Cinders: Necessary Evil (Magic Mirrors Saga Book 1)

by Sky Sommers

Beast looks at me, ‘You’ve bought things already, haven’t you?’ he asks and I shrug.

  ‘I wouldn’t be a very good caterer if I didn’t plan ahead how to feed two hundred guests and left everything to the last minutes. A lot of sweets need to be made and a lot of cows need to be killed for an event such as this.’

  Beast nods, ‘I’ll tell her you have already made preparations and unless she wants to pay for your costs and, in fact, pay for the ball twice, she needs you back.’

  I incline my head. ‘I know a repeat invitation is too much to ask…’

  ‘But you’re asking anyway,’ the king smiles and I nod.

  ‘Unfortunately, everybody who got the secondary invitations has also replied they are coming. We’re full.’

  ‘Any chance of someone backing out at the last minute?’

  ‘Not unless someone goes abroad all of a sudden or decides to migrate back whence they came, which can happen, you know. We require at least one or two weeks notification in case anyone decides to move to new foreign lands…’ he says.

  ‘But if it does happen in the next two weeks…’

  ‘Then she’ll be more than welcome.’

  ‘You said it can happen. But how often does it really happen? Wouldn’t noblemen postpone their travels and relocations for the opportunity to attend your ball?’

  ‘It happens more than you think. Often in May, for some strange reason. In fact, there are rumours that one male and one female courtier might be…relocating. Together. I can ask if they need to be gone sooner rather than later, given that they are both married, but not to each other,’ he intones and I nod. ‘DeVille’s wife has given him a taste of his own medicine and is planning to divorce him, take their son and make a new family elsewhere.’

  I nod. Serves him right. Although I doubt his wife leaving him will improve his philandering ways.

  ‘Come back to the gardens tonight. If there is no news, come back on the night of May 30th,’ Tom says.

  ‘But that’s the night before the ball…’ I say.

  ‘Yes, which is why if you have no luck before, that is the last day to have some good news,’ the king says and I nod.

  ‘Alright. I will. Thank you very much, Tom. Is there anything we CAN do? RSVP, even though it would be too late, but at least you would have a record so she’d be amongst the first on your waiting list…’

  Tom laughed, ‘Grace, thanks to your meddling she is already number one on my waiting list.’

  I smile, ‘Thank you, again, Tom! You have a lovely day! Bye!’

  ‘Bye-bye,’ he waves me off.

  I relay all of this to my husband and we agree to tell none of it to Ella.

  Yet.

  No need to get her hopes up, in case she doesn’t get to go.

  That same night, I get a note pinned to my kitchen door saying ‘Sorry, no luck yet.’

  Saves me a trip to the gardens.

  Fine, I will go there on the night before the ball.

  Chances are, Ella and I will be at the palace anyway, preparing the feast. So she’ll at least get to see the ball from the kitchens, which is better than nothing.

  * * *

  The night before the ball…

  The Beast strolls into the palace kitchens and everybody bows.

  Everybody but me.

  I’m deep in thought over the strawberry souffle that is refusing to rise.

  I’m not a baker, I don’t know anything about souffles, but did the kitchen desserts master help?

  Nope.

  When he heard I was catering the event, he took a long vacation.

  Most of the kitchen staff have never had one.

  The Beast hands me a cream envelope. ‘For you, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I say and curtsy.

  The king chuckles. ‘Bowing and scraping is not necessary, Grace. Firstly, I am fulfilling a promise and second, you’re being grateful in the stead of someone else.’

  ‘And since she’s not here, Your Majesty, the more fitting it is that I offer my thanks in her absence. Accepting things as a given is not in my nature.’

  He shakes his head, ‘No, I guess it is not.’

  With that he leaves and I can go back to my souffle.

  Telling Ella can wait until dinner.

  As a surprise and in the hope that she would get a supplementary invitation, Peter and I have already arranged for Ella to have a dress, hosiery, shoes and lace ribbons for her hair. We figured if she didn’t get to go, we could always use it for her graduation. Or as a wedding present.

  Ella trudges down the stairs to dinner, looking glum with her nose stuck in her diary.

  My husband tells her to check our front door for letters.

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘Because there might be something there that you may need to respond to as soon as possible,’ I say.

  She glares at me, ‘You’re going to rub that in forever now, aren’t you?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Fine! Don’t go and see. But don’t you blame me for it later.’

  Ella walks to the door and opens it.

  A cream envelope addressed to her is fastened to our front door with one of my daggers.

  She opens it. ‘What am I supposed to do with this now?’ she holds the letter aloft so we can see it.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this now?’

  ‘Prepare for the ball, I think,’ I try saying as calmly as I can. ‘You’re not happy about this?’

  She shrugs, ‘It’s a second-hand invitation. They couldn’t even have the decency to print a fresh one for me. Besides, where am I going to get a dress and shoes? Everybody who does decent hair-dos is taken. There is no point. It’s too late.’

  I inhale and exhale, trying not to scream at her.

  Seriously? She cried buckets when she found out she couldn’t go to the ball and now she’s indignant that they are doing her a huge favour and inviting her after she ignored the first royal invitation she ever got?

  ‘The reason it is a recycled invitation - and you should be grateful that someone is not able to use theirs so you can go, by the way - is because you failed to respond in due time,’ I tell her.

  ‘If you had told me about the invitation earlier…’

  ‘If you had put your clean clothes that I washed for you away, your desk would not have been a mess and you would have seen the invitation.’

  ‘But you knew about the invitation.’

  ‘It wasn’t for me. I’m already a cook and a cleaner. I’m not your delivery girl or herald, Your Highness.’

  Ella starts toeing the ground, biting her lip.

  Peter looks as peeved as I feel, ‘Enough! Listen, Ella. You have a choice. You can respond ‘Thank you for inviting me, however, I regret to inform you that I am unable to attend, cordially yours, Ella Goodall’ or you can do your best to go. It all depends on what you want to do,’ he says. ‘But you have to decide now, because Grace is going back to the palace after dinner to finish preparations and the palace wants an answer as soon as possible. It says RSVP by May 30th. That’s today. If you feel like you need to consult with your Godmother, you will need to take our horse and go see her and then go to the palace to deliver your reply yourself. Your choice.’

  He’s giving her a choice? In terms of future-proofing, this is a no-brainer. She should see that. He does see that and he is still letting her decide?

  On account of our previous argument, I don’t feel particularly generous right about now. I should let her sweat some more about what she’s going to wear, although we have…

  She looks up, ‘Unless…you can magically conjure up a dress…’

  Peter nods, ‘Now that you mentioned it, yes we can. We have things prepared. I will go get them. Does that mean you have decided to go?’

  ‘I’ll see
the dress first. If I can bear to be seen in it, I guess I can go.’

  I close my eyes as if slapped and try to think kind thoughts.

  Our youngest takes me by the hand and we go upstairs, to bed.

  An hour later, coming down I pass Ella on the stairs.

  ‘So, what did you decide?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m going,’ she says and continues her walk, her nose in her diary.

  Well, with all her posturing, at least she has common sense.

  There won’t be any thank-yous, even if I did manage the impossible and got her what she wanted.

  I leave a note for my husband in our bedroom, ‘I’m glad she chose to go, but since I’ll be at the palace on the night, you’ll need to oversee her preparations. Also, please have Ella deliver the Draconian Claret to the palace together with the RSVP. It’s the king’s favourite and we need to thank him for giving her a second chance.’

  Of course, I could give it myself to Tom in person next time I see him, but that would defeat the point. The point is to get the girl to do something herself, to show gratitude herself, not via her step-parents.

  Positive examples sometimes work better than harsh rules.

  Ella

  Thursday, May 30th

  I have an invitation!!! THE invitation! I’m going to the Spring ball!!!!!!!!!

  As irony would have it, I think I got the recycled DeVille family invitation... The surname is crossed out in black ink, but I think I can make out a De and a V. John’s mother did leave very suddenly a few days ago, taking John with her. He’s not coming back to school. Thank heavens!

  I don’t know what Grizelda did and how much Mellie paid for it, but for the two weeks before he left John kept looking at me funny and even once asked if he knew me. I introduced myself and he said ‘Pleased to meet you, Lady Elizabeth.’ Like he had never met me before. Grizelda got him good. I just hope the witch also got his father good, too, otherwise…

  Anyway, back to the ball.

  I hear the palace has landed Three Rocking Pigs! I mean which band of famous and allegedly shifter musicians could resist an invite from the king himself?

  I have a dress, hosiery, lace ribbons for my hair and Grace is even allowing me to wear her precious jewellery. The real kind, not bijous.

  What I can’t believe is that they waited until dinner to give me all these things!!!

  Now I only have one night and one day to alter the dress in the fashion girls were talking about at school, so I don’t look like a complete idiot in front of everyone of importance.

  Grace is catering the event. I’ll have to sneak out and keep out of her sight at the ball, so she doesn’t notice what I’ve done to the dress. There will be hell to pay later, but if altering a dress to the latest fashion secures me a husband, maybe Grace will keep her vitriol to a minimum?

  Chapter 21. The Spring Ball

  Grace

  On the night, I’m staring at Ella through the tiny window in the palace’s kitchen door.

  I will kill her, I swear I will kill her.

  I’m catering the event, I can’t go and drag her back home so we can avoid the shame!

  How did Peter even let her leave the house, looking like this?!?

  Ella whips around, looking panicked.

  I can only stare through the round window of the serving quarters.

  Her dress hangs limp, hugging her figure too tight. Clearly, the underskirt has been discarded. Nevermind seeing her shoes and ankles, I can almost see her knees since she’s made the dress a good six inches shorter than when we bought it.

  What the hell is she playing at? This is a formal royal event, not some school dance where boys are invited to look up your skirt!

  At least it’s a masque. If she manages to keep her mask on the entire night, maybe nobody will guess that the hussy at the ball was her.

  Ella has arrived late - yet another faux-pas. Belle and Beast are already mingling. She swans up to their offspring, who looks her up and down. In that dress, I don’t blame him. He then whispers something in her ear. I can even guess what.

  That’s not the effect you wanted at all, girl.

  Trust me.

  That boy is a dog.

  And by the looks he is giving your rear, you are the chosen dish of the day.

  Or the night, should I say.

  * * *

  When I lift my head from our table, having dozed off half a second ago after getting home at three in the morning, I see Ella trying to sneak back home, looking quite different from last I saw her.

  The light blue, rather expensive dress is in tatters. Seeing the bill, I remember Peter asking if this was a rehearsal for a wedding in terms of how expensive it was. I also felt that the dress might be a tad much for a 17-year-old with Ella’s good looks. She could wear a potato sack and look gorgeous.

  I inspect Ella openly. One of her sleeves is torn off, exposing her décolletage and neck.

  It’s only because she cut the hem that it is not soiled in mud. Her stockings are ripped, her shoes are dirty. Ruined.

  A walk of shame back from the palace?

  Her nails are bright red.

  Contraband from the Warriors?

  How did she lay her hands on that?

  Her hair is a crows’ nest, her lipstick is smeared. Black dried-up streaks run from the corners of her eyes. By the looks of it, she has been wiping her tears across her cheeks. She must have used soot from the fireplace as kohl.

  She could have caught her hair in the trees and stockings on the grass on her walk here…

  Ella licks her puffy lips.

  Kissing was definitely involved. The crying could be from anger.

  Or shame.

  Ella’s face contorts.

  Well, what did she expect? Boobs out, people able to see further up her skirt than anyone else when she so much as even as much as twirls on the dance floor.

  Her whole outfit is ruined.

  Now the real question is - is she?

  ‘Were you attacked? Did someone force you…’

  ‘No. I walked back.’

  That could explain the ruined dress, but not the crying.

  ‘Did something happen at the ball? Did someone kiss you against your will? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Well, did you have a good time?’ I ask.

  ‘Not particularly,’ she says and heads to her tower without further ado.

  A walk of shame back from the palace?

  Ella

  Saturday, June 1st

  Is everything boys say pretext?

  Inviting me to see his sword collection, now really?

  Nicholas…Nick did ask me to dance, though… but back to the beginning.

  Since I arrived late and Belle and the Beast were already mingling, I curtsied to the only remaining royal who seemed to be on the lookout for late arrivals - Prince Nicholas. He was standing at the edge of the ballroom, fiddling with his lion mask, trying to pick a lady to dance with. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness.’

  He looked me up and down, arching an eyebrow at my shortened hem and my cat mask, and said, ‘Well, technically, my parents invited you, kitty-cat, but you are most welcome to join the party. You do know the invitation was for 6PM?’

  If I hadn’t had to alter my dress myself and do the make-up and the hair and make a new mask - the one they got me was too plain - AND to ride to the palace on horse-back, I could have been here two hours sooner.

  ‘Better late than never,’ I replied with what I hoped was an enigmatic smile.

  When Nicholas turned to greet someone else, I curtsied and went off to steady my nerves. The hall with the paintings seemed empty, so I hid there while everybody else was out there, in the ballroom, vying for the prince
’s attention.

  My very first ball! And Prince Charming had spoken to me!

  Maybe someone will even invite me to dance! In my mask, I am incognito and I am wearing the latest fashion, at least according to Betty’s posse. Or so I thought…

  Someone coughed behind me.

  ‘Maman let it be known that this Spring Ball should be a masque. Everyone has hidden their faces behind fru-fru make-up or fierce power animals. Why are you wearing the face of a household pet?’ Nicholas asked.

  His taunting took me by surprise. I had two options - to be meek and apologise or to tell him like it was. What do I have to lose? It’s a masked ball, he has no clue who I am. He’ll forget me in half a minute after he’s done toying with me. So, I looked him square in the eye, nodded at his lion masque and said, ‘So are you.’

  It’s like my whole tawdry experience with John and reclaiming my body had made me bolder somehow. Made me feel in control. Made me feel I had nothing to lose.

  I was finally at a ball, wasn’t I?

  And I wasn’t the one being rude by criticising a guest.

  I am worthy, dammit! Of love, of all the fine things life has to offer. Everything. I’ll just have to find someone who likes me for being me.

  I flashed him my toothiest smile and turned back to inspect the portrait.

  He laughed. ‘You are not like other girls, Kitty-Cat.’

  I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

  Silence settled.

  I thought for sure since I was pretty much rude to royalty, he would take his leave.

  He didn’t.

  I gave up and decided to say something, ‘The artist did a good job.’

  The prince said, ‘I’ll tell Maman you liked her drawing.’

  Belle painted that?!?

  That left me speechless.

  This time, it was the prince who tried to strike up a conversation, offering the lame ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you at our parties before, Kitty-Cat?’

  He ALSO tried to take my hand while he said it, which I slapped away with my fan. Instead of introducing myself I shot him a bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed look, then lowered my eyes and added, ‘Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t.’