Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  “Henry?” Marius repeated. He snickered. “I have a hard time believing that. You must be very desperate.”

  The first hint of annoyance crossed the king’s face; he turned to his eldest son. “And what is your issue with her, Marius? Lady Rosalind is a well-born lady and the daughter of one of the most successful factory owners in the city.”

  Marius examined his nails impassively before sparing a glance at Rosalind. “She doesn’t sparkle quite like the girl I see myself marrying.” He studied her face for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Fairly decent looks, I’ll give her that. But she’s not thrilling. Not amazing. Not the girl I danced with last night.”

  “Oh, and you can discover your future soul mate by dancing with a random stranger?” Rosalind snorted. “Likely.”

  He cocked his head and grinned. “I’d expect a comment like that from someone like you. Someone desperate enough to settle for Henry.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly. So it’s decided,” the king declared, beaming down upon the courtiers as if he were the sun granting its blessed light to the earth. Two pairs of angry eyes stared at him.

  “You . . . you can’t possibly mean—” Marius stuttered.

  “I have to marry him?” Rosalind spluttered.

  “Oh well,” Henry mumbled. But nobody heard him.

  The storm at last blew over the throne room, leaving behind an unsettled lull. The future queen now sulked in her chambers while the future king moped over a boring novel. But the king and his middle son remained in the empty hall.

  “Darcy,” King Cygnus said, broking the silence, “I need you to do something for me.”

  Every day is the same, Darcy growled inwardly. Do this. Do that.

  But another voice in his head replied. The more you help him, the more he’ll see that you are more worthy than Marius.

  He’ll never notice. He doesn’t care.

  Darcy smiled anyway. “What is it, Father?”

  “Marius will try to find the other girl. The one he really danced with. He had that look about him, as if he were about to disobey me. And that Rosalind . . . she’ll try to get away too.” The king looked to his son and frowned. “Make sure nothing gets out of hand. Watch them closely and report back to me.”

  “Of course, Father. You can trust me.”

  The king’s frown softened somewhat. He patted Darcy’s arm. “You’re always here for me, aren’t you? It’s just a shame you weren’t born first.”

  Behind his smile, Darcy ground his teeth. I’ve been telling myself that for the last twenty years.

  2

  The fateful moment arrived in under twenty-four hours: Rosalind found herself alone in the same room with Marius. To be more precise, Marius found her. That is, he barged in on her precious reading time. The library had seemed a safe haven—surely someone as snobbish and childish as Marius would have no desire to read and thus would never disturb her there.

  “What are you doing here?” Rosalind snapped, closing her book. She sat up from her reclining position in the window seat, leaving warm impressions in its stiff cushions. Like many other rooms in the palace, the library was intended mainly for show; in this case, to display the king’s vast collection of rare, boring books and expensive, uncomfortable furniture.

  Marius shrugged, sauntered to an armchair, turned it to face her, and settled his lithe form onto the embroidered upholstery. “It’s my castle. I can go where I please.”

  “Actually,” Rosalind said with a disdainful sniff, “it’s your father’s palace. The words ‘castle’ and ‘palace’ are not synonymous.”

  Marius clapped. “Bravo. I wouldn’t have believed you capable of using a word like ‘synonymous’ correctly.”

  Anger swelled in her breast and threatened to bubble over. But Marius would have found her wrath gratifying, so Rosalind simply gave him a cool smile. “Then you are even denser than I supposed. Henry, on the other hand . . .” She let her voice trail off and returned to reading.

  “Was that supposed to insult me? Because I think you’re extremely dense for courting Henry.”

  Rosalind bit her lip to keep from scowling. Turning a page and keeping her eyes on the book, she said in a distant tone, “If you’re here to distract me, you’ll find I’m not so easily swayed.”

  “Yes, that would be a fun reason to be here,” Marius agreed with a solemn nod. “But no, I just came to be a general nuisance.” When she glanced up, he gave her a smile that managed to be attractive even while dripping sarcasm. She glowered, and his smile widened. The books and wood-paneled walls around her began to lose their charm; she inwardly groaned at the necessity of finding a new place to hide from Marius.

  “I’m still curious how you and Henry got together.” Marius lounged across his chair like a cat upon a warm windowsill.

  “Why?” Rosalind gave him a sharp look, and her book snapped shut. “He’s capable of falling in love.”

  “With you?” Marius laughed softly. “I doubt anyone closely acquainted with you could fall for you. And anyway, Henry would never have the guts to ask you.”

  Her cheeks burning, Rosalind turned to the window and folded her arms. “He just needs a little push now and then.”

  Marius suddenly sat upright, and that horrid grin spread across his face once more. “I can see who’s driving the steam carriage in this relationship. So he didn’t ask you?”

  “Well . . .” Rosalind’s reply trailed off as the memory floated through her mind. It had happened last winter, in the palace gardens. She remembered the tickle of snowflakes flitting onto her face and the cold that seeped into her bones from the marble bench beneath her. Henry was smiling that cute little smile of his, and Rosalind was just realizing how nice his curly hair looked with snow in it, when . . .

  “I like our walks,” Henry said with a musical lilt in his soft voice.

  “So do I.” Something felt strange inside her. Was she nervous? Stuff and nonsense! The fearless Rosalind was impervious to nerves. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.

  “Neither of my brothers ever takes time for me,” Henry continued. “But you do. You’re so . . . engaging. Interested. You actually listen.”

  The thought struck her—she liked him. No, this feeling surpassed mere liking. Was it love? The idea was a sip of hot tea on that cold day; it radiated heat, spreading even to the frozen tips of her toes. Rosalind felt a blush and a smile erupt on her face at the same time. “You’re an interesting person! I can’t imagine why your brothers would ignore you.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Marius is too busy fixing his hair, and Darcy is, well . . . too busy glaring at Marius and thinking up clever retorts and asides to shoot at us lesser mortals.”

  “Poor, friendless Henry,” Rosalind agreed, suppressing a smile. That weird fluttery feeling hadn’t ceased; it was beginning to disrupt her usually organized senses.

  Henry’s eyes widened, an adorable little curl falling into his face. “But we’re friends, aren’t we?” He smiled playfully.

  “Of course, silly boy.” Rosalind giggled. “But you know . . .” She let her voice trail off, hoping he’d pick up the hint.

  “Know what?” He tipped his head down and stared up at her with wide eyes.

  Good heavens, I am falling in love, she thought.

  “We could be more than friends,” she finished in a near-whisper. But her voice still held all the firmness of fearless, determined Rosalind.

  Henry blinked. “I’d like that,” he said.

  “So would I.” She could feel the warm clouds of his breath brush against her cheeks. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  Henry leaned forward and kissed her cheek; just a second later he pulled away, leaving a spot of warmth on her face. Her skin tingled and a smile glowed in her eyes.

  “We should tell my parents,” she stated, her practical side coming alive again.

  His eyebrows drew together. “What, that I kissed you?” He wore the expression of a wet-puppy;
it was too sweet for words.

  “No,” she sighed, smiling. “Tell them we’re courting.”

  “Oh.” His grin wiped away the wet puppy look. “Good idea.”

  “Hello, Rosalind?” Marius called. “Have I lost you down memory lane?”

  Rosalind blinked back into the present and stared vacantly at Marius’s smug face. Her mind was too tangled in the shrouds of memory to think of a clever retort. “What did you say?”

  His harsh laugh was a splash of cold water in her face. “You asked him to court you?”

  She felt her cheeks redden. “Not really.”

  He smirked nevertheless. “Were you that desperate for a man? You must be a lonely soul indeed to settle for Henry.”

  Rosalind rose with majestic hauteur, stalked over to his chair, and stared down at him. “Henry is a wonderful young man. Far better than you’ll ever be.”

  “Oh, I’m so hurt,” he sighed, putting a hand to his heart and gazing up at her mournfully. She could’ve slapped him.

  “Well, you certainly don’t seem successful in love,” Rosalind quipped. “All you’ve done is fallen for a beautiful stranger and ended up with me.”

  “Horrible, I know,” he agreed with a solemn nod. How she wished to pick up a heavy book and smash it into that perfect nose of his! How very gratifying it would be to see him writhe in pain.

  Some hint of her thoughts must have leaked onto her face, for Marius actually looked concerned. “Planning a murder?” he asked. “Let me guess the victim: me. That’s not very ladylike, you know.”

  Rosalind tried to speak, but all that came out was a frustrated “Oh!” She stomped out of the room. He had gone too far, toggled her switch once too often.

  Perhaps she wasn’t capable of murdering him, but she was perfectly capable of wishing all manner of unfortunate accidents on him.

  3

  The next day found Henry and Marius engaged in a game of chess, slouched over the battered wooden board that Henry had dominated since early childhood.

  “I can’t marry her,” Marius groaned, flicking his pawn off the chessboard. “Just win already, Henry. I know you’re holding back.”

  Henry smiled faintly down at the chessboard. “We’ll call it quits.”

  “It must be terrible for you,” Marius continued. “How are you not exploding with jealousy? Father is making me marry your sweetheart. Not that she’s very sweet, mind you.”

  “Life happens,” Henry said with a shrug. He picked up his queen and rolled it around in his hand. “Things change. I try not to let it get to me.”

  Marius snorted. “Obviously I didn’t inherit that ability.”

  “It’s not something you’re born with,” Henry replied. “You have to work at it.”

  “She’s vile, you know. I don’t know why you like her.” Marius rubbed his temples. “How do you put up with her?”

  Henry shrugged again. “I don’t think she’s all that bad.”

  Letting his hands drop to his lap, Marius looked up at his brother. “But do you love her?”

  “Why . . . yes.”

  Marius snorted. “And you sound so confident when you say that.” He began to set the captured chess pieces back on the board.

  Henry’s mind was already a murky mud puddle of emotions; he didn’t appreciate Marius’s sloshing around in it. “So, what did she actually look like?”

  “You’re changing the subject.” Marius balanced a queen on the tip of his index finger.

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Hmm.” Marius tossed the queen in the air and caught it backhanded. “Ha! Did you see that?”

  “Can you just answer my question?”

  “What are we talking about again?”

  Henry groaned, earning him an approving look. “I must’ve roused the beast,” his brother mused. “I didn’t think you were capable of being annoyed.”

  “I was asking about the girl you actually danced with at the ball.”

  “She was fair-haired, for one thing,” Marius began. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A dreamy smile spread across his face. “And she had these pretty brown eyes.” His expression darkened for a moment. “Nothing like the little green-eyed cat I’m currently engaged to.”

  “Go on,” Henry urged.

  “She was a tiny thing, almost looked malnourished. She wasn’t nobility, I’m certain of it. Tottering around in her glass slippers, tripping over her skirts—she wasn’t used to fine clothes. I liked her all the more for that. It was refreshing. But you see, Henry, even if we had found her instead of your darling Roz, Father wouldn’t have approved. She’s a member of the lower class.”

  “And you didn’t get her name,” Henry concluded.

  Marius sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, I didn’t; we covered this earlier. That’s why we had to use the glass slipper to find her, right?”

  “Why didn’t you ask her name?”

  “I don’t know!” Marius threw his hands into the air. “I just don’t think of those sorts of things.”

  “I asked Rosalind’s name when I met her,” Henry mumbled. “It wasn’t that hard to think of.”

  “Well, isn’t that grand? You win the prize! And I lose. Is that what you want?” Marius scowled.

  Henry shrank back into his chair. “No. I’m trying to help you.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I doubt you can do much.” Marius picked a book off the table next to him. “I’m going to read now, so could you leave?”

  “Why? Why do you think I can’t do much?”

  Marius didn’t look up from his book. “Because you don’t have the guts. You didn’t have the guts in front of Father. It’s just your nature.”

  Ophelia had broken her promise. Oh well. Most people did.

  Evelyn the cinder-girl paused in her work for a moment, squatting on the squalid factory floor, and smiled ruefully. How silly she had been to get her hopes up. Marry a prince? Likely! No, the nice lady had been exactly that—nice. But misguided. A dance, a silk gown, and a pair of glass slippers couldn’t solve Evelyn’s problems. She would be a cinder-girl at a factory just as long as there were factories and cinder-girls.

  The memory of her stepmother’s words still burned in her mind: You don’t deserve anything better. And her stepmother was right.

  Catching a flicker of motion from the corner of her eye, she turned and watched a thin, scraggly rat scurry into a crack in the wall. I’m a rat, she thought. I’ll never be anything better—

  “You there! Evelyn!”

  Evelyn jumped at the sound of her name, an ill omen for a cinder-girl. The floor inspector only used a name if someone was in deep trouble. She trembled at the thought of her punishment. Scrubbing the latrines? Emptying the rat traps?

  “What, s—sir?” she stammered, spinning around and stumbling to her feet. The floor master looked like any upper gear in the grand machine of the factory: polished, cold, and hard as metal. It was all a front, Evelyn knew. She’d seen these men when their families came to visit. Their faces would light up at sight of their children, and a little spot in Evelyn’s heart would warm. They were human too.

  But the young man standing beside the floor master was not a part of the factory. Though he wore the clothes of an upper-class citizen, he looked rather uncomfortable in them. His brown hair, dark eyes, and kind smile all added up to a very attractive gentleman.

  “This man would like to speak to you in private.” The floor master glared at her through his monocle. “Don’t give him a hard time, understand?”

  Her head bobbed up and down until he looked sufficiently satisfied. “Good. I’ll leave you to it.”

  A moment later, Evelyn was alone with the strange young man. His face reddened and he scuffed the floor with his foot. “Sorry. I hope I’m not getting you in trouble,” he mumbled, and grinned. It was probably the most adorable grin Evelyn had ever seen—not that she saw very many adorable young men or had time to pay attention to s
uch things. Cinder-girls didn’t marry. They weren’t worth marrying.

  “What do you need?” she asked, feeling a bit breathless. Her cheeks flushed too.

  “Well, your name; but I’ll give you mine first. I’m Henry.” He grinned again and bowed politely.

  “Evelyn.” Since he was treating her like a lady, she politely offered her hand like one—and flinched when he lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

  His eyes widened in a puppyish expression. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. That’s just, you know, the sort of etiquette—”

  “No, forgive me,” she replied hastily, reclaiming her hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Evelyn. Before you say anything, I don’t care that you’re a cinder-girl.” He paused, working up the nerve to continue. “And my brother doesn’t care either.”

  “What?” Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. She wrung her soot-smudged apron in her hands.

  “You see, my brother’s the prince. Prince Marius.” He grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from curtseying. “Don’t. Please don’t. There’s no need. Look, I need to know if you danced with my brother at the ball a couple nights ago. You were there, weren’t you?”

  How could he know? Could this really be happening? She vaguely felt herself nod.

  Henry let out a huge sigh. “Good.” He let go of her and ran his hands through his thick curls. “You wouldn’t believe how awkward the last few hours have been, interviewing all the wrong golden-haired cinder-girls.” He grinned again. “So you’re the girl who left a glass slipper behind?”

  Evelyn nodded vigorously.

  His grin diminished a bit. “May I ask how you got them?”

  Her heart stopped for a moment. Ophelia had told her to keep it a secret! “I . . . I found them,” she stammered.

  “Did you steal them?” Henry’s voice softened. “You won’t be in trouble, but I need to know. You see, the girl who really owns those shoes got chosen instead. And she doesn’t want to marry Prince Marius.”