  I shake my head. “We have to try. The cotillion is our way in.”

  “And what will you do then?” Amina asks. There’s a solemn tone to her voice again. I worry there is something she’s not telling us.

  Constance straightens up. “We’ll kill him. That’s what we’ll do.”

  Amina sits back, sighing heavily, but says nothing.

  30

  We spend each night leading up to the cotillion in the parlor over a pot of stew and a kettle of strong black tea, reviewing every aspect of what we know so far about the king, about the palace. We make plans, scratching out the details on parchment, but each one of these plans turns to kindling in the bottom of the fireplace when a flaw is noticed. There will be little room for error, and nothing we come up with seems good enough.

  Amina has taken several more trips into town and heard a rumor that the king has increased security at the border because of an uptick in disruptive incidents. Constance thought they may have been staged by the other escapees she’d spoken of, but she had little hope that enough of them remained to pull off an uprising. Amina thought they might be people who were still trapped under the king’s thumb, resisting because of my escape. I can’t imagine how angry that must have made him.

  In addition to making the cotillion mandatory, King Manford has made it clear that anyone who willfully disobeys his orders will be considered a forfeit, their property seized and their family members executed. They are the words of a desperate man.

  Our planning comes to a grinding halt when we try to figure out what will happen once we’re inside the palace.

  “We’ve come to the most important part and still nothing,” I say one evening as we sit racking our brains. We’re running out of time.

  “We know we can get in,” says Constance. “But once he realizes who you are, that you’re the one who escaped, you’ll be a target.”

  The visions I had in the pond haven’t stopped since we came to our new residence. I still dream almost every night of the king and the light. “I need to find Cinderella’s journal. That is the key. I just know it.”

  Amina rifles through her belongings and pulls out a book I recognize immediately. It’s the palace-approved version of the Cinderella story.

  “I don’t even want to look at that right now,” I say.

  She flips through the pages and then stops abruptly, looking up. “Constance, I’d like to have another look at that book of fairy tales, the one you said was passed down to you.”

  Constance rolls her eyes and goes to get the book, handing it to Amina.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Amina asks.

  “We don’t have time for this,” I say.

  Amina ignores my protests and opens Constance’s book, running her hand over the first page, a scene of Cinderella as a toddler, standing on the front step of her house and holding her father’s hand. Amina glances back and forth between the two versions of Cinderella’s tale.

  “Exactly like the palace-approved version,” I say.

  Amina shakes her head. “Look again.”

  I lean in. She’s right. The larger drawing is the same, but in the backdrop there is something on the ground, a heap that almost bleeds into the intricate rendering of the foliage that lines the pathway to the house.

  A shiver runs up my back.

  “Didn’t you say Cinderella’s mother was executed in the driveway?” I ask Constance.

  She only nods. The little heap of ink looks like a person slumped on the ground.

  I take the book from Amina and lay it on the floor, setting the palace-approved version right next to it. “The next drawing should be one of an older Cinderella bowing in front of her new stepmother.”

  It is, but in Constance’s version, Lady Davis is leaning forward, her hand extended, her face gentle, her eyes full of sorrow, and Cinderella isn’t bowing as much as she is kneeling, like she’s just collapsed, her fingers rigid against the floor.

  “Her father’s imprisonment and execution,” Constance says. She glances up at me. “What is going on here?”

  “I think this book may be closer to the truth than anything I’ve ever seen,” says Amina. “Whoever recorded it this way, with the drawings telling the real story, would have put themselves at great risk by doing so.”

  We flip through, and I spot another difference. “In the palace version, it says that after Cinderella’s wedding, Gabrielle’s and her younger sister Isla’s eyes were pecked out while their mother was forced to watch, and then they were sent into the woods to remain in exile until they died. In Constance’s book, they are exiled without all the gory details.”

  “They were left out there to rot, but they didn’t,” Constance says. “They got away.”

  I read over the words. “The color of the dress is different in your version, Constance. Also, it says that the stepsisters simply tried fitting the glass shoe, but in the palace text it says they cut off their own toes to try to make it fit.” I glance up at Constance. “People hate them. I saw a little girl at the bicentennial celebration break down in tears at the thought of being like them.”

  Constance draws her mouth into a hard line. “He made them monsters to keep the attention off him. He is the real monster.”

  “And now look,” I say. “All these years later, people take it as fact. It’s as if repeating the lie over and over makes it true.”

  I reach down and turn to the last image. It shows Cinderella and Prince Charming sharing a passionate kiss against the backdrop of the royal palace.

  “The last drawing in the palace-approved story is of Cinderella sitting on her throne beside her prince,” I say. “His throne is golden with rubies, and hers is plain. And his throne sits on a platform nearly two heads above Cinderella.”

  We study the last picture in Constance’s book. Cinderella’s curly hair is worn in a plait that hangs down her back. She stands face-to-face with Charming, his arms wrapped around her.

  I run my hand over the picture. “The prince’s arms, one around her waist, one around the back of her neck.” Cinderella’s arms hang at her sides, her fingers curled into fists. “This is supposed to be the beginning of their happily ever after. And she doesn’t embrace him? Her hands are balled up.” I hear Amina’s breaths coming in quick succession as she stares down at Constance’s book. My fingers tremble at the edge of the page.

  Constance leans in. “They’re kissing.”

  “No,” I say. “They’re not.”

  I snatch up the book and stand with it in the middle of the room. A bright light, like a small, luminous cloud, hangs around their heads in the space where their faces come together. Their lips parted but not touching. The cloud of light looks as if it is passing between them. Cinderella’s eyes are open and blank, staring straight ahead. I push the book away from me, fearing that the king will come out of the picture right before my eyes. My vision from the pool and this picture are almost identical. The king, the ball of light. “This is what I saw in my vision.”

  Constance runs her hands over her face and lets her arms fall heavily to her sides. “You’re awfully quiet,” she says to Amina.

  “Am I?” Amina asks, rolling her eyes.

  “You must know more … It is your fault Cinderella fell head over feet for Manford in his guise as Prince Charming.” Constance’s tone is sharp, angry. “What really happened to Cinderella?”

  Amina shakes her head. “There are a great many things I should have done differently.”

  Constance is fuming. “You were hiding out there so you didn’t have to face what you’ve done. You spent years following Manford around, helping him ruin people’s lives. You’ve had all this time, time that isn’t granted to anyone else, and what do you do? You hide.”

  “My life’s purpose was unclear until I met you, my sweet,” says Amina, her tone mocking. “Now I know I’m meant to follow you around, ruining your life, maybe for all time. How does that sound?”

  Constance’s h
and moves to her dagger.

  “Try it,” says Amina. “See what happens.”

  “Just stop,” I say. I move between them. “Both of you. The cotillion is days away, and we are no closer to a plan.” I stare at the picture again. “I’m the one who’s sparked those little rebellions we’ve heard about. I’m the one he’s been hunting. And I’m going to have to let him get close to me, so I can put a dagger in his neck.”

  Amina shifts in her seat, and Constance crosses her arms hard over her chest.

  “The neck is a small target,” says Constance. “You should aim for something bigger, the chest or belly, first.”

  Amina slowly turns her head to stare at Constance.

  “That’s—helpful,” I say.

  Amina gets up and walks out of the room.

  Constance turns back to me. “I say we practice our knife skills on her.”

  She is only half joking.

  Constance makes a target out of an outfit she has in her burlap bag: a pair of trousers and a tunic, the sleeves and legs sewn closed and stuffed with dead grass and leaves. The head is a gourd, half the size of a normal human head, and Constance has painted on a set of eyes and a mouth, turned down into a frown. It’s horrifying.

  She props it against one of the trees that line the drive and gestures to it.

  “Stab it.”

  I glance at the blade in my hand. “Just anywhere or …”

  Constance laughs. “Let me show you.”

  She steps behind me and slides her right hand down my arm. I know I’m supposed to be focusing on training, but I can already tell it’s going to be difficult with her so close to me.

  “There are three things you have to do when you’re using a blade,” she says. “You have to be able to hold on to the dagger; you have to be able to strike whatever, or in this case whoever, the target is; and you have to have all your fingers when you’re done.”

  “Sounds straightforward enough.”

  She nods. She’d sharpened and polished her dagger, and as I stand with it in my outstretched hand, I can’t help but feel a little more confident.

  Constance puts her hand over mine. “Holding it this way, point up, is good for thrusting. Quick, sharp movements.” She pushes my hand forward. “It doesn’t take much force to puncture the skin.”

  I swallow hard. She is very good at this, and I wonder how many times she’s had to do it. She puts her opposite hand on the small of my back and leans close to my ear. I think she’ll speak some other bit of useful information, but instead she lets her lips brush against the side of my neck. I drop the dagger.

  Constance’s laugh is like bells. I could listen to it all day. She scoops up the dagger and puts it back in my hand. “That was my fault.”

  Constance shows me how to angle my arm to make the cut. I copy her movements. I stab the stuffed target.

  “Good,” she says. “Now flip the blade so the tip is pointing down.”

  I do as she says.

  “This is a kill stroke,” she says, plunging her dagger into the rind of the gourd. It splits in half and falls off the top of the target’s shoulders. “That probably won’t actually happen if you try to stab him in the head, but here’s hoping, right?”

  “Right,” I say, a little shaken. She presses the dagger’s handle into my palm. I raise up the blade and bring it down, right into the target’s chest.

  “Good,” Constance says, smiling. “I’m not as good a teacher as my mother was, but we’ll manage.” She looks at the ground.

  “I think you’re a great teacher,” I say. “Look.” I stab the target a few times, and Constance laughs. “What else did she teach you?”

  She hesitates a moment.

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” I say, resting my hand on her arm.

  She looks at me. “My mother was the fiercest woman I’ve ever known. She taught me everything I know. Her mother before her was a fighter, too. Once, when I was eleven, we moved as far north as we’d ever been. A small regiment of the king’s men tracked us through the mountains, snuck up on us in the night. One of them put a knife to my throat.”

  The thought of anyone hurting her makes me so angry I can barely contain myself.

  “My mother ran him straight through, and his knife tore open my arm as he fell away from me.” She runs her hand over the scar on her arm. “She killed two more of them and escaped with me on one of their horses.”

  “Your mother was a hero.”

  “I don’t think she would have liked that title at all, but she really was.” Constance’s eyes mist over. “My family may have been forced to leave Lille, but they never forgot.” Her voice catches in her throat. “I only wish there were someone left to witness this moment.”

  “You will witness it,” I say. “You and I together. We’ll make them proud or die trying.”

  There is a pause. I’ve said out loud the thing that’s always at the back of our minds. No matter how much we laugh or joke or try to find the good in our situation, there’s a very real possibility that we won’t make it out of this alive.

  Constance looks at me. “Have I told you how amazing you are?”

  “Not today,” I tease.

  We practice with the dagger, restuffing and redressing the target when we’ve torn it to shreds, and steal moments alone, which feel fleeting. I long for her, even when I’m right by her side. I feel a pull to touch her, to speak to her, to know her every thought, but still, I can’t get out from under this heavy feeling.

  I must kill the king.

  It’s the only way to make this work, and I ask myself if I’m up to it. Can I take his life? Am I capable of that? I think of what is at stake and all that has already been lost, and the answers are clear.

  I have to put him in the ground. That is our only hope.

  31

  Three nights before the cotillion, I dream of Liv and Erin, of Luke and Constance, and of the seamstress. I see Constance’s face shining like the sun, and Liv and Luke standing far off under a juniper tree. Liv smiles as Constance and I dance happily in the poppy field just past the orchard. The flowers in vibrant reds and pale yellows surround us as I feel the warmth of Constance’s skin and catch a whiff of her lemon verbena perfume. We spin around and around, our hands locked together.

  And then Erin appears. Her clothes are tattered, her face bruised. She cries silent tears as she watches me with Constance. She yells out to me, and I run toward her. Constance calls my name as I stand between them. I’m being pulled in both directions, like I’m being torn apart. Then a man appears at Erin’s side. Édouard. He grabs her by the wrist and drags her away as she screams my name. The seamstress steps forward, a gaping wound encircling her neck. She reaches out for me, and I shrink back.

  “I’m sorry!” I scream. “I’m so sorry!”

  A stifling darkness falls around me, and everyone is gone. In the darkness, someone laughs. A deep, throaty sound that begins low and distant, then swells until it’s deafening. I cover my ears but can’t block it out.

  I wake in the small hours of the morning; my bedclothes cling to my sweat-drenched back, and my hair sticks to my damp forehead. I sob harder than I have in weeks. Constance’s hand finds mine under the blankets.

  “What is it?” she asks, brushing my hair away from my face.

  I don’t want to hurt her, but there’s something I must do. “I need to see Erin to make sure she’s okay.”

  Constance gives me a pained smile. “She’s not okay, Sophia. You know that.”

  “Yes, but I need to go,” I whisper. “If we can’t stop the king, I may never see her again. I need to do this. Please understand.”

  Constance hangs her head. “It’ll be dangerous, but I can see that you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “When I saw her in the market before we left Lille, she was already being hurt. I can’t imagine what these past weeks have been like for her.”

  “The king’s looking for you. You can’t just waltz into
town and knock on her door.”

  “I know but I have to go.” I take her hand, but she pulls away from me.

  “Why?” Constance asks, her face hardening. “Why do you have to go? What has she ever done besides hurt you?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I say. “You don’t understand how things are for us. The king pushes us into these roles that we don’t want.”

  “You think I don’t understand what it’s like? I don’t need to be there to know. I was born in exile, lived my whole life that way. My family died out there while everyone back here was told they were monsters. All I have left of them are their letters and their stories and my memories. That’s the only place they exist for me anymore.” Tears spill over.

  “And do you know who’s responsible for that?” I ask, gripping her hands and pressing them to my lips. “It’s not you or me or Lille. It’s Manford. He’s the reason Erin is in the situation she’s in, and I left her there.” My voice cracks as the tears come in an unstoppable cascade.

  Constance takes my face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I trust you, and even though I don’t want you to go, I can’t hold you hostage.” She looks like she might be considering it.

  I glance at Amina, who snores loudly on her pile of blankets. “Do you think she will understand?”

  “No. She won’t. But it’s not her decision. Please promise me you’ll be cautious. Stay out of sight and do not, under any circumstances, go home to see your parents. I’m sure the king has eyes on your house, just in case you turn back up.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I need to see her, to tell her that things will be different, and, well, to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” Constance asks, confused.

  “It feels like all I ever did was cause her pain. I never wanted that. She chose to do what was expected of her, and can I really blame her? Maybe I was selfish for trying to get her to change her mind.”

  “You weren’t selfish,” Constance says. “You saw a future for yourself that she couldn’t imagine. You wanted her to believe that the two of you could find a way through all this. That’s what happens when you care about someone. And when you’re brave enough to imagine a different life.” She brings my hand to her lips and kisses it gently, letting her mouth linger there. “Be careful.”