A Cinderella Retelling
Page 1
Contents
End of Ever After Novels
Ever After
Before
Beginning of the End
The First Mistake
The Second Mistake
The Third Mistake
Shattered Slipper of Glass
Only Faeries Live in Faery Tales
As Long as We Both Shall Live
Sugarplum Days
Fragments of Glass
The First Clue
The Second Clue
The Third Clue
To Waltz on Burning Stars
After Ever After
LIES OF GOLDEN STRAW
Acknowledgments
Thank You For Reading
About the Author
Also by E. L. Tenenbaum
END OF EVER AFTER
Copyright © 2018 by E. L. Tenenbaum
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ISBN: 978-1-68046-690-4
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Fire & Ice Young Adult Books
An Imprint of Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
www.fireandiceya.com
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Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
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Published in the United States of America.
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Cover Design by Caroline Andrus
LH”U
End of Ever After Novels
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End of Ever After
Lies of Golden Straw (November 27, 2018)
Beautiful to Me (January 2019)
Human Again (2019)
Heart of a Hunter (2019)
Ever After
Once upon a time, the palace wasn’t my prison.
Not that kind of prison; there are no bars upon the windows and I can stand in the sun whenever I choose. My power is almost unlimited, I am free to go where and when I want. This is a different type of prison, one of half-truths and warbled perceptions; a prison I unwittingly stepped into the day all my dreams came true.
For what can a sheltered girl of sixteen know about reality when her life plays out like a faery tale? I had never wondered about Snow White once her prince kissed and whisked her away. I had imagined a similarly happy fate for the Sleeping Beauty, for the Beauty and her Beast. Would either have warned me had I asked for the truth? That “happily ever after” doesn’t last?
Because I wasn’t a princess, not at first. I wasn’t anything but a dusty servant girl, and for a while, it really seemed like my story would be different from the others. Maybe I was only playing my part, embracing the destiny I believed was mine because it had rolled out before me like a soft red carpet spilling from a royal carriage the day that sealed my fate.
And wasn’t my faery godmother part of all this, too? Hadn’t she displayed the best and brightest magic, dressed me like a princess so I could win a prince? She wouldn’t have done so if this wasn’t supposed to be good.
Yet I would never go back to the way my life was before. It’s taken me five years to soften the skin on my hands, to undo the callouses marring my palms and knuckles that marked me as a servant. Now, I have servants of my own to get me whatever, whenever, however I want. Any request of my stepmother or stepsisters could be irrational, unwarranted, unworthy of my time, but a queen’s requests are never foolish, never too simple to ignore or sweep under the rug until she goes to sleep.
Every princess learns that life goes on after happily ever after, and my life is better than it ever was. But often I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d kept dreaming in my own little corner instead of going to that wretched, wretched ball.
Before
My father was often away on business, far back as I can remember. Each time he went, Mother took me to the study, pulled out his large spinning globe and a pile of maps, then showed me exactly what route he would take. I would think that being adept at direction so early in life would have made me a better navigator of my future.
“Father always stops through this inn when he travels this way.” Mother guided my hand, pointing with me to a little square sitting just off the main road.
“Because they have the best ale,” I chimed in.
Mother smiled and stroked my hair. “Because they have the best ale,” she repeated.
I walked the route with my little fingers. “Why can’t Father sleep at home if it’s so close?” I wondered out loud.
“The map shows how all this land looks from Heaven,” Mother explained. “Down here, everything is much farther apart.”
“Will Father leap across this river?” I asked, tracing a blue line from its origin in the mountains to its end in the sea.
“Father will take a ferry across and when he does, he’ll be thinking of you,” Mother said. She traced the route then came back round again toward our little slice of paradise. “And from here he’ll already be counting the steps back home to us.”
My knack for maps can be traced to those early days. Even after Mother was gone, I would sneak into Father’s study to trace his route on the maps. Perhaps I did it more to reconnect with my mother than my father. By that point, he hardly remembered the daughter from his first wife.
I suppose Father was successful, because we lived on a fairly large piece of land though we weren’t titled gentry. During spring and summer, the green lawns were hardly visible beneath the most wonderful shades of blue, pink, purple, yellow, and white flowers. They cozied up to tree trunks and popped out between blades of grass, their petals radiating in the sunlight in a way quite befitting a faerytale land.
Our home was tucked back beside a clear, bubbling stream and a small orchard that gave us all the fruit we needed. The path leading up to our property was lined on either side by a low stone wall which guided it through the bramble and drooping willows until our house emerged behind a sharp bend where the path yielded to a circular drive. I never thought much of that drive, but Madame was to later teach me that having a circular drive was very important for a person of means. We were never allowed to descend any of the twelve steps that climbed to our front door until the horses of a visitor’s carriage were already slightly turned to align his door with ours. I thought that rule the most unbearable whenever Father returned home.
Before Madame came, we were happy, as happy as any family can be, and it’s odd to think now that the time when our family was only Father, Mother, and me was my true happily ever after. Those days, a square of grass could hold an entire kingdom, a full plot held an entire world. Those days, sunshine was proof of Heaven smiling down on me, the clear sky a window thrown open above to light up a world waiting to be discovered. Those days are frozen in the colors of memory that never fade.
Thinking back on the house that was once my home, what stands out most to me is not the oil-painting tranquility I left behind, but rather the constant trilling of birds. Snow white pigeons and turtledoves, blue robins and startling red cardinals all made their homes in our gardens at one point or another. At times, it felt as if every bird stopped for a visit during their migrations, as if we were their inn of choice for their travels. And those birds were always singing, always the chariots of faeries in my childhood games.
My mother was beautiful, dainty, and gentle
. From the moment I could walk, it was quite clear that I was formed in her image, a fact I used to wear with pride until it would come to haunt me. I was born small and stayed so. I have a small waist, small hands, tiny feet, and when made up, the heart-shaped face my mother bequeathed me very much resembles that of a fragile porcelain doll. Before I came to the palace, my looks were the cause of much ridicule by my stepfamily whom I’m sure would have been glad to crack me underfoot.
From what I can remember, I don’t think my mother was as small as I am. She may have seemed bigger to me because I was so little, but I don’t think so. However, there was something about her that was larger than life, and I think it was largely part of the reason why she was well respected. She was kind and generous, pious and sweet, and never lost her temper. She tried hard to pass those traits on to me, and I think she must have because kindness, generosity, and sweetness, while much lauded by bards and minstrels, have also been the bane of my existence. They are the root of my naiveté, my blind trust, my acceptance of whatever I’m given, and my perverse instinct to always rationalize a person’s behavior for the good. I’ve been working on changing some of those things. I certainly didn’t get Mother’s unshakeable temperament.
My mother and I were best friends for as long as she was alive, our delight in each other’s company a wonderful buoy to help us through Father’s long absences.
“What shall we feast on today, Ella?” was the question I would wake up to the first morning after Father left.
“Corn cakes!” I’d jump on my bed so I couldn’t be tripped by the ends of my white nightgown. “White powdered confections! And chocolate roses! Lemon tarts and strawberry cream cake!”
Mother would giggle and grab my hands to jump beside me on the floor.
“And roast goose!”
“We shall have all those things and more, dear princess!” Mother cried. “And no amount of sweets shall be too much!”
Mother didn’t know then, as I know now, what my life would be like as a princess. She never would have called me that if she had.
Mother would dress me herself, in little dresses of navy blue dotted with pearl-colored flowers, leaf-colored greens decorated with bows of orange ribbons, lavender layers embroidered with pastel yellow beadings. And always a bonnet pulled tight over my head to keep my skin milky white beneath my rosy cheeks.
We’d spend all day outside, or inside, whichever suited our fancy. Together, we traveled the world and were it not for those early years, I would have grown up with an imagination as painfully dull as my stepsisters’. Like most good things from my past, I cursed my imagination when I understood how it distorted the truth of palace life, but I am learning.
Once a week, Mother bundled me up, ordered up the cart, and took me on her rounds to visit the peasants who rented the King’s land surrounding ours. Mother remembered everyone’s name and the little details of their lives that were so important to them. We would visit homes too small for the families they were supposed to shelter and women whose husbands couldn’t care for them after childbirth because they couldn’t miss a day in the fields. At all these places, Mother’s arrival was like a ray of sunshine on a cold and cloudy day, a momentary whisper of heavenly trumpets sending away the drudgery of the world.
Mother always made me hold the basket of fruit I’d helped her pick from our orchard. She insisted that I give out the fruit and made sure I did so with a warm smile.
“Ella, remember, there is always, always someone more unfortunate than yourself,” she would tell me in the time it took to ride from one house to another.
“What if I keep giving and then there’s nothing left?” I wanted to know.
“Kindness does not run out.” Mother smiled and lovingly tapped my nose with her finger. “There are too many people in need of an open ear and an accepting heart.”
Madame had Mother’s cart smashed to kindling the day she arrived.
Father always brought back something from his travels, no matter where he’d gone or for how long. Treats and confections, laces and beads, something for Mother and something for me. One time, he brought back a life-size doll, or perhaps it only seemed that way because I was so small. That doll frightened me away from its room for two months, and I only went near it when Mother finally tricked me.
“Ella, you must come quickly,” she woke me one morning.
“What is it, Mama?” I was instantly wide awake at her urgency.
“A little girl is in trouble,” she hurried to explain. “She’s being held captive by a giant!”
I clambered out of bed. “We must save her at once, Mama!”
“This way.”
She took my little hand and led me to the playroom where she’d barricaded one of my favorite dolls behind a fortress of blocks and pillows. Before all that loomed the giant, that scary life-size doll I was afraid would crush me should it topple over. Mother must have felt my hesitation, because she wouldn’t let my hand go.
“We cannot abandon the girl!” she insisted.
I tried to pull away. “Surely there is some other brave knight who can rescue her.”
As part of his contribution to our games of pretend, Father gave me fencing lessons whenever he was home. I can’t say that I was an expert, but I was proficient at holding my own against him with my little wooden sword. Now, Mother pushed the sword into my hand and set me firmly forward. “You are the only one left. The little girl needs you.”
“Perhaps there’s a way to trick the giant?” I suggested hopefully.
Mother softened at that. “Perhaps,” she agreed.
We rescued the girl and I was no longer frightened of the doll, but it would always be the terrible giant thereafter.
Usually, Father’s gifts were darling like the small, bright orange goldfish he once brought me on a whim. I have no idea how it survived the journey and am even less certain how such a tiny creature persevered through all the changes over the years. Father bought it for me a few months before Mother died, and when Madame came, the first thing she said upon seeing it happily chasing its tail around its tiny bowl in the study was, “Get that animal out of here.”
It moved into the attic with me and the boxes of other unwanted and forgotten items. Many of those things were Mother’s, the remains of her clothing, bits of inexpensive jewelry, and a faery-dusted sword with an unbreakable blade sharp enough to cut stone inherited from Mother’s father from a time when magic was easier to come by. Sometimes, I’d take it out for a few thrusts and parries, gaining a feel for the blade as I reminisced about the wooden swords Father and I used to play with. I snuck it upstairs when I was thirteen, the age I finally acknowledged that I no longer trusted Father to protect anything that once belonged to Mother, not even me.
I also received a wonderful, cream colored pony with brown socks above its hooves, which Madame would soon pronounce me underserving of owning. A mosaic topped jewelry box, a kaleidoscope of color in the light, with a false bottom, which I’ve since lost to one of my stepsister’s whims. Real jade earrings and a little ivory princess charm carved from the rare tusk of an elephant, which, again, are no longer mine. Then, one day, about a year after Mother passed from this world, three months after my ninth birthday, Father brought home the gift he thought would outdo all the others: a new mother.
My new mother brought with her the title of Baroness, a fact she flaunted with pride, though she’d earned her rank through her first marriage. She must have thought the commotion over her station was enough to hide the fact that her blood didn’t really run blue at all. While my father was allowed to change his stationery to accept the new title, such privileges were not extended to me. From the beginning, it was quite clear that I was not, and never would be, the baroness’s daughter. She already had two of her own and didn’t want any more.
“You’ll call me Madame,” were the first words she said to me after a few, long, agonizing moments under her disapproving scrutiny.
“Yes, Madame,” I
replied willingly, eager to please this proud, aristocratic woman, who Father said would take care of me. It wouldn’t take long for me to know that if I’d ever had a thought to change that title it would never have been to “Ma” but “Mad.”
Madame was not horrible at first, but she was never very good to me either. In the beginning, however begrudgingly, she allowed me to join all the lessons in the finer arts she arranged for her daughters to mold them into the ladies of quality she dreamed them to be. Thusly, I learned how to dance, how to paint, how to play piano, how to sing, how to dress, how to eat, how to stand, and how to faint convincingly for the purpose of gaining a gentleman’s attentions.
Despite what she later did to me, I have to give her credit for unknowingly training me into princess caliber material.
Madame’s two daughters, Maybelle and Calliope, carried themselves with no less airs than their mother. They were beautiful, talented, and unhelpful to a young girl trying to exercise patience. Calliope sang with the heart of a fallen angel; Maybelle played the piano like a favored muse. Even after they’d banished me to the cinders, I could still enjoy listening to them practice together.
Etiquette was overbearingly high on Madame’s list of musts for a proper lady. Here too, she included me in the tedious and insufferable lessons with her daughters, often forcing us to eat soup with books balanced on our heads so as to maintain perfect posture throughout. She took away our food if she saw us leaning toward it instead of bringing it up to our mouths.