Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  “You were very brave, Mademoiselle Lester. Not many would have done what you did. Attacking one of the Fee! Tres vaillante.”

  Cecilia did not feel valiant. She hardly knew what she felt. Lost, perhaps. She took up the goblet and, suddenly parched, took a tentative sip. The wine tasted acrid in her mouth, and she wished she’d not tried it. “Please,” she said, setting the drink aside, “did I accomplish anything at all? Did they kill my father?”

  “Non. The Fee do not kill,” the captain said, his accent growing heavier. “They only punish, and their punishment consists of turning men into monsters and casting them aboard this ship. Newcomers always appear exactly where you appeared—in the cell down in the bilge. Had your father suffered the Fee’s punishment, he would have been with you.”

  “I see,” Cecilia replied. She eyed him for a moment, then said, “You seem to know quite a lot. Do you know anything about the mirror? How did the Fee find my father?” She squinted at him suspiciously. “And how do you know about them?”

  “Light,” the captain replied immediately. “That is how they found your father, or so I would surmise. If light touches the mirror’s glass while in the world of mortals, the Fee can appear in that location. So long as it is in an ocean, bien sûr. If the mirror were brought on land, they could sense the mirror but they could not go to it.”

  Cecilia sat in silence for a long moment, pondering. Why, why, hadn’t her father left the mirror in Tortuga? If he truly wished to be rid of his servitude to the Fee, he should have left the mirror on land, buried it in the ground, or even sold it. He would have been safe!

  Her father’s verbal rambling before the Fee attacked came back to her: But Cilla, the Fee have gold and riches, and lots of it too . . . I had to keep it, don’t you see?

  Cecilia clenched her hands, her ragged fingernails biting into the skin of her palms. “Why am I not like the rest of you?” she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Why am I not . . .” A monster? A ghost? A horror of water and slime? Cecilia struggled for an inoffensive word, though she knew that the captain would only chuckle at her. “Blue. Why am I not blue?” she finished finally.

  True to form, the captain did laugh, sounding as though he had been young at the time of his cursing, no older than thirty or somewhere thereabouts. When he finished laughing, he said, “Je ne sais pas, Mademoiselle Lester. I do not know. What does your omen say? There is no need to fear; I promise to tell no one, and I will endeavor to help you fulfill it.”

  “My omen?” Cecilia asked.

  “Oui. I understand why you did not share in your initial story. It is often disturbing. But, ma chère, nothing good will come of keeping it secret. I can help you.” He sounded earnest, and his French accent grew heavier. Cecilia suspected it only did that when he became too emotional. Her mother’s Spanish accent had been the same.

  Cecilia reached for the wine goblet once more. Anything to distract her from thinking about her mother. She peered into the goblet’s bowl. It smelled like her father, and the previous sip still tasted foul on her tongue. She put it back. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, aware that the captain was staring deeply at her, though she could not see his eyes. “The men were shouting something about omens down in the hull. What were they saying?”

  The captain suddenly cleared his throat. “Where are my manners? I must introduce myself! My name is Pepin-René Marc Daviau. It’s quite long, and I rarely bother to recall all of it, so please call me Pepin. Then again, call me Captain, as I am your superior, but you may think of me as Pepin, if you like.”

  “Daviau?” Cecilia asked. A conversation with her father not two weeks prior rushed back to her. “The privateer?”

  He huffed. “There is no need to insult me. S’il vous plaît, use the term ‘pirate.’ It is far less offensive.”

  Cecilia sat back in her chair, staring at the shadowed figure with new awe and fear. This was the man who rode into Tortuga and pillaged it, stealing everything—from the gold of other pirates to wooden beams from fallen homes—just to toss it all into the ocean. This man defeated an entire fleet of British warships by tricking them into a kraken’s nest. This man held the entire pirate world, even her father, in a constant state of reverence and terror. They whispered his name only after several bottles of rum, and even then they glanced over their shoulders and hissed for silence.

  She wasn’t surprised that he had run afoul of the Fee; she was surprised that they had actually managed to punish him. Though, after looking at the cabin—which more closely resembled a king’s court than a captain’s quarters—and remembering the way the men quivered and obeyed, it seemed the punishment had affected him little.

  “I suppose your father told you stories of me?” Pepin asked. Cecilia could almost hear the smug grin she was sure he wore beneath the darkness.

  “He told me you sank to the bottom of the ocean along with the Bête de Diable during a battle off the coast of Florida,” Cecilia said.

  A torrent of what was no doubt French invective flew from Pepin’s mouth. Cecilia drew a sharp breath, frightened and suddenly glad that she did not understand French. He stood and began pacing furiously across the cabin, never pausing his tirade to draw breath.

  Finally he calmed himself and turned toward Cecilia. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Cecile. It is not every day one receives word that one’s imbécile fath . . . first mate decided to go after the Fountain of Youth, following a map that was clearly a trap set by the British, which then results in the destruction of one’s friends. Sacrebleu, quand je sortirai d’ici . . .”

  He ranted on in French while Cecilia, suspecting it would be perilous to interrupt, waited for him to finish.

  He stopped at last and bowed to her. “Mademoiselle, I again bid you welcome aboard the Rose. We sail an endless ocean, and landing is impossible. Food and drink mystically appear in the galley. It tastes horrid, but none of the ghosts have died from it, so have as much as you please. There is a room for you below. At least, I assume there is. Cabins always seem to appear when some new poor soul arrives, though by rights the ship shouldn’t be large enough for another. It will be dry and stuffy, with an aroma that calls to mind images of the ocean. Particularly the fish part of the ocean. Most particularly the dead-fish part of the ocean. There’s only one port we can anchor in, and we could not enter it before you came because we needed a solid person. But now that you are here . . . well, we shall see. Perhaps we can return you to your father.”

  As he spoke he motioned for her to rise and, without touching her, somehow managed to propel her toward the door. “The ship is yours to roam, though I suggest avoiding most of the men, especially Jack. They would be unpleasantly happy to meet you. William and Frank are good sorts though. Also, stay away from all of the rooms other than your own, all of the lower decks, and whatever you do, stay away from the little room in the bow. That is where I keep the insane ones. Don’t touch anything that looks odd. Don’t touch anything that looks normal. Other than following these few trifling rules, feel free to do whatever you want. Good day. Or night. Whichever you wish to call it.”

  He bowed again and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly behind her. So Cecilia found herself standing alone in the endless fog and contemplating the mystery that was Pepin-René Marc Daviau.

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT MORNING . . . or evening—it was truly impossible to say which—Cecilia awoke with burning eyes and a throbbing head. Several agonized moments passed before she could bear to allow herself to remember where she was. When the memory came, she wished she might fall asleep again. The nightmares she’d experienced in sleep would be a welcome relief!

  But instead she lay in her hammock, gazing at the red boards above her until they blurred. Last night both William and Frank (good sorts according to Captain Pepin, if his word could be trusted) had escorted her down the companionway and through what seemed like miles of winding passages between bulkheads before arriving at the door of her cabin, w
hich, they said, had appeared suddenly upon her arrival. Reason told Cecilia that it shouldn’t exist at all.

  Exist it did, however, beyond all reason, and her two ghostly escorts had urged her to remain inside. She wondered now, upon waking, if they had forgotten all about her. At the same time she wondered whether her door was bolted on the inside or outside.

  She blinked. Her vision cleared, but the stinging remained. Cecilia rubbed her eyes and sat up, careful not to overturn the hammock. Staring blearily around the room, she took in its wooden walls and floor, a clothes chest against the far wall, a flickering lantern on a hook (had it burned all night?), and a bolted door—all perfectly ordinary other than the blood-red of the wood. A small space and spare in its furnishings, but ultimately she felt Captain Pepin had exaggerated the cabin’s unpleasantness. She doubted she would have slept at all had she smelled dead fish all night. The room actually smelled strangely pleasant, like flowers in the spring.

  As she thought back over her conversation with the captain, her mind focused on a single word: omens. Why had Captain Pepin avoided the subject? Somehow, now that she considered the topic, she knew it was important. Why else would he shy away from it? He had been forthcoming about everything else . . . or had he? She wasn’t certain.

  She had been tired and frightened last night. She was tired and frightened now, but determined, too. She rose to pace across the room, running her fingers through her hair to undo her frazzled braid. When she turned back she noticed a tortoiseshell comb lying atop the clothes chest. Within a few minutes she had combed and braided her hair and secured it with her limp hair ribbon. She checked her wan reflection in a polished brass mirror above a vermilion dressing table, then poured warm, scented water from a china pitcher into a basin, washed her face and hands, and dried them on a soft white cloth.

  It was then she noticed the gleam of daylight falling on her reflected face. Had that window been there a moment ago? She pressed her face to its wavy glass to peer outside, then, noticing a latch, opened it wide and leaned out, breathing deep as salt spray dampened her cheeks. Dense fog curled and smoked above the black ocean, twisting like a shark savoring blood.

  Somehow her cabin was located high in the bow of the ship on the port side. Above and to her right extended the bowsprit, with its spider web of lines and a small sail filled with wind. She looked down and sucked in a breath. Though the water was dark and shadowed, it, unlike the captain, still held its definition and shape. She watched the bow cut into a wave then rise amid foaming currents and spray. The fog obstructed her view ahead, but even so she knew that the Rose was moving faster than any ship she had ever heard of. No breeze could propel a ship, certainly not one the size of the Rose, this quickly. Perhaps in a strong following wind a normal man o’ war could sail at half this speed, but how could there be wind in such a dense, inert fog?

  She needed answers.

  Cecilia latched the window then turned to face the door. She’d not wanted to know if she was locked in, but the time of discovery had come. She tried the latch and found that it gave. Did her stomach lurch in relief or in dread? For now, surely, she must step out into the terrible unknown and leave behind the relative safety of this red-glaring room.

  Pausing with her hand on the handle, she took a few calming breaths before holding her head high and swinging open the door.

  “Oi! Eh, Billy! She’s up!” a gruff voice shouted.

  Cecilia yelped, jumped backwards into her room, and slammed the door. She heard guffaws of laughter and a thick English accent swearing profusely. Frank and William.

  She sighed. Why were they here? Had the captain ordered them to spy on her? The thought was annoying, but at least it hadn’t been Jack or one of the others waiting outside her door. With a start, Cecilia realized how likely a possibility that was.

  Frowning sternly, she swung the door wide again and found herself staring into the grinning face of Frank and the scowling face of William. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Thought you might be hungry, my lady,” William replied, holding out a plate of food. “I’m sorry at its appearance, but it truly was the best that could be found down in the galley today.” He glared at Frank. “Except for that cake this fool decided to eat.”

  Frank shrugged indifferently. “Stale, it was! You wouldn’t want to give the missy a stale cake, would you?”

  “No, but I do not like handing her a plate of mush either, you peasantly bumpkin!” William snapped.

  “Now listen here, you little—”

  Cecilia quit listening to the argument. She glanced down at the plate of food then raised an eyebrow at William. Mush? What did he mean? Half of the plate was piled with fresh-baked bread, and the other side held porridge with cinnamon dashed on top. Hesitantly, Cecilia stuck her finger into the porridge—maybe it tasted like mush—but no, it was as delicious as it looked, lightly sweetened with honey.

  She took the plate from William and quickly ate the bread. The two pirates did not notice her until she plucked from William’s hand the spoon he had been pointing at Frank’s throat. She ate several more bites, pleased that at least she would not go hungry on this ship. Then she noticed their silence and glanced up, momentarily embarrassed about eating her food so quickly before recalling that they were pirates and probably didn’t give an empty rum bottle about manners. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Frank grimaced. “I can’t believe you tried the gray stuff. It’s awful.”

  Cecilia glanced down at the plate, her spoon poised over the half-eaten serving. “The porridge? No, it’s delicious.”

  William stared at her, considering. “You ate the moldy bread.”

  Cecilia blinked. “It wasn’t moldy.”

  “I think the sun’s getting to her,” Frank said morosely.

  William sneered. “What sun?” He glanced back at Cecilia. “You are feeling well, aren’t you?”

  Cecilia set the plate on the floor and planted her fists on her hips, glaring at both of them until they took a few steps back. When she was little, she had seen her mother do the same to her father, and he always staggered away too. “Oh, I’m feeling well considering I just awoke on a cursed pirate ship. Why shouldn’t I eat the food? It looked and tasted delightful.”

  William and Frank exchanged glances then shifted until they faced each other, shutting Cecilia out of the ensuing conversation.

  “I don’t think she’s lying.”

  “Why would she lie, you bumbling beehive? Of course she’s not lying!”

  “Is it because she’s solid? Or because she’s insane?”

  “You’re one to talk about insanity! She is clearly not the mentally unstable one aboard this vessel.”

  “Maybe she’s just stupid.”

  Cecilia cleared her throat, pursing her lips. They continued to argue, ignoring her.

  “Do you think we should tell the captain?” William mused.

  Frank shook his head, flinging droplets from his stringy, wet hair. “No need to bother him.”

  “But we can’t just let this anomaly go unspoken . . .”

  And so they bickered, gaining in speed and volume as though they never intended to stop. Her stomach properly satisfied, Cecilia’s thoughts returned to her confusion and questions. She needed to find the captain.

  “If you two are finished debating my mental capacities, I have a request to make,” she announced. Both men snapped quiet. “Thank you. I’d like to speak to Captain Pepin. Would you please lead me to him? Now, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  William fidgeted. “Apologies, my lady. The captain is currently unavailable.”

  “Aye, you can’t go see him, miss. He’s busy,” Frank seconded.

  Peering around them, Cecilia glimpsed, at the end of a short passage, a companionway up to the main deck. “The captain ordered you to stay with me, correct?”

  They nodded quickly, pleased at the apparent change of subject.

&
nbsp; Cecilia stepped past them and made her way to the stairs, ignoring their protests. “If the captain ordered you to protect me, you probably ought to come along as I explore.”

  As Cecilia set her foot on the first step, William burst out, “My lady, what did the captain tell you last night?”

  She glanced back at him. “What do you mean?”

  His ghoulish face seemed to darken, and he cast a quick look from side to side, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “About the omens.”

  Cecilia’s eyes widened. She returned to face the two soggy men. “He didn’t tell me anything. He shied away from the subject, actually.”

  William and Frank exchanged a look.

  “What are the omens?” Cecilia persisted. “Can you tell me?”

  They turned toward her. They nodded. “Yes,” both said. William added, “You’ll have to help us though.”

  “And keep it shushed up, will you?” Frank inserted, his voice a whisper. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t want the captain to know about this.”

  This was certainly intriguing. “What do I need to do?” Cecilia asked.

  “Follow us,” they both said. Without another word, they turned and rushed into the darkness, their watery forms making little noise, like the sea just before the first breaths of a storm.

  Cecilia glanced at the stairs for a considering moment then hastened after William and Frank. She needed to know what the omens were and why the captain had tried to hide them from her.

  Pepin-René Marc Daviau prided himself on being the laziest person aboard the ship. There was something powerful and invigorating about being a captain who did nothing. True, the men didn’t seem to appreciate it, but they couldn’t really do anything about it, now could they?

  Pepin glanced down at his shadowy arm. He flexed his fingers. A thrill swept up his arm and into his head, causing the world to blur momentarily. Well, they couldn’t do anything about it yet, anyway. He held the power. He was the captain.