Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  “Bother,” the girl grumbled, and light reappeared a moment later as a candlestick standing on the floor. “I hope you like ham and cheese,” she said, setting a tray down beside the candle. It held two dainty sandwiches and a cup of water. “Though if you prefer, I made some lovely little cucumber sandwiches yesterday.”

  Rosalind put her head in her hands. “Why I am locked in a dungeon and getting fed tea sandwiches?”

  “Of course!” the girl cried. “Your tea. I forgot the tea. Black or herbal? And how much sugar and cream do you like?”

  “I don’t care about tea! I want to get out of this stupid dungeon! Since you’re clearly incompetent, let me at least speak to your master, superior, or whoever’s in charge of this deranged establishment.”

  The girl shifted her feet a little. “Then that’s a ‘no’ on the tea? Are you sure? It’s a bit cold down here.”

  Rosalind sucked in a deep breath. “No tea. No sandwiches.”

  The girl considered a moment. “I’ll leave the food in case you get hungry,” she said. Then she smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “Would you like a blanket?”

  “I would like answers.”

  “Oh.” The girl shrank back a little. “I’m not supposed to tell you much, and I’m not really sure how long you’re supposed to be here. My name’s Ophelia, by the way. You’re Rosalind, correct?”

  “No, I’m Daphne,” Rosalind snapped. “Of course I’m Rosalind! You’ve locked me in your dungeon and you don’t even know my name? Lovely.”

  Ophelia stiffened. “This isn’t a dungeon; it’s a cellar, and a very nice cellar at that.”

  “Oh, and chaining people to the wall in cellars is totally normal.”

  “You don’t understand: I’m doing this for a friend. Well, actually . . .” She paused and giggled. “I think he’s my friend. I don’t really meet a lot of gentlemen. But he seemed nice.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you. But give a shout if you need anything! I’ll be upstairs.”

  Then she vanished.

  Rosalind let out another moan and rubbed her temples. Was she going insane?

  “You wanted to speak to us?” Henry said.

  Henry and Marius stood in their father’s council room. Darcy leaned against the wall behind Cygnus’s chair. He might have been smiling, but his face was veiled with shadows. It was strange for their father to call his sons to the council, and even stranger to have the council members present. Every single one sat in the room.

  Cygnus noticed the direction of Henry’s gaze. “I wanted all members of state to hear what I have to say. To hear what has happened.”

  “To Rosalind,” Marius whispered hoarsely.

  “Yes. And why it happened.” The king beckoned Darcy. “Tell the servant to read the proclamation.”

  Darcy stepped forward and handed the scroll to an attendant. Any sign of a smile had vanished, but his dark eyes glittered as the attendant unrolled and began to read.

  “By royal decree of His Majesty King Cygnus, approved by the members of the State of Arcadia, Prince Marius is hereby charged with the murder of Lady Rosalind Copper. His sentence will be decided by an official court to be held a week hence. Any person having aided the prince in this foul crime will be punished alongside him.” The attendant cleared his throat and stepped back into the shadows.

  “That can’t be!” Henry cried. “That just can’t be! Marius didn’t murder her, Father. It was an accident!”

  “All evidence is to the contrary,” the king replied coolly. “Do you have anything to say, Marius?”

  But Marius was a statue. He didn’t blink; he didn’t move. He simply stared at the floor.

  “Come on, Marius, defend yourself! You didn’t do it!” Henry gave his brother a quick jab in the ribs. “Don’t just stand there like an idiot!”

  “He is clearly guilty,” King Cygnus declared. “Look at him, Henry. He won’t deny it.”

  “He won’t deny it because he’s in shock! His fiancée just died!”

  Darcy stepped out again. “You mean the fiancée he so desperately didn’t want to marry? Why would he care if she died? He had an excellent motive.”

  “Marius is not a murderer,” Henry insisted.

  “Henry.” Cygnus fixed his son with a stern stare. “You may leave.”

  Henry returned his father’s stare, but not for long. He couldn’t fight him; he wasn’t strong enough.

  “Henry.”

  Henry didn’t look up from the chessboard. “I really don’t want to speak to you, Darcy.”

  Darcy sighed and slowly sank into the chair beside him. “And I don’t want the events from earlier today to be a wedge between us.”

  Henry knocked half of the chessmen off the board. “You were there. You helped us! You know he didn’t murder Rosalind!”

  “Of course I know that,” Darcy said softly. “Because Rosalind isn’t dead.”

  Henry stared.

  Darcy reached down a languid hand to retrieve a fallen pawn. He toyed with it, twirling it in his long fingers as he continued. “She’s . . . somewhere safe. The worst that will happen to him is banishment. The throne will come to me. We both know Marius is not fit to rule! He’s vain and stupid and petty. You and Rosalind could go off and live your lives peacefully. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “There was a body,” Henry said numbly.

  Darcy smiled. “It was an illusion; a friend of mine helped me with that bit. The explosion released a toxin that toyed with your minds, making you think there was a corpse there.”

  “But . . . it’s all wrong.” Henry stared at Darcy, aghast at what he was hearing. “Marius is innocent.”

  Darcy’s face darkened. He closed the unlucky pawn in his fist, knuckles whitening. “I’m not asking for your blessing, Henry. Just stay out of my way.”

  “Or what?”

  Darcy stood up and stretched. “I have ideas; I guarantee you won’t like any of them.” He smiled and tossed the pawn to land at Henry’s feet. It rolled in a circle and was still. “Oh, and don’t even think of visiting that little cinder-girl again. She’ll be out of the way soon enough. But honestly, Henry, I’m not concerned that you’ll be a threat. You don’t have the guts.” He ruffled his brother’s hair and strode out of the room.

  Henry watched him go, his mind a broiling sea of decisions and consequences.

  He could be happy. He could be with Rosalind. All he had to do was stay quiet.

  But a little voice in the back of his head nagged him.

  You could be more. You could be brave.

  Henry slowly stood. He had a factory to visit.

  12

  The sun was setting as Henry approached the factory. His ragged breath formed little white clouds in the cold air. Shadows filled the alleys behind the factory, relieved only by gloomy little lanterns. Surely there’ll be a door back here, Henry thought. Then he saw it: a delivery boy opening a back door. A steam cart had pulled up. Henry hurried forward, hoping to sneak in.

  “You there!”

  Henry’s head turned in the direction of the speaker. He was a rough-looking man, probably a factory floor master. “Are you one of the incompetent haulers I always have to deal with?”

  Henry blinked. Then he nodded.

  “Get yourself over here and move these boxes!”

  Henry picked up the nearest box and almost fell to the ground, thus proving his status as incompetent hauler forever. But he managed to regain his balance. A few snickers rang in his ears, probably from the other haulers. But Henry didn’t care. He kept his head down and followed the men inside.

  It had been hard to find commoners’ clothes, but with a little digging around he had managed to “borrow” a delivery boy’s outfit. He’d left some money behind and hoped he hadn’t caused the boy too much inconvenience.

  The groan of gears and the oppressive heat of the factory made Henry shudder. How could any human being work in such a place? The smells of
oil and human sweat hung in the air, along with other acrid odors that were not meant to be in one’s nostrils. Hoarse shouts rang from various parts of the factory, and always the dull, rhythmic clinking and clanking of the machines. Henry dropped the box as soon as he inconspicuously could.

  He crept through the factory, his eyes sweeping over the endless rows of machinery. Where was she? There were too many furnaces in the room, looming black pillars with fiery jaws. It was nearly impossible to differentiate the silhouettes crouching at their mouths, feeding the flaming beasts with shovels of coal.

  His pace quickened. He had to find her first. Whatever Darcy had in mind—no. He couldn’t let it happen. If Marius would not stand up for himself, Evelyn certainly wouldn’t.

  Then he saw her. At first she was just another shape, just another slave to the belly of the factory. But her small figure and bright hair were unmistakable. He strode straight into the cinder-girls’ midst, receiving many surprised and frightened looks.

  “Evelyn,” he whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You have to come with me. Now.”

  It took her a moment to recognize him. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Henry! I mean Your Highn—”

  “Don’t,” he hissed. “Just come.”

  “I can’t,” she replied, shrinking back. “I signed the document. I am bound to this place.”

  Henry grimaced and readjusted his cap, nervously glancing around. His stomach twisted. The floor master approached. “Trust me,” he said.

  Then he took her hand and ran. They wove between the rows and rows of machinery. He felt the stares of many and heard the shouts of even more.

  “Oi! You there!” the floor master called. “Stop!”

  Henry shoved his way past the stunned delivery boys and out the door. But he knew they were not yet safe. He heard a gunshot, and his stomach did another twist. Where should they go? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He couldn’t run to the palace like this. Who knew how deep Darcy’s influence ran? The constable’s whistle rang in his ears.

  “In the name of the law, I command you to stop!” the constable yelled.

  Evelyn jerked him from his thoughts by pulling him down an alley. He followed her wordlessly, glancing over his shoulder. Their pursuers were close; he could hear their shouts and thundering footsteps. The road slanted downwards and took several sharp turns. The buildings became progressively more dilapidated on either side of them. The city walls grew larger and larger on the horizon. Then a sound met Henry’s ears: running water.

  “The canal,” he said to Evelyn. “You’re taking us to the canal!”

  She gave him a short glance over her shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. In older days when Arcadia had been more suspicious of her neighboring cities, a moat had surrounded the city. Now that the kingdoms fought a war of commerce instead of swords and muskets, King Cygnus had converted the moat into a canal, one of many in an intricate web that entangled the neighboring commercial cities.

  They passed through the slums by twilight. Faded, threadbare laundry hung limply on sagging lines above their heads. Noise filled the street, but none of the happy sort: toddlers and babies screaming, parents shouting, and young men exchanging brusque words, dark threats in their eyes. But Henry and Evelyn simply shoved past these folk, leaving startled stares and mutterings in their wake.

  The sound of water and the smell of boats at dock intensified. Evelyn pulled Henry around another sharp curve. As night fell, hardly any light pierced these small dark roads. Suddenly they were crouching and then crawling down a dark tunnel.

  “There’s a metal grate at the end,” Evelyn informed him as they sloshed through the tunnel. “This drain is flooded during the day, but it works for a nice escape route at night.”

  “My first impression of you is turning out to be entirely wrong,” Henry said with a grin.

  “I had a life once, before my work at the factory.”

  They reached the metal grate. At first it would not open, but when they pushed, the rusted hinges gave with a shrill whine.

  “And now you can live again,” Henry said, helping her up on the other side. The city was at their backs. The street lamps slowly flickered to life as the last light on the horizon melted away.

  “Can you do some explaining now?” Evelyn rubbed her arms from the cold. “I—well, we’ve broken the law.”

  “Marius is in trouble,” Henry said. “And so are you.”

  Evelyn knew of an abandoned bargeman’s shack along the canal. Concealed amid a tangled web of ivy and overgrown shrubberies, the dilapidated hovel was barely visible from even a few feet away. Henry managed to scrape enough vines away to break the door free. A small rusted coal oven sat in the middle of the dirt floor, and a few dust-coated boxes lay in the corners.

  Evelyn dug matches out of one box. “I used to sneak out here after my father remarried,” she explained. “I had a small stash of things I’d smuggled here.” She motioned to the open box. “There might be some coal in there and some canned bacon.”

  “Looks like some animal got to it first,” Henry replied, holding up a battered and chewed tin. “Oh well. But there is coal.”

  The oven glowed to life after some persistent coaxing. The two crouched on the floor before it, rubbing their hands and arms.

  “So what happened to Marius?” Evelyn asked quietly.

  “He and his fiancée had a plan. They tried to fake her death . . .” Henry’s voice trailed off, remembering the foolhardy craziness of the scheme he’d allowed himself to be dragged into. Then he shook himself and continued. “They rigged their steam carriage to explode, but Rosalind just disappeared. We saw a body in the rubble, but it was only an illusion.”

  “What then?”

  “I believe you’ve met my other brother, Darcy,” Henry continued.

  Evelyn’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I think Darcy framed Marius. He was eager to help with their plan. Strangely eager.” Henry looked at Evelyn, his eyes narrowing. “Is something the matter?”

  “I told Darcy some information. He threatened you.” Evelyn wouldn’t look up.

  “He threatened me?”

  Evelyn nodded. “He wanted to know who had helped me. I broke my promise and—”

  Henry took her hands in his. Her fingers were thin and cold, and he found he longed to press warmth into them, to comfort her any way that he could. “Evelyn,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be sorry. I understand. And I’m touched that you would go so far as to break a promise for my sake. I know that must have been difficult for you.” He smiled. “You have a good heart.”

  She pulled away from him and shrank into the shadows. “Then you don’t really know me,” she mumbled. “You don’t know what I did to my father.”

  A sympathetic look replaced Henry’s smile. “Actually, I do. I visited your stepmother.”

  Evelyn’s slight form slumped. “She told you—”

  “That you caused your father’s death?” Henry finished. He prodded the coals in the heater with the rusted poker. “Is that really why you chose to be a cinder-girl?”

  “Yes . . . and my stepmother helped to persuade me.” Evelyn scooted a little closer to the heater again. “But in the end it was my decision.”

  “I don’t believe that’s entirely true.” Henry set down the poker and stared at Evelyn. “I think you allowed yourself to be bullied into it. From what I saw of your stepmother, I could see she’s the extravagant sort of person who probably married up the social ladder. She married your father for money, Evelyn. You had good reasons to dislike her.”

  “But that doesn’t excuse my behavior,” she cried. “I drove my father to sickness and eventually death. I killed him.” Tears trailed down her pale, sooty face, leaving streaks when she brushed them off. “I don’t know how to let it go.”

  Henry moved closer to her and took her hand in his. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and gently wipe
d her tears away. “Start by making me a promise: After this is over, you won’t go back to that factory. Your father would not want you to punish yourself like this for the rest of your life. He would want you forgive yourself. Will you promise?”

  She offered him a faint smile despite her tears.

  “Will you promise, Evelyn?” Henry persisted.

  “I promise,” she whispered.

  The two sat in silence for a little while. Then Evelyn took the handkerchief from Henry’s hands and blew her nose. “Her name was Ophelia,” she said. “The woman who helped me—her name was Ophelia.”

  “How did she get Rosalind’s slippers?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. She said she was a fairy godmother, delegated by her superiors to serve in this city. Somehow she knew I needed help, knew how much I wanted to go to the ball. So she gave me clothes to wear and the glass slippers. She transported me inside the palace.”

  “Why did you run away from the dance?”

  “I was dancing with your brother . . . trying to, anyway, and making something of a hash of it. But he wouldn’t stop smiling, and I felt so light, so free. Then I saw her. My stepmother.” A shadow fell across Evelyn’s face. “I should’ve known she’d come. And she saw me. She recognized me, maybe. Now I’ll never know, because I ran.”

  “Where did the clothes and the slippers go?”

  She smiled faintly. “Well, I lost one slipper on my way out of the palace. By the time I reached the factory, I was wearing my normal work dress.”

  “So you told Darcy about Ophelia,” Henry confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “I have ideas.”

  Henry stood up and stretched. “Then we should set out at once.”

  13

  Darcy should’ve been happy.

  He sat at his desk by the window, with a pen in hand and a document waiting to be signed: a witness statement condoning Marius’s banishment. A few drops of ink, and all his problems would be gone.