Even though the early morning light was beginning to shine through my bedroom window, I turned on the lamp on my nightstand to help light up the darker side of the room. Dust rose from the floor as I carefully stepped closer to the leaning piles of boxes.
A third crash sounded throughout the room.
“Oops,” a tiny voice whispered from behind the boxes.
My heart halted along with my feet. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
Maybe I was just hearing things. Maybe I was dreaming. Yes, this is just a bad dream, I told myself.
After what seemed like an eternity, a small voice spoke again. “I’m sorry.”
My hand covered my mouth to stifle a gasp. Panic ran through my veins. What was I supposed to do? What did they say to do in situations like this? Scream? Run? Fight?
But fight what? The person with the tiny voice?
“Please forgive me.” The voice was closer.
Not daring to move, I grasped behind me for something, anything to use as a weapon, but my fingers found only air. I watched a girl move from behind the nearest stack of trunks, smiling and beautiful, as she wrung her soot-covered apron.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” she said as she pointed to the boxes behind her. “It was dark, and I couldn’t see where I was going. I hope I didn’t break anything.”
Her voice, barely above a whisper, sang as she spoke, and her movements were as smooth as an angel. It was as if she had stepped out of a storybook. She was astonishingly beautiful, if you overlooked her soiled dress and the smudges on her face. Part of her wavy brown hair was pinned behind her head, while the rest covered her shoulders and back.
When I didn’t speak, she curtsied. “My name is Gabriella.”
So formal, I thought.
Absently, I followed suit and attempted a curtsy. I emphasize the word “attempted,” because I clumsily bowed with my foot dangling awkwardly behind me and my hands pinching the seams of my sweatpants.
The girl smiled kindly. “And your name, miss?”
“Oh, sorry. My name is Brinlee.”
She curtsied again.
Again?! I thought. A little repetitive, don’t you think? Still, I did my best to curtsy back.
“I’m pleased to meet you Miss Brinlee,” she said.
“I’m pleased to meet you too, Miss Gabriella.”
“My friends call me Gabby, but my family calls me Cinderella.”
That name—that single, four-syllable word—slapped me back into reality.
K, what is this? Ah! A prank. I wondered who had executed the plan to have someone parade in my room and impersonate Cinderella, my fairy-tale heroine.
“How did you get in my room?” I asked the girl.
She pointed to the boxes behind her. “My entrance was through that door.”
“What door?” The only door in the room was the one behind me, leading to the stairway. “Did you come through a window or something?” I narrowed my eyes.
The girl shook her head. “No, the door I passed through is behind those containers.”
Frowning, I peered over the stacks and stacks of boxes.
“Before today, the door never opened, no matter how hard I tried,” she said. “But today, on this day, it has opened.” She stopped, her eyes bright with realization. Her gaze bore into mine. “You have opened it for me. You must be the source.”
“What is your deal?” I asked a bit forcefully. “Who put you up to this? Was it Cass? Who was it?” I stepped forward.
She frowned. “I do not know what you mean.”
I rubbed my temples. This conversation was going nowhere.
Gabriella, the actress, stepped around me and reached out to the lamp on my nightstand. “What is this? It is very unusual.” She pushed on my mattress. “What comfort! I would lie in this bed all day.”
She scanned my corner of the attic, then meandered through it, clearly fascinated with every little thing.
What if she really is Cinderella? I wondered. Wait! What am I thinking?
“I think I might be having a nervous breakdown,” I said.
The girl looked confused. “What is your meaning?”
“You’re not supposed to be here. You are only a figment of my imagination.”
She tilted her head and looked at me sympathetically. “I am as much a figment of your imagination as you are mine, because I stand here before you.”
“But I am a real person. You are only a character in a book.” I walked over to my bookshelf and grabbed one of my copies of the Cinderella story. I thrust it into the stranger’s hands.
“Yes, this is a book.” She placed her hand on mine. “But I am a real person just as you.”
I withdrew my hand. What’s happening? If this wasn’t proof of my insanity, then what was it?
“I don’t understand. This can’t be real,” I said. “Where did you come from?”
“My home is in Fenmore Falls. I come from a place very different than yours.”
Ya think?
“What do you call this place?” She handed my book back to me.
“We call this place Idaho.”
She scrunched her eyebrows. “Idaho?”
I nodded. She seemed to be as bewildered as I was.
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said.
“Tell me something about your world,” I challenged her. “Tell me something I couldn’t possibly know.”
“Well . . .” She paused, and then her eyes brightened. “Just this morning, it was declared that the prince had come home from a long trip overseas. It is expected that there will be a ball to celebrate his return.”
Just like the Cinderella story.
“I already knew that,” I said. Then I thought of something. “You haven’t met the prince yet, have you?”
“Of course not. Why would I have reason to meet the prince? I only saw him one time at the castle.”
What if there was some truth to what she said? What if she was who she said she was? Maybe this is the real Cinderella who is only beginning her fairy-tale story!
“Tell me something else,” I said anxiously.
“My chambermaid, Katie, heard from a very dependable source that the prince’s ship had been captured and rummaged by pirates. He, along with only a few of his loyal safeguards, was barely able to escape and return home. The whispers about the tale began today.”
She actually appeared to believe what she was telling me.
“Show me the door,” I said.
Gabriella appeared to be thrilled at my request. She grabbed my hand and led me to the far wall behind the stacks of old boxes. I followed her while my other hand still clutched the Cinderella book, my thread to realism.
There, leaning against the wall, was a door. Nothing seemed unusual about it—it was simply an old door being stored in the attic.
“This is a broken door,” I said.
“It is the way I entered,” Gabriella replied. “See? I left it slightly propped open.”
I looked to where she pointed, but saw only a leaning door. “This is not a door. Well, I guess it was a door at one time, but it’s not now. It’s broken and has been taken off its hinges.”
Gabriella looked at me thoughtfully.
Determined to illustrate the obvious, I placed my hand on the long-forgotten doorknob. I twisted it and pulled. The doorknob squeaked as I turned it, and then, unexpectedly, the door opened. Instead of staying firm against the wall, it opened as if on hinges.
With the door wide open, I peered inside. The doorway led into another room—a room considerably different from the one I stood in. Long tables were sprinkled with flour, and directly adjacent to the door was a stone fireplace that breathed its heat onto my
face.
All the reasons this scene couldn’t be real were demolished by the evidence in front of me. I could even smell freshly baked bread.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“Nor do I,” Gabriella said. “All I know is that when I passed through this door, I left my world and entered yours.”
Chancing a closer look, I placed one foot onto the packed-dirt floor of her kitchen. My other foot followed. I looked back at Gabriella, who watched from the other side of the miraculous door. Behind her, I could still see the stacks of boxes in my grandmother’s attic. Gazing into reality while standing in a fantasy was a pretty weird sensation.
Then, without warning, the door began to close. I scrambled to grab it, but something seemed to force it shut. Perhaps Gabriella, the supposedly sweet angel, had closed the door herself.
“Gabriella! Help me!”
Chapter 2
The Book
The priceless book, a 1912 McLoughlin Brothers edition of Cinderella, was a gift from Nana and my sister. The illustrations on the brittle, wrinkled pages were exquisite, particularly the faded portrait of the gentle, beautiful Cinderella sitting next to her hearth.
Inside, I read: “Poor Cinderella got home frightened and out of breath, with no carriage—no horses—no coachman—no pages—and all her old clothes back again. She had none of her finery now, except the other glass slipper.”
Stuck in Cinderella’s World
Still clutching the Cinderella book in one hand, I struggled to twist the wobbly doorknob. “Gabriella!” I shouted.
I thrust my shoulder against the door. “Ouch!” That hurt more than I expected. Why does it always work in the movies?
I pounded on the door. “Gabriella!”
Why couldn’t I open the door? And why wasn’t she letting me in? More importantly, was she the one who closed the door? Maybe Gabriella saw my world as refuge from her cruel and abusive home, but why would she thrust me into these horrible conditions? I rested my forehead on the door and feebly whispered, “Gabby, please open the door.”
“Excuse me, miss,” said a male voice.
I twirled around in alarm, dropping my book to the floor. In the doorway to the kitchen stood a tall man whose beauty took my breath away.
“Who are you? Please state your business,” he said in a strong voice. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, yet his manner exuded authority. He wore white tights, black buckle shoes, knee-length pants, a white shirt, and a jacket. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Ooh la la!
Clearly losing patience, he strode toward me and asked again, “Has someone let you in, miss?”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry. I was a little lost for a moment.” Yeah, lost in your gorgeous eyes. I mentally swooned.
“Who are you?” He stared at my twenty-first-century outfit—hot pink sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
This dude was obviously not going to believe I was invited into this house. So, I went with the truth. “I’m Brinlee. I’m here because of Gabriella.”
What if Gabriella didn’t live here? Or what if she was hated by everyone in her world and not just her stepmother and stepsisters? Oh, Brinlee, how did you get in this mess?
“You’re a friend of Cinderella?” The man lifted an eyebrow.
Seriously? They really call her that? “Yes,” I answered.
“There was no notice of Cinderella receiving a visitor today.” Once more, he looked at my strange clothes. “What was your name again?”
Crap! This guy is not buying it. I need to get out of here. I looked back at the door I’d entered. I already knew it was locked. To the left was another door, this one partly open. It led outside, and I figured if I could sneak out that door I could make a run for it.
“Please wait here while I confer with the lady of the house,” Ponytail Man said.
As soon as he turned on his heels and left the room, I bolted through the open door. I ran outside and hurried down a dirt road leading away from the beautiful but scary man. I didn’t know what people in this day did with trespassers, and I didn’t want to find out. Maybe if I ran fast enough, I’d pass out and awake from this dream.
It was early morning, just as it had been when I left my room in Idaho. The sun was barely making its appearance on the horizon. I ran past a stable and a few houses made of wood. I kept running past a small pond near the side of the road. My lungs burned, but I ran as fast as I could. Thankfully my purple slippers had rubber soles. You never know when you’re going to wake up and have to run for your life.
When I finally stopped, I put my hands on my knees and panted just like Ol’ Pete. My tongue even hung out while I gasped for air. I didn’t know how far I’d run, but just as the dizziness went away and I could focus my eyes again, I felt the earth tremble. Something was coming! I ran to the side of the road and ducked behind a tree. Were there bad guys in Cinderella’s story? I didn’t know, but I crouched down just in case.
Two men approached on horseback. One of them dove over and toppled the other off his horse about ten feet from me. I sank closer to the ground, wishing I could disappear. The two men wrestled, one of them clawing at the dirt as if in search of something. The other man wore a mask, a black cloth wrapped around the upper part of his face.
Suddenly, the masked man jumped up. “I’ve got it, old man.” He held up what looked like a key. A very large old key.
The first man, who was short and chubby, stood slowly and brushed the dirt off his pants. He looked toward the line of trees where I hid. I stilled my breath and waited until his gaze returned to the masked man. “It is of no consequence,” he muttered. “My source will obtain another one.”
“Your source?” the other exclaimed. “You have no source. He confessed everything this morning. How do you think I was able to find you so quickly?”
Just then, the portly man jumped at me through the trees like a viper snatching its prey, and brought me to a standing position with a sharp object pointing to my neck.
The masked man’s eyes grew wide as he looked at me and then at my captor, and then back at me. “Where did you come from?” he asked, taking a quick inventory of my strange attire and loose hair.
With the knife at my throat I couldn’t reply, but I didn’t have a suitable answer anyway.
“Give me the key,” the man behind me said, tightening his hold.
“Or what, Isaac? You’ll kill her?”
I gasped.
The old man chuckled, and I felt his belly shake. I won’t even mention his breath. Eeeew! Where’s the Listerine when you need it?
The masked man stepped forward. I couldn’t help but look into his brilliant brown eyes. Somehow I knew the rest of his face would be a masterpiece too. But perhaps he hid his face to hide an awful wound, like the Phantom of the Opera. Or maybe he suffered from an abnormality from birth.
But he had great hair. It was long and brown and tied at the back of his head. First the guy at Cinderella’s house with girl hair, and now this guy. Anyway, it was pretty. It made you want to run your fingers through it.
Or maybe cut it off. Just a little bit. In his sleep.
K, I’m getting distracted. How could I get distracted with a man holding a knife to my throat? Blame it on the masked man’s hair.
His beautiful hair.
Brinlee, stop.
Moving on.
“Not a step closer,” said the dude with stinky breath.
“All right, all right.” The tall man held up his hands. “What do you want?”
“Give me the key.”
“You know I can’t do that. How about an exchange? You give me the girl, and I’ll give you everything on my horse.”
Isaac loosened his grip on me but not enough for me to escape. “Do I h
ave your word?”
I was intrigued. Would this masked man, gorgeous as he was, really trade everything on his horse for me—a girl he didn’t know and who dressed funny?
The tall man crossed his arms over his massive chest. I could see his muscles—they were right there, rippling through his open white shirt. When I looked into his eyes, he held my gaze. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. He was the most handsome guy I’d ever seen—a serious hottie. And he was certainly the first man I’d ever seen wearing a mask while riding a horse. Somehow, he made the look work even better than Zorro.
The masked man frowned at me, as if remembering where he was. “I give you my word,” he told my captor.
Isaac released me and shoved me toward the ground. A hand clenched my forearm and I let out a yell, but then quickly swallowed it. It was the masked man, even more intense up close. But his eyes were no longer soft in wonder. They were hard, staring down at me.
“Are you a witch?”
What?! “What?”
“A witch,” he repeated. “Why are you in the woods? And your clothing . . .” He reached a hand to my hair. “Your hair. No one allows his woman to parade around as such.”
I slapped his hand away. “I am not a witch. I am from—” I closed my mouth. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him. “Look, you big jerk,” I said, not caring if my language confused him. “You don’t want to know where I’m from. It would freak you out.” It’s freakin’ me out!
He leaned back, looking surprised. But then he turned as if sensing Isaac behind him. He spoke to the potbellied man. “You have exactly five minutes before I change my mind and turn you in.”
The pudgy man hurried to the masked man’s horse and started removing items from the saddlebags. When he had transferred his hoard to his mare, he led her to a tree stump and stood on it to climb into the saddle.
I'm Not Cinderella (The Princess Chronicles) Page 2