by Shea, K. M.
“The Erlauf devil,” added the milkmaid in the stall next door.
“He can try all he wants. I will ignore him,” Cinderella said, placing the potato basket on the counter.
The mousy woman tisked. “But he’s with the Army.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with my refusal.”
“The queen has a soft spot for her army lads,” the tanner’s wife said, joining the mousy woman. “She may let him yank you before her with the complaint that you have scorned him.”
“Just so,” the mousy woman emphatically nodded.
“Mademoiselle,” Vitore said, hunching with distress.
“It will be fine, Vitore,” Cinderella said before turning to her growing audience. “All the man does is buy carrots from me. He has given me no reason to think he sees more to the exchange than obtaining vegetables.”
“Oh, but he asked for your name.”
“And you cannot miss the way he eyes you—like you was a wee rabbit and he a fox.”
“You best watch your step with him, Lady Lacreux,” the potter across the way called as he wrapped a clay pot for a customer. “No telling what he might try.”
“He makes it plain he comes here for you,” the sharp-mouthed milkmaid said, feeding her goats some hay. “He enters the market and heads for you, as if you’re the only person here.”
“Aye,” said a woman selling candles. “The rest of us is plain as dirt. You, Lady Lacreux, you’re why ‘e comes ‘ere.”
The public reckoning warmed Cinderella. Most of the after effects of the war with Erlauf were negative, but not all things were bad. Previously no commoner would have spoken to Cinderella. The change probably had something to do with seeing her work side-by-side with her servants, but their concern softened Cinderella even if their worries were aggravating.
“I will be careful,” Cinderella said to the expectant crowd.
“Good,” the mousy woman said. “We want none of their kind messing with our nobles!”
“Couldn’t you stay away a few days?” the ropemaker, a friend of the milkmaid, asked.
“What a grand idea,” Vitore said.
“No,” Cinderella said, wiping her hands on her apron. “He hasn’t done anything yet to make me worried.”
“He brushed your hand as if he was caressing your cheek,” Vitore muttered.
“If he makes any further insinuations, I will avoid the market,” Cinderella said.
The mousy-looking woman planted her hands on her hips. “If you’ll excuse me for speaking so, Lady Lacreux, if that foreign devil looked at one of my daughters the way he looks at you with that eye of his, I would pack her up and send her to her aunt in the country before the day was over.”
“Perhaps,” Cinderella said.
“But?” the tanner’s wife asked.
“But I do have the protection of Aveyron, and my title. They don’t mean as much as they used to, but it should be enough. Furthermore, I have made many allowances, but I will not let Erlauf keep me from conducting business,” Cinderella said, sticking her chin out. She paid her taxes and upheld the law like a good conquered noble, but she would not let this feckless officer affect her any further!
The commoners exchanged glances. “Pride of nobility,” the milkmaid offered.
“Foolish thing,” the ropemaker said, shaking his head.
“I thank you for your concern. Should the situation grow dire, I will not hesitate to take action,” Cinderella said.
“Nobles, think they’re above the worldly desires of others,” the tanner’s wife said, shaking her head in disgust.
Cinderella had to choke back the laughter. There was truth to their words—Cinderella would have to be stupid to miss the wolfish way the officer looked at her. But they were forgetting—those from Erlauf hated the citizens of Trieux just as much as the citizens of Trieux hated them. Why would the officer want anything to do with a high-ranking noble whose heritage, country, and inheritance was something he hated?
It was dusk when Cinderella started home. The market stall had been packed up earlier in the afternoon, but Cinderella had stayed behind in Werra for…reasons. Not that it mattered—she failed in the goal she meant to accomplish.
The walk from Werra improved her flagging spirits. The dirt roads were peppered with people taking their goods home and walking with their pack animals and flocks. The countryside was painted hues of orange and crimson from the setting sun, and the birds still sang.
It was beautiful, and it required no work on Cinderella’s part to enjoy it. She treasured the quiet moments when she didn’t have to worry about her future or taxes.
A farmer on a cart pulled by two mules doffed his cap to her as he passed by, his wagon laden with bags of grain.
Cinderella elbowed her cloak out of the way and waved.
“At times like this it seems like nothing has changed,” Cinderella said, tossing her head to get the fringe of her bangs out of her eyes. She watched wild geese and swans fly overhead, returning to the north as winter fled the onslaught of spring.
The beauty of the moment was shattered by raised voices.
Further up the road, a small caravan of four wagons was stopped. One cart was filled with cages of ducks and chickens, another had produce, the third was packed tight with goods—blankets, pots, and the like—and the final wagon held a handful of commoners. Cinderella recognized the drivers and the passengers as sellers and craftsmen from the market.
A squad of Erlauf soldiers had stopped them. Some of the soldiers were rattling the poultry cages, and several others were going through the wagon of goods.
A soldier tore open a sack from the produce wagon, inspected it, and tossed it back into the wagon, untied.
The commoners protested.
“Please have some respect,” the driver of the produce wagon said as he reached to tie the sack shut.
“We’ve only come from the market. Whatever you’re looking for, we don’t have it,” an older man—the potter—said.
A baby cried,. Its mother bounced it up and down to try and cheer it.
“Silence,” the lieutenant—the leader of the soldiers—said.
Cinderella caught up to the farmer with the wagon and mules. He pulled his team to a halt a short distance away from the stopped caravan and watched the interchange with stormy eyes.
The two soldiers going through the goods abandoned the cart for the produce wagon.
“Anything of interest?” they asked the soldier who opened sacks and tossed them back in the wagon.
“Nope,” the soldier said, helping himself to a handful of peas from the wagon. He bit a pea pod in half and tossed the rest on the road to be stomped into the ground.
The driver of the produce cart—the farmer—scowled deeper as he watched the soldiers ransack his cart. The baby cried louder in spite of the mother’s best attempts to shush it.
A boy—perhaps thirteen-years-old or so—climbed off the passenger wagon so he could restore order to the wagon of goods.
One of the soldiers noticed and returned to that wagon. “We didn’t say we were finished, boy.”
The boy ignored him and tucked a clay jar beneath several blankets.
“I said we aren’t finished,” the soldier said, grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him away from the wagon and pushed him, sending the boy sprawling to the ground.
Two Trieux men sitting in the passenger wagon stood, and the driver of the produce cart leaped from his seat.
Things were going to get ugly.
“That’s enough,” Cinderella said, hurrying forward to step between the soldier and the boy. “What is going on?”
“It’s none of your concern,” the soldier sneered.
“Lady,” Cinderella said.
“What?”
“It is Lady Lacreux to you, soldier,” Cinderella said, using every bit of her manners schooling to stand tall and elegant in a way that demanded respect. “And it is my concern as we sta
nd on lands belonging to the Duchy of Aveyron.”
The soldier hunched his neck into his shoulders. “What?” he repeated.
“These lands are my lands. So would you be so good as to explain what you are doing on my estate?” Cinderella said, folding her arms across her chest as she tipped her head back and looked down her nose at the soldier.
“Um,” the soldier said.
“I beg your pardon, Your Ladyship,” the lieutenant, mounted on the only horse, said. He urged the beast a few steps forward so he could address Cinderella without shouting over the wailing baby. “We received information of several armed ruffians traveling through these parts. For the safety of all, we are performing random checks.”
“Of course,” Cinderella said, magnanimously bowing her head. “When one is searching for ruffians and the like, it is always the wisest course of action to shake down farmers returning home from the capital.”
The lieutenant’s saddle creaked as he leaned. “Perhaps I allowed my men to be too enthusiastic in their duties.”
“Perhaps,” Cinderella said. “You have conducted your search. Are they not free to go?” Cinderella said, gesturing liquidly with her right hand. (Since the takeover, Cinderella had been bitter about investing so many years in dancing and fan-work, as fun as it was, and finding herself stupid in the ways of running an estate. But perhaps there were some uses for learned elegance.)
As if testing Cinderella, a soldier rattled a chicken cage, making the bird squawk.
“If you are so worried they are secretly ruffians, please allow me to vouch for their character,” Cinderella said.
“They are your serfs?” the lieutenant asked.
“No, but they all have stands in the market near Aveyron’s stall. I know them quite well. As a member of nobility, I despise all forms of thievery and bullying. I can promise you none of the people before you are the kind to delight in such behavior,” Cinderella said, taking care to highlight her noble accent, making her words crisp and clear.
The lieutenant dipped his head to her. “Very well, Your Ladyship,” he said before wheeling his mount around to face his men. “Back into formation. We return to Werra.”
The soldiers left the wagons and formed two lines. They marched back towards the capital, leaving ruffled commoners and peasants in their wake.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” the produce wagon driver said.
“Of course. Are you all alright?” Cinderella asked, extending a hand to the fallen boy.
He scrambled up without any help and bowed three times to Cinderella, almost falling again when he tripped on his bare feet. “Yes, Mademoiselle. Thank you, Mademoiselle.
“Blessings over you, Mademoiselle,” the mother of the howling baby said.
Cinderella smiled. “Thank you, take care,” she said before continuing ahead, splitting off on a small road that ducked between some of Aveyron’s plowed fields. It was a farming path, but it would cut minutes off the walk.
“Mind you watch out for that Erlauf officer, Mademoiselle,” the potter said.
Cinderella raised her hand to acknowledge the comment and kept walking home.
Chapter 3
When the Erlauf officer strolled up to the market stand, Cinderella pretended not to notice him. Her back was to him as she sorted through a basket of onions, but she knew he was there because the market went quiet in the way it did only when he was around.
It was earlier than usual. Some of the market vendors hadn’t arrived yet. Vitore was gone with the milkmaid stand-neighbor, fetching water for the day. The maid’s absence made Cinderella uneasy.
She was reassured when the baker started humming—sounding much closer than the location of his stand warranted—and the ropemaker nonchalantly sidled up to the milkmaid’s goats and started petting them.
“I heard you ran into some trouble yesterday, Cinderella,” the officer said.
Cinderella stopped sorting and reluctantly turned to face the high-ranking soldier. Based on the quirk of his lips he knew very well she was Lady Lacreux, the Duchess of Aveyron. “Trouble?” Cinderella said, widening her eyes. “I have no idea to what you are referring.”
“I was told you came upon some soldiers as they were in the process of conducting random searches,” the officer said, tugging on his black eye patch. He was alone this time, although he still wore his army uniform.
“Oh, yes,” Cinderella said. “That is true, but I have no recollection of there being any trouble.” Normally she would ornament such a statement with her brightest smile, but she did not want to encourage this officer in any way.
The officer studied Cinderella, his face blank and emotionless for the first time since he started coming to the market.
His scrutiny was unnerving, so Cinderella busied herself with the carrots. “The usual?” she asked.
“No.”
Shocked, Cinderella looked back to the officer. “I beg your pardon?”
“Today I have a different offer in mind,” the officer said. “But first, my mother would tell me introductions must be made. Cinderella-who-has-no-curiosity, allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Friedrich of First Regiment of the Dragon Army.”
Cinderella almost dropped the carrots. She immediately fixing her reaction, casually brushing her fringe of bangs out of her eyes. “Colonel?” she said, as if enquiring after the weather.
“Quite so,” the-no-longer-nameless-officer said.
Oh dear. I should have listened to everyone, Cinderella thought. Although she was able to keep herself schooled, the baker came down with a coughing fit and the ropemaker froze—he didn’t even notice when one of the milkmaid’s goats started nibbling his shirt.
A colonel was one of the highest offices an Erlauf soldier could achieve. A colonel ran a regiment of over 600 soldiers and served directly under a general. There were only a handful of them in existence, and the rank was a great honor.
As a conquered noble, it was safe to say Colonel Friedrich’s rank was considered higher than Cinderella’s—even though Cinderella had more assets and a higher monetary worth. Such was the value Erlauf placed on the Army.
What this meant was Cinderella could not safely disregard the Colonel. If he was so inclined, he could make her life a misery. In the span of a few heartbeats, the Erlauf officer had gone from an irritation to a danger Cinderella could not flee.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Colonel Friedrich,” Cinderella said.
“I’m sure,” the Colonel dryly said.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Cinderella asked.
“I would like to spend the day with you.”
Cinderella twisted her fingers together. “I am afraid I must respectfully decline, sir.”
“Oh?” the Colonel said, his voice weighted with his displeasure.
“Yes, I have…prior engagements,” Cinderella said.
“Then tomorrow?” the Colonel said, tapping his fingers on the rough wood of a beam that supported Aveyron’s stand.
Cinderella almost winced. He was going to be persistent, was he? Perhaps it was better to bore him into giving up. “I may be able to accompany you today if…”
“If?”
“If my time was properly compensated,” Cinderella said.
The Colonel went very still. His eye was neither friendly nor amused as he studied Cinderella. She could almost feel the power and danger radiating from him as he asked, “You want to be a paid woman then?”
As a proper lady, Cinderella didn’t know exactly what kind of work the colonel referred to, but she knew it was a kind of work no lady would do. Cinderella’s anger burst past the walls of decorum. “WHAT?” she shrieked, stepping back from the Colonel.
“You were the one who said it,” the Colonel said, his stance once again relaxed and liquid.
“I said compensated. I work in Werra in the afternoon, and I cannot afford to miss the pay! I meant as long as you expected me to trail behind you, I had better get a pay equal to my j
ob—or I will never be able to accompany you,” Cinderella said, the words rushing from her mouth before she was aware she thought them. When she realized what she said, she almost clamped her hands to her mouth, but settled for stiffly awaiting the Colonel’s anger.
To Cinderella’s surprise, the man seemed amused. “You work? Why?” he said, his familiar smirk flashing on his lips.
“Why not? Have you something to say about working for a living?” Cinderella said, pointedly staring at the medals pinned to the Colonel’s uniform.
“No, nothing at all,” the Colonel said, chuckling with a maddening confidence. “I would be happy to pay you for your missed wages. I shall return in an hour then to pick you up.”
“Are you so sure you can cover my pay?” Cinderella asked.
“I assume it isn’t more than a handful or two of copper coins?”
“A day’s work is one silver coin,” Cinderella said, giving herself an outrageous raise.
The one-eyed Colonel shrugged. “Hardly more than spare change. In one hour, then,” he said before setting off.
Cinderella angrily gawked at his back as he left the market. A silver coin was spare change? “Filthy-rich dandy,” Cinderella scoffed, angrily stuffing carrots back into the basket.
“Mademoiselle?” the ropemaker ventured.
“What?” Cinderella hissed.
It rankled her that an army officer could treat such a sum like it was nothing when Cinderella—a duchess—clambered for every copper coin she could get.
The ropemaker winced. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” Cinderella said, calming as the officer slinked out of sight. “Just…irritated.”
The ropemaker hesitated. “Are you going to be alright?”
The anger left Cinderella like a cloud on a windy day. “I think so,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “He doesn’t seem…terrible.”
“None of them do, until they reveal their true colors, Mademoiselle,” the ropemaker said.
“I know,” Cinderella said. “But he’s a Colonel. I dare not offend him; the risk isn’t worth it. I can only try to bore him in hopes that he will move on.”