The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1)

by Aya Ling

  Now that I’ve explained myself, the kids are eager to talk. Those who manage to stay awake, anyway. Most of them simply slump on the floor and start dozing. There’s this tiny girl who seems only about four or five. I take her in my lap so she can curl up in the thick velvet folds like a kitten.

  “What’s your name?” I address the girl with only one hand. “How old are you?”

  “Una. I’m ten.”

  The same age as Paige.

  “Okay, Una.” I try to copy what Blake does when he interviews others. “Can you tell me how long you work every day?”

  “Six in the morning to eight at night. When the trade is brisk, they make us work from five to nine.”

  I mutter a swear word under my breath. “Including the weekend?”

  She nods.

  “How do you manage to stay awake?”

  “Mr. Tolliver straps us.” When I look bewildered, Angus answers for her: “He uses his leather belt to beat us, ma’am.”

  “Didn’t you try running away?”

  Una nods. “I got strapped pretty bad for it. But I’d rather take a beating than him imposing a fine. He does that sometimes, when the cotton amount ain’t going well.”

  Upon more questioning, I learn that they can be fined for talking, whistling, failing to keep the machines clean (a bit of dirt qualifies), and that sometimes Mr. Tolliver alters the clock and accuses them of being late, which gets them “quartered” again.

  I swallow my frustration as I write all of this down. I swear that before I leave Story World, I am so going to publish what I wrote today. Even if it means I have to hand write a hundred copies and pass them out in crowded areas.

  It is afternoon when I return home, wet and shivering. It started raining again when I left the cotton factory, my mind reeling from the interviews. Van has this suspicious look when I climb in the hansom, but I give no explanation. We’ve worked out an agreement: as long as he doesn’t babble where I’ve been, I won’t tell Lady Bradshaw that he keeps a locket with Bianca’s hair in it.

  “Good heavens, miss,” Martha says when I take off my cloak and stomp on the rug in the parlor, trying to shake off as much mud as possible. “There’s a horrid smell on you—where have you been?”

  “Nothing, I just got caught in the rain and mud,” I say. “Can you draw up a bath for me in my room?”

  Martha clucks her tongue. “I’d make you scrub yourself from head to toe, even if you didn’t ask. Now we’ve got to put some bergamot oil in the parlor, or Madam will certainly sniff out that smell when she comes back.”

  The bath is another laborious process, in which Martha and another maid carry tin pails of hot water up and down the stairs. I don’t take baths as often as in the modern world, but luckily the weather is often cold enough that I don’t stink much. Today, however, I absolutely need a thorough body wash. I sink into the water and let out a contented sigh. I didn’t think I’d get so attached to this world, but I have.

  I spend the evening editing my notes. I piece together sentence fragments, correct spelling, and eliminate redundant words. It feels weird to be handwriting entire pages of text instead of typing them up on the computer, but a few hours later, when I finally have a stack of neatly written pages on the desk, I’m proud of and satisfied with the results.

  The next day I visit The Bookworm, though I tell Lady Bradshaw I’m going to Henry’s house.

  The shop is closed AGAIN. I wonder what kind of nefarious plot they’re cooking up in the basement. Maybe a plan to blow up the parliament, since it’s full of idiots. Anyway, I go ahead and knock on the door.

  No one answers.

  I ball my hand into a fist and pound away like a hammer.

  “Lassie!” Mr. Wellesley’s voice comes through the peephole. “We’re in the middle of a meeting now—”

  “So let me in.”

  Dramatically, I flourish my bundle of papers in front of the peephole. Like any normal person, Mr. Wellesley cannot resist curiosity. There’s the sound of a bolt being lifted, and the door squeaks open.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What are those papers?” Despite the lines on his face, Mr. Wellesley manages a grin. “Forged documents of the king’s? Or the first chapters of a sensational novel you’ve penned yourself?”

  “Bingo. Well, your second guess is pretty close.” I lay my bundle on the counter. “I went to Andrew McVean’s cotton factory and interviewed the children working there. This is the result.”

  Mr. Wellesley lets out a strangled noise from his throat. “You did what?”

  Edward emerges from the passageway. I guess Henry is still besieged by girls his mother set up for him. The poor guy.

  “We need more public attention, especially from those who aren’t afraid of offending the factory owners,” I say, enjoying the look of utter surprise on his face. “Since I can’t go throwing wine on McVean, I thought I’d take a more resourceful approach.”

  “But lass,” Mr. Wellesley sputters, “how did you get the children to talk? Not to mention the overseer McVean employs to keep an eye on the workers.”

  “So that’s what it’s called—an overseer? I knocked him out.” I wave my umbrella in a comic demonstration.

  Both Mr. Wellesley and Edward stare at me like I’ve gone crazy. I don’t blame them. Perhaps I do look the part.

  “You can’t knock a man out cold with an umbrella,” Mr. Wellesley protests.

  “Guess I got lucky,” I say smugly. “Ask Angus at the factory—he was there when I whacked Tolliver over the head.”

  Edward picks up my report; the only sane action at the moment. After he flips through a few pages, his jaw tightens.

  Heavy footfalls creak on the stairs. Godfrey appears; his eyes narrow when I enter.

  “How much longer will this take?” he demands. “We’ve been waiting.”

  “My apologies for dallying,” Edward says. “But I assure you the wait has adequate cause. The lady here has brought most interesting news.”

  Godfrey gives a derisive snort. “Highness, I won’t stop you if you want to leave with the lady. Clearly a lady’s company is more preferable.”

  “My name is Katriona,” I interrupt, glaring at him and Edward. “Not ‘the lady.’ And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk as if I were invisible.” I square my shoulders and lift my chin, like I’ve seen Elle do. I’m going to leave this world once I achieve the happy ending, so really, I’ve got nothing to lose.

  Edward smiles—a slow, appreciative smile that makes me fidget.

  Mr. Wellesley throws out his hands, clearly incapable of arguing anymore. “Well then, how about we all go downstairs and discuss what to do with the lass’s papers?”

  Godfrey still looks surly, but then he stomps off with a resigned air. Edward indicates Mr. Wellesley and I should go first.

  In the basement, the rest of the men I saw last time are gathered around a table. Unsurprisingly, they look bemused when I sail inside like I’m late for their meeting.

  Mr. Wellesley clears his throat. “Gentlemen, this is Lady Katriona Bradshaw, the second daughter of the late Earl Bradshaw. No doubt some of you remember her, as she is a very special patron of mine. Today, she has brought us something that may aid our campaign.”

  He goes on to describe how I broke into McVean’s factory and conducted the interviews. Of course they all look like I’m an alien (which actually isn’t that far-fetched), but probably out of respect for Mr. Wellesley and Edward, they aren’t as hostile as last time. But most still look incredulous, and frankly speaking, I can’t blame them. Even now I’m kind of in awe of what I did.

  “A pack of lies,” a bearded man growls.

  Edward lays my report in his hands. “Perhaps you’ll form a different opinion when you read this.”

  The man reads a few lines in a disbelieving voice. When he finishes the interview with Una, one of the other men speaks.

  “That girl is my niece,” he says quietly. “I was there at the hospital
when she lost her fingers. This is the reason why I’m here.”

  Silence falls.

  “If you’re convinced that I’ve actually been there,” I say. “Can we get the story into print?”

  Godfrey and the other men look at each other. Mr. Wellesley clears his throat.

  “What’re you planning, lass?”

  Geez, isn’t it obvious? “Have loads of copies printed, of course. The best thing we can do is circulate the story among as many people as possible. Spread the word far and wide. I can’t imagine anyone who can read and has a heart not supporting our cause.”

  “I’ll contact the editor of Athelia Today and see if he can fit the story into the next issue,” Mr. Wellesley says. “I’ll also try a few magazines; I have connections with one of the staff on board.”

  “And pamphlets,” I put in, suddenly inspired by the campaigning we did for class president. “Have a stack in the store, and drop off copies at other bookstores.”

  “That’s it!” A man wearing a tweed cap slaps a hand on his knee. “We can distribute them as hand bills to pedestrians, just like Old Mallory advertising his whisky!”

  “And not just bookstores,” Mr. Wellesley adds. “Perhaps restaurants and pubs will take them?”

  “Pubs won’t be much use,” Una’s uncle speaks up. “Most of the patrons can’t read.”

  “Pay someone who can draw,” Mr. Tweed-Cap says. “Stick the pictures on the walls. Or spread them in a corner that’s close to the traffic.”

  We launch into a discussion on how to distribute the article I’ve written. The key is to make it easily accessible, in everything from newspapers and magazines to pamphlets. I suggest handing out pamphlets in the park, where most of the rich and titled stroll around for their morning ride. When Godfrey questions the cost, Edward simply folds his arms and tells him to send all bills to the palace.

  “That’s it for now,” Mr. Wellesley finally says. “Is there anything you won’t do, lass? Next thing you’ll be wearing breeches and going into the army.”

  I grin. Oh, the things you don’t know. I wonder what he’d say if I told him I’ve been wearing pants and shorts for years.

  Godfrey gives me a long, hard look. Then he shakes his head. “Well done, lady.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Real plucky, I mean. For a lady.”

  I do my best not to roll my eyes.

  “Well now, we’d better get to work,” Mr. Wellesley says in a no-nonsense tone. “Lad, isn’t it time you got back? Didn’t you mention there was a state dinner you had to attend?”

  Edward doesn’t look happy about the dinner, but he nods. “I’ll escort Kat outside.” At first I’m confused why he takes it for granted I should leave with him, but I don’t argue. I want to ask him about Elle, and frankly speaking, I’m feeling pretty tired as well. Right now I just want to crawl into bed.

  Mr. Wellesley gives him a thumb up and a wink. “Good luck.”

  Edward’s hand closes over my elbow when we’re back upstairs. I bump against a stack of leather-bound volumes and stoop to pick up a few that fell on the floor.

  “Kat,” he says quietly. An undercurrent in his tone makes me look up; his eyes are blazing. Feeling slightly alarmed, I move away till my back presses against a bookshelf.

  “Have you no consideration for your safety? Running off to the cotton factory by yourself to interview the children?”

  I wasn’t alone, I want to argue. Krev would have saved me if I were in danger. But I can’t tell him that.

  “The risk was worth it.” I stare back at him, determined that prince or not, he isn’t going to make me cower.

  “No it isn’t.” His voice is harsh. “You may have succeeded this time by a stroke of luck, but I will not allow you to put yourself at risk again. Is that clear?”

  “Oh right,” I scoff. His tone makes it sound like he’s my guardian. “And what brilliant plan did you come up with when the bill was rejected? What did you figure out to acquire more petition signatures?”

  “Your safety is my priority.”

  “Those children’s safety is mine.”

  We engage in a glaring contest until he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Promise me, Kat. If you ever hatch a dangerous plot like that again, you will take Bertram along.”

  But Bertram is his equerry; normally I can’t—shouldn’t—have the authority to order him around. However, judging from Edward’s firm, unwavering tone, I decide not to question him.

  “All right.”

  He smiles, obviously relieved. Before I can ask him about Elle, he steps closer and rests a hand on the bookshelf behind me, half trapping me with his body. Danger signals beep in my head, but my feet are glued to the spot.

  “The palace will throw a ball in a month,” he says. “We will be sending out the invitations next week.”

  About time.

  “That’s…that’s wonderful,” I say, feeling my chest lighten. At least this is going according to plan. “I can’t wait to see what a ball in the palace will be like.”

  “Good,” he smiles. One of his smiles that can melt ice cream. “Will you do me the honor of being my partner at the ball?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dance with me, Kat. I request you save the opening waltz for me. And the next dance, if you’d like.”

  Adrenaline tingles through my body. This can’t be happening. The prince, inviting me to the ball. It should be Elle.

  “Are you sure you want to risk it?” I say. Maybe I can scare him out of dancing. “I fell on my butt before the queen. I’d probably trip on my feet again and take you down with me.”

  His lip curls. “I wouldn’t mind. Besides, I could catch you in time.”

  “I…” I swallow. A hundred reasons run through my head, reasons I should refuse him. Every girl there will kill me, for one thing. But I can’t—don’t want to. I don’t want to get on his bad side. And I want to dance with him in that glittering ballroom with crystal chandeliers and painted ceilings and silken tapestries.

  “One condition,” I finally say. “Save a dance for Elle as well.”

  “Elle?” he frowns.

  “Yes, my former maid that I asked you to offer employment. How’s she doing, by the way?”

  “I’ve assigned her to work in the greenhouse with Galen. She seems content with the job so far.”

  “I’m glad to hear she’s settling in okay,” I say. “Promise me you’ll check up on her often. Once you get to know her, you’ll find she’s a really sweet girl, and if she dresses up she’ll make heads turn.”

  Edward nods, but his expression remains nonchalant. Better not overdo the Elle-praising, or he’ll get suspicious.

  “Anyway, I know she’d love to come to the ball, and I want her to have a good time.”

  “Certainly, if that is what you wish,” he says.

  He agreed! Yes!

  “Thank you.” I smile up at him—big mistake. His eyes darken, just like that day on the staircase in Henry’s house. Slowly, he lowers his head…

  EMERGENCY ALERT!

  “Gosh, look at the time!” I pull out my pocket watch and flash it before him like a shield. “Didn’t Mr. Wellesley say you have to attend a dinner? Let’s go! I don’t want to be blamed if you’re late.”

  I don’t dare look him in the eye or wait for his answer. I slip past him and make a beeline for the door, my heart heavy and my head aching. I should have refused his invitation to the ball. It’s obvious that he has this growing attraction toward me. But how can I explain I can’t accept him?

  TWENTY-NINE

  The ball.

  It’s finally happening.

  Cinderella will be going. The prince will ask her to dance with him. The happy ending is nigh.

  Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? If I don’t do something to influence Edward and Elle, it’ll more likely turn out that Henry claims all the rest of Elle’s dances, while Edward focuses his attention on me. Heck, if his parents told hi
m to choose a bride, just like in the fairy tale, he might even propose!

  Edward. He is everything a fairy tale prince should be, everything a girl could ask for. Smart, sympathetic, sexy as hell. His concern for me—slightly domineering but forgivable, given his status and Athelia’s old-fashioned concept of women—is simply sweet. Every time he smiles at me, every time he touches me, every time he tries to show me he cares, my heart melts a little.

  I love him. When it occurs to me that I’ll open the ball with him but can’t end up with him, I want to curl up in bed and cry. Elle, despite all her sweetness and loveliness, doesn’t love him. Why oh why did I make such a mess of the fairy tale?

  Martha enters my room, carrying a pear-shaped ceramic vase overflowing with violets and lavender and star flowers.

  “Another of Miss Bianca’s suitors,” she says briskly, setting the vase on my nightstand. “We’ve already filled two vases from that enormous bouquet he sent. If this carries on, we’ll have enough to set up a flower stand.”

  I force a laugh. The hollow sound makes Martha pause.

  “Are you all right, miss? You look like you just woke up from a nightmare.”

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Nothing to worry about. Seriously.”

  She misinterprets my gloominess, perhaps because of Bianca’s bouquet. “The time for you will come, miss. You ain’t such a looker as your sister, but you’ve got a heart. When a young man chooses you over your sister, you’ll know his feelings are real.”

  There’s no point arguing with her; I simply smile and assure her I’m not worried about my marriage prospects.

  When Martha is gone, I glance at the vase. My room does look nicer, what with Edward’s roses on my window sill and now this fancy bouquet. A forest nymph is painted over the vase, her hair wreathed in leaves. It reminds me of the vase at the Mansfield dinner party.

  I bolt up. Lady Gregory had talked about how fairies on the vase come alive and play when humans are asleep. Can there be the tiniest possibility that she knows how to summon a fairy? Right now it will take a miracle to get Elle and Edward together. I really, really need some magical intervention.