Amie cried the entire time she helped Cinderella bathe and put on a fresh gown. She cried as she brushed Cinderella’s damp hair and pinned it up into an elaborate style. She cried as they walked down the halls to the chapel. Three of Osborne’s soldiers followed behind them, and she heard them whisper something about her beauty and lack of tears. She wanted to turn around and tell them she cried every night into her pillow, but even that was tapering. She had to be strong as a future queen. Wallowing in her mistakes would only make her weak.
“Do you want to come inside with me?” Cinderella asked Amie when they reached the doors to the chapel.
Amie swiped away tears and nodded. “Yes, Your Highness, I must. It is time.”
“Time for what?” She took Amie by the shoulders. “Look at me. What is the matter?”
Amie looked everywhere but Cinderella’s face. “I am sad for you, Your Highness—for your loss and how much you bear.”
“You can’t possibly be shedding all these tears just for me. Is it the children? I mourn for them too, but I have put it aside for now. I must until after the wedding. So must you.”
Amie sniffed and shook her head. “No, I cannot.” She pulled away from Cinderella’s grip and ran through the open chapel doors. Cinderella followed her inside, her heart beating fast at the thought of seeing Rowland. When she reached him she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. He was beautiful in the fractured sun shining through the stained glass windows. Colors played on his skin. His straight nose cast a blue shadow on his cheek. She touched his hand and a whimper escaped her throat.
Amie stood several feet away, her sobs finally dying. “It is horrible they had to die, Your Highness. His Majesty only ruled how he knew best. He did not deserve such a punishment, and neither did Her Majesty or Rowland.”
Cinderella turned to her as soon as she said Rowland’s name. For the first time, she realized why the woman couldn’t stop crying. Stunned, she stepped away from Rowland.
Amie rushed to him. “It is time for me to rest now,” she said, and leaned down to kiss Rowland’s mouth. The instant her lips touched him, the air around her thinned to a glittering haze and she was gone.
Cinderella rushed to Rowland’s side, frantically searching for Amie, but all that was left of her was a naked sprite with waxy wings. The tiny creature lay lifeless on Rowland’s chest, her hands clutching his leather doublet.
She spent a week inside her room, alone. Emptiness consumed her. Tears constantly dampened her cheeks. Meals were brought to her on silver platters, but she ate very little. She chose another lady’s maid, a small, plump girl who wouldn’t remind her of Amie. Thinking about her was too painful.
Another week passed, alone, filled with tears and pain, until one day the white-haired sprite returned, her eyes droopy as she stood on the window sill and bid Cinderella farewell. “Spring is almost in full bloom and I must leave.”
Cinderella folded her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me Amie was a sprite?”
“That was part of her punishment—nobody could know.”
“You said that before. Will you tell me more now?” She sat in the chair by her vanity and looked at the sprite’s wings. They had turned thin and veiny.
“We sprites are forbidden to fall in love with humans. If we allow our hearts to do so, the punishment is death or something far worse. Amie was so in love with your prince that she tried to use magic to break the rules governing our kind. She failed, of course. Meddling with these things is a dangerous business, as you have seen.”
Cinderella knotted her brow. “What about Kale? Was he breaking rules trying to be with me?”
“No, he is an elf. They are more magical than sprites. The only beings more magical are fairies—like Eolande. Different beings rule over others.”
“So I would have been a ruler with Kale?”
“In a way, yes.” She glanced out the window with a concerned look. “I came to remind you of the power within these castle walls. It is a power you must respect. Do you understand?”
Cinderella nodded, and the sprite turned and flew away, leaving behind a sprinkling of white dust that looked like snow. Cinderella imagined her hibernating in the woods, wrapping her wings around her thin little body.
A part of her felt as if it had curled into hibernation too. The string between her and Rowland still tugged at her heart, and she tried to hide its effects by keeping her face solemn, her actions deliberate, her head always held high. This was her duty now, but the string still tugged when she stood in the chapel to marry Alden, when she sat through her coronation to become Queen, when Alden lay next to her on the bed and untied her chemise. He didn’t ease her into his arms as Rowland had. He was eager and rough. His love felt raw and shockingly real, untouched by magic. His beard scratched her face and she squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the waves pounding the sea cliffs. They were loud in her head. They made her forget she was a queen.
“You’re frightened,” he said their first night together. “What troubles you?”
She looked at him in the candlelight. His shirt hung open to reveal a sun-browned chest. “I worry about many things.”
He touched her hair. “You are Queen now. You should fear nothing.”
She thought of Marion standing fearless as the guard ran her through. She thought of Isabel running forward, ending the life she had given up long before the sword pierced her body. They were stronger women than her, and she longed for their strength. She would try to step closer to it every day. She would not drown.
“The prisoners,” she said, thinking of Isabel’s father still behind bars. “I want the innocent ones released.” She looked up. “Is that possible? Who decides who is innocent?”
Alden leaned forward, smiling. It was kind and warm and wrapped around her heart. “We will decide together.”
Princess carried Cinderella over the moors, her mane garish in the moonlight. Three escorts rode behind, but at Cinderella’s request they kept their distance. The scraggly vegetation had finally produced leaves and they shook near the horse’s hooves as Cinderella’s heart beat in time with the gallop. She thought of Rowland and how regal he had looked on his steed. The image made her comfortable. He was always so sure of his place.
When she reached the cliffs, she allowed an escort to help her down.
“Your Majesty, please stay away from the edge,” the man said with a concerned look. “Would you like me to walk with you?”
“No, you must stay here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed and she began her brisk walk. The small, white flowers were in full bloom now. They glittered like stars across the ground, and she bent down to pick a handful. Her fingers crushed the petals.
When she was far enough away from the escorts, she headed straight for the edge. Her boots scuffed along the rocks. She took large steps and then stopped when she remembered the hopeful faces of her people as the crown was set upon her head. The smell of dirt and grass reminded her of Kale, and the smell of brine reminded her of Rowland. Her thoughts of them were spoiled with images of Marion’s blood and dead children, feathers and duck feet and nearly frozen fish.
Moving closer to the edge, she looked through her tears at the white flowers in her hands, their stems bright green in the moonlight. She imagined leaves unfolding to the sun, starting anew, and lifting her arm, she flung her petals to the black water beating ceaselessly against the cliff.
When she returned to the stables, Alden was waiting for her. Dressed in a long, dark tunic, his hair disheveled, he folded his arms over his wide chest. “Why did you leave? I was ready to send out a search party.”
She allowed the stableman to help her dismount Princess. She avoided Alden’s piercing eyes as she walked past him. “There was something I had to do,” she said. He fell into step beside her as they made their way into the castle.
It was early morning. She had spent hours strolling along the cliffs, and her fingers were stained green from picking flowers. She lo
oked at the stains as Alden walked with her to her chambers. In a few hours, the kitchen would fill with servants and the aroma of baking bread. Cinderella would sit at the breakfast table with Alden. She would crack an egg and look at the sunlight on her plate. The walls around her would feel magical, but not foreboding, no longer dark. Every day must have a sun that sets, and she understood a new day had dawned inside her. The memory of the past would linger, a dark shadow, but necessary. She would still find tears on her face when she woke in the mornings. Alden would wipe them away.
“Would you like to go back to sleep?” Alden asked when they reached her chambers. She followed him inside where he gently led her to the mirror and unlaced her dress.
“I’m a little tired, yes.” She stared at her reflection as she stepped out of her clothes. She liked the way she looked now. She was beginning to look like a queen, stately somehow. Her hair was thicker, her shoulders straighter. With the weight of her clothes gone, she breathed easier. She could be strong. She could rule and protect a kingdom with Alden at her side, and together they could make a difference for good.
Alden gave her a worried look. “Is this going to become a habit of yours? Running off in the middle of the night? Did you do that before?”
Shaking her head, she smiled and rubbed her fingers together, remembering the white flowers as they fell into the dark water. A part of her had fallen into the water with them, but she was happy to let it go as Alden wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds waking up outside. A new season had begun.
“Next morning, when they all awoke, and went to the house-door, there stood a strangely magnificent tree with leaves of silver, and fruit of gold hanging among them, so that in all the wide world there was nothing more beautiful or precious.”
One-Eye, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes as told by The Brothers Grimm
To Melissa, with love
A sister is a best friend
1
Hunger
Issina’s fingers were always stained purple or red, depending on which berries she found. She picked them carefully, her heart racing when she found a new one she didn’t recognize. She hoped it wasn’t poisonous. Picking a handful, she wrapped them loosely in a worn handkerchief for later. Her mother and sisters couldn’t know about them. She would eat them in the forest if she had time, or in the dark corners of her bedroom after her sisters fell asleep. She liked the taste of them no matter what kind they were. She liked sinking her teeth into the tender flesh as her stomach twisted, anticipating nourishment. Did her sisters honestly think she could survive on the crumbs they left her after their meals?
She carefully tucked the berries down the front of her dress. The fruit was cool and bumpy against her skin, even through the handkerchief. She looked down at herself and adjusted the berries so they didn’t show.
Her stomach growled when she stopped along the path leading back to her home. She groaned from the deep pain between her ribs. She didn’t want to know what death felt like if the berries were poisonous. It might get her away from her mother and sisters, but she hated to think of the pain it would cause before the end.
Reaching down her dress, she plucked a berry from the handkerchief. It tasted spicy on her tongue, and she waited a moment before continuing along the path with the afternoon sun hot on her cheeks.
She carried two buckets of fresh water from the well down a path in the forest. Her two older sisters, Edryn and Sybil, came outside as she approached the house.
“It’s about time,” Edryn said, flashing her one large eye in Issina’s direction. The eye was in the middle of Edryn’s forehead, a gorgeous jewel with spindly lashes and an iris the color of a blue jay’s wings. “Mother told you to bring three buckets from now on, not two.”
“I’m unable to carry three,” she said, lowering her eyes as the buckets strained her arms. She had eaten half the berries earlier, and the rest were warm against her damp chest. She could smell their spicy sweetness.
“Of course you’re able to carry three!” Sybil snapped as she tore one of the buckets from Issina’s hands. Water sloshed over the rim to the dry dirt. Sybil’s trio of eyes glared at Issina, forming a pyramid of scorn above her dainty nose and mouth. They were even more beautiful than Edryn’s one eye—three perfect points of light like amber suns. Between her reddish hair and eyes, she constantly reminded Issina of a fiery sunset, beautiful, but oddly terrible.
Issina looked away. “I’ll carry three next time.”
“Yes, you will.” Sybil puffed out her chest and turned toward the house. Edryn grabbed the other bucket and all three of them headed to the house. Issina looked up at the sky before she stepped through the doorway. Her two eyes seemed to work just fine, but she wondered how it would be to see the same magical things her sisters were able to see with their unique vision. They often mentioned things like different textures and colors and even what they called corra—a hazy cloud of images and thoughts surrounding other people.
Issina knew they saw this cloud surrounding her, and she knew they tried to interpret what they saw, but her corra was too obscure, it seemed. She suspected it had something to do with what she saw in her own eyes whenever she looked into a mirror.
Meals were always difficult and agonizing for her to endure—meat over the fire, its succulent juices bursting into smoke as it hit the coals. She glanced at the cooking rabbit as she dumped a bowl of sliced vegetables into a boiling pot over the stove’s fire, her stomach growling as she looked into the bowl at one carrot slice stuck to the rim. She moved her fingers forward. She had eaten the rest of her berries earlier. She needed more food.
As soon as she slipped the carrot between her lips, she pushed it to the roof of her mouth and held it there with her tongue. She moved it between her teeth and bit down, savoring the fibrous texture.
“That’s enough!”
Her eyes flew open and she stepped away from the pot as her mother marched across the kitchen, wiping her flour-dusted hands across her apron. Her one eye blinked in the middle of her forehead as she grabbed a fistful of Issina’s hair and yanked her head back.
“Open up! Let me see what you’ve stolen.”
She opened her mouth wide so Odele could peer in at the chewed bits of carrot. Odele gasped in disgust and yanked Issina’s hair even harder. “You’ve been warned. You must be punished.”
“Mother,” she spluttered through the food in her mouth, “it’s only a slice of carrot, not an entire meal.”
Odele kept hold of her hair and dragged her out of the kitchen, down the back steps, and into the chicken yard where Issina’s two slender, white geese, Gilbert and Gissy, honked as soon as they saw her. Odele kicked them away and forced Issina’s head down to her knees. “Now spit it out. All of it.”
She did as she was told. Strands of hair clung to her cheeks as she spit the carrot into the dirt. She straightened to face Odele, whose one eye was like fresh spring grasses—different textures and shades of green interwoven and sparkling. Issina’s heart tore itself in two every time she looked upon the beauty of her mother and sisters. She loved them, if only for their beauty, and this made her turn away.
“Look at me, Issina.”
She forced her attention to her mother. “Yes?”
“Why do you eat when I forbid it? Why must you always disobey me?” She folded her arms as an angry red bloomed across her cheeks.
Issina blinked. “I’m hungry... I suppose I can’t help it. Sybil and Edryn leave me hardly any scraps after meals, and my stomach...” She leaned forward as Gilbert and Gissy brushed against her skirts and honked for attention. Tears filled her eyes. “My stomach gets tied into knots and I feel weak.”
“Weak?” Odele laughed. “You’re as strong as a horse! You don’t need to eat as much as your sisters. Their abilities require much more energy and focus than anything you’ll ever do. Besides, we have little to spare, and you make it just fine on the scraps.” She glared dow
n at the geese and kicked at them again. She was like a chicken bouncing around the yard, her arms as wild as flapping wings as she shooed the geese away.
When they scuttled off, she faced Issina again. “Your father warned me you might make excuses for what you are—the last baby, the curse of our lives.” She raised a finger and pointed. “You killed him. You and your two-eyed, ordinary ways. Now we’re stuck in this run-down house with no money, no servants, and no way out except for your sisters. They’ll turn things around despite what you’ve done. I will rise back to the top.”
She lowered her hand and pulled a small willow switch from a pocket in her skirts. “Hold out your palms.”
Issina swallowed and backed away. “Please, Mother, I won’t do it again.”
“That’s right, you won’t. Raise your hands, child.”
She held out her hands and flexed her purple-stained fingers so her palms lay flat. Odele glared at the stains, her expression twisting with rage as she raised the switch and brought it down with a stinging slap.
“Only scraps,” she hissed between whippings. “You will eat only scraps from now on.”
Gilbert and Gissy honked so loudly they made the crows scream.
Darkness cradled Issina into sleep. Her dreams were rarely pleasant, but she sometimes dreamed about a different life, one where she was surrounded by tall, thin trees and golden sunlight. Music drifted through the trees. She guessed it was music from the yearly festival given in honor of the magical beings in her kingdom, a festival at the beginning of autumn when the last of the apples were picked and stewed into thick pies and pastries and the air turned white with burning leaves. This was the festival where three special people were chosen to keep everything growing and alive and beautiful for the coming year. In such a storm-ridden land, crops could not flourish. Life could not exist without these growers. They were often considered royalty for the rest of their lives. She imagined what it must be like to observe the festival, or better yet, perform in it. The thought made her want to dance like her sisters danced, light as air.
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