Soot and Slipper

by Kate Stradling

  Now, she ripped the encroaching tendrils back.

  They left behind a layer of grime upon the whiteness. With ruthless efficiency she pulled them away to reveal the secret they hid beneath their climbing vines.

  Her own name met her gaze, Eugenie Vivienne, with a death date three years past.

  Her breath rattled in her throat. The tears she could not cry during the night spilled down her cheeks as her numbness broke into despair.

  It couldn’t be. People couldn’t possibly believe she was dead.

  But she hadn’t been to the village in ages. Her illness had thrown her into a pattern of confinement, and by the time her strength had built up enough to go, it was the younger Elles’ job to fetch the groceries—“Their way of being useful,” Marielle had said whenever Eugenie offered. “You wouldn’t want to take that away from them, not when you already do so much here.”

  Cumbered by the burden of running the estate in Eugenie’s name, Marielle had dismissed all but a single maid, Nanette, who had tended to Eugenie in the onset of her sickness. The maid had been her only companion after Marielle sent Florelle and Aurielle away to finishing school to avoid the disease.

  But Nanette had not stayed even a month. Marielle said she was called home to her family.

  Was that even true? Or had she dismissed her when she faked Eugenie’s death?

  The rainfall increased, though not to a full downpour. A cry of anguish wrenched from Eugenie’s lips.

  Was everything a lie? How could she have been so blind, so stupid?

  “Excuse me,” said someone to her left.

  She jumped, startled, and set eyes upon a young man with a concerned expression beneath the hood of his dark cloak. He offered her a handkerchief. Reluctantly she took it, mortified to be discovered in such a fragile state. He stood beside her in awkward silence, his hands in his pockets as she wiped her tears away.

  The handkerchief was too fine for her to blow her nose.

  “Did you know the family well?” he asked, his voice tentative.

  “Yes, intimately.”

  In the silence that followed, she chanced a look at his face. The jaw was too square to be Sir Pip, and his build was thicker too, though not by much. Relief flooded through her, that her benefactor was no one she might know. This was just another soul come to grieve. “I’m sorry I interrupted your mourning.”

  “Not at all,” he said. He nodded toward her family’s monument. “Do you need to talk about it?”

  “No. I should be going.” But where might she go? Could she return to her father’s estate—an estate that Marielle owned outright, to which she had no legal claim? How could she even prove she was Eugenie of Pluterra and not some impostor?

  This daunting thought overwhelmed her, knotting the pit of her stomach. She proffered the handkerchief back to her nameless companion, who received it with reluctance.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Wait,” he said when she turned to leave. She pretended not to hear, but quickened her step. “Wait! Cinderella!”

  He caught her arm and spun her. She tore away in panic.

  “How did you—? You’re not him!” she cried, backing away from the young man. Guilt flashed across his face—an honest face, but not the correct one—as a clap of thunder announced a downpour. “You’re not Pip! I know his voice, if nothing else!”

  His lips parted, but he did not argue. Eugenie whirled, intent upon the cemetery exit. Tears flooded her eyes as betrayal snaked through her. Who but Pip knew that name?

  She had not run more than five steps before a second figure blocked her path. She skidded to a halt, her pulse galloping in her throat.

  Hands aloft to show he meant no harm, the newcomer said, “Cinderella, it’s me.”

  The voice was right. And the jawline, and the shoulders, and everything about him except his missing smile.

  No words escaped her lips. She glanced to the man behind her, who had backed away to the meager cover of some tall pine trees, and then to Sir Pip in front of her. Vaguely she registered the fineness of their clothing against her threadbare state, but her mental trauma dismissed any shallow mortification.

  Who cared what she looked like?

  “I’m sorry,” Pip said, his expression earnest. “I thought you might come here, and I felt foolish coming by myself. My friend didn’t mean you any harm. You left so suddenly last night, and I’ve been sick with worry ever since.”

  “I’m not dead,” she said desperately.

  Confusion pulled at his brows.

  “I’m not dead.” She flung an accusing finger back toward her family’s monument. “I don’t know how my name got on that stone, but I’m not dead.”

  Thunder pealed across the sky, and the storm redoubled.

  “Eugenie of Pluterra,” said Pip, as though staring at a ghost.

  “I’m not dead!” she screamed and stamped her foot.

  In two steps he closed the gap between them and enveloped her in a strong embrace. She dug her frozen fingers into his cloak and wailed against his shoulder, her heart a shattered vessel in her chest. He cradled her head and let her cry while the rain drenched them both.

  His warmth and kindness lingered as her torrential outburst ebbed. Her sobs reduced to hiccups, and her mortification grew. When she pulled away, she lifted a tentative glance to his face.

  He was the picture of sincerity and concern. “Let’s get you out of this storm,” he said, and he tugged her along the path. She allowed him to lead her, until they came to the black carriage near the cemetery entrance. When Pip opened the door, she balked.

  Marielle’s warnings drummed in her ears. A lady never enters a closed carriage with a man unescorted.

  “I can’t—” The words caught in her throat.

  Why should she listen to the counsel of a serpent? What kind of reputation did a dead person have to ruin?

  With renewed determination, she climbed into the warm, dry interior. Pip, bemused and oblivious to her internal debate, followed and pulled the door shut.

  “You’re soaked to the bone,” he said, making himself busy on the opposite seat. “Take off your cloak and wrap up in the blanket there. There’s a hot brick underneath it. We’ll get you warm again in no time.”

  The “blanket” was actually a coverlet, fur-lined and finer than anything Eugenie had ever seen. She hesitated but ultimately stripped her sodden cloak and wrapped up in the warm fur. A shiver traveled down her spine.

  Across from her, Pip tossed a simpler woolen blanket around his own shoulders. His dark hair—brown, to match his eyes, and waving past his jaw—had a light sheen of rain on it. Silence settled between them, charged with a hundred unspoken questions. Who was he, and why would he help her? Was he the master of this carriage and its finery, or had he drawn upon his friend’s resources?

  Their acquaintance amounted to a few paltry hours together, but somehow he was her only ally in the world.

  What must he think, to find his masquerade partner in such a shabby state?

  The carriage door abruptly opened. Eugenie stifled a shriek.

  “Where am I driving this trap?” asked Pip’s nameless friend, carefully not glancing in her direction.

  Pip looked to Eugenie. “Is there an inn in the village? You’d do well with a fire right now.”

  She tensed. “I shouldn’t—”

  “You’re not dead, and I’d prefer we kept it that way.”

  His fervid expression banished her misgivings. If she caught a fatal illness now, only a pauper’s grave awaited her. She eased back into her seat. “The Gray Goose,” she said, listless. “It’s on the main road, on the other side of the village.”

  “I think I saw it coming in,” said the friend, and he shut the door. The carriage jostled as he climbed onto the driver’s box. When it lurched into motion, Eugenie’s nerves bubbled over.

  She leaned forward, babbling. “I don’t have any money. I only came down from the manor house to check whether it
was true. I didn’t really believe—” Her voice caught on a sob.

  He settled his palm on her clasped hands, his touch like a jolt of lightning up her arms. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get everything back into its proper frame, I promise you.”

  But sick despair had already taken root in her soul. “How can you promise any such thing? If everyone believes I’m dead, how can I prove I’m Eugenie of Pluterra and not some charlatan?”

  He blinked. “Aren’t there any servants at the house who can vouch for your identity?”

  She shook her head, her vision blurred with tears. “She turned them all off years ago. She said she couldn’t justify dipping into my inheritance for her comforts, but that if I wanted a maid for myself that was my right. But how could I allow someone to wait upon me when she and the younger Elles refused to have the courtesy extended to them?”

  “The people in your village—”

  “I haven’t been there in years, Pip.”

  A disbelieving laugh fluttered from his throat. “Why not?”

  “Because I was sick, and the recovery was so long that—Oh, I know it’s preposterous. I am Eugenie! But how am I to prove it?”

  He muddled over the conundrum, his gaze unfocused. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “The prince will vouch for you. You said you met him as a child.”

  “We’re not children anymore. Why should he remember me?”

  His brown eyes lifted to examine her, his gaze so intense that it took her breath away. “He will. You’re far too charming to forget.”

  Had she met Pip before? Did he have some clout with the royal family, that he could ensure their cooperation on her behalf?

  He cupped her hands in his as he studied her face. “Where did you meet him?”

  Eugenie swallowed. The memory surfaced, bitter and sweet wrapped together. “He came to my mother’s funeral. His parents forced him, I think. We were the only children there, and I was trying so hard to be strong—for my mother and father both.” Glimpses of that somber morning flashed through her mind’s eye: the dark coffin, the sonorous priest, the smell of pine boughs that had warded off the encroaching scent of death. She suppressed a shudder and continued her tale. “When the service ended, after I pitched my handful of dirt into the grave, the prince caught me by the wrist and pulled me into the forest while no one was looking. ‘You can cry all you want here,’ he said. Then he stood guard over me, and I cried until my heart was wrung dry.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears as she raised them to meet Pip’s gaze. “There’s no reason for him to remember that. It was only a small kindness on his part. His parents must have taken him to dozens of funerals.”

  He digested the story, his expression unreadable. “Did you get in trouble for running off?”

  “Not me. His mother scolded him when they finally found us, though.”

  A smile cracked across his face, and he squeezed her hands. “Then maybe she’ll remember.”

  Eugenie huffed a rueful laugh.

  “Did you never see him again?” he asked.

  She looked to the window, to the rain streaming down the glass. It rendered the passing homes of Hazelcross into a blur. “I never spoke with him again, not face to face. There were…” Her fleeting glance darted toward Pip, who was intent upon her every word. A wry smile tipped her mouth. “Don’t think too much of this. He wrote me in the months that followed, just short letters to ask how I was doing, and I responded with equal politeness.”

  “And you think he wouldn’t remember you?” Pip asked, brows arched.

  “I think he wrote dozens of those letters, to people all over the country. It was a formality, complete with his full title and the whole string of names—he has six or seven of them, you know. His Royal Highness Louis Fernand Renaud Theophilus something-or-other. And I only had two to sign in return.”

  The carriage stopped in the inn yard. Outside, Pip’s friend hopped to the gravel and ran for the sheltered entrance.

  “Long names are a hallowed tradition among our noble class,” said Pip with a careless wave. He peered through the downpour to the retreating figure and spoke as though nonchalant. “They ward off fairy curses, because fairies can’t be bothered to memorize more than three in a string. I’m surprised your parents let you get away with only two.”

  Perhaps that was the instrument her “godmother” had used to claim her. Eugenie twiddled the fur lining of her blanket, loath to broach the topic of fairies along with everything else. “Anyway, the correspondence stopped after my father and Marielle got married. It had to, unless the prince wanted to write Florelle and Aurielle too. He did come to the wedding with his parents, but they were across the church from where I sat. Marielle sent me and her girls home as soon as the ceremony finished, so we wouldn’t have to wait while everyone greeted them.”

  A muscle rippled along Pip’s jaw. “That’s a shame,” he said, his gaze still fixed out the window. “Still, I think he has every reason in the world to remember you.”

  Although he spoke with gravity, she could not agree. A decade had passed since that time. And she had, apparently, been dead for three of those years.

  The friend returned, his arms raised above his head to ward off the pelting rain. “I’ve let a private parlor,” he said, and he motioned for them to hurry inside. They ran through the deluge. At the door, the innkeeper’s wife gawked at Eugenie’s fur wrapping as she gestured them into the cozy interior. She barely glanced at the pair of men.

  The private parlor was small but warm. “Sit over here by the fire,” Pip said, drawing an armchair close for her to curl up in. Seeing her thus ensconced, he crossed to the door, where he exchanged words with his friend in a voice too low for Eugenie to overhear. The friend left, and Pip returned to drape his wet cloak and hers over two more chairs by the hearth.

  She watched him in silence, her head against the padded armrest. He worked with care in movements precise and efficient. Even without his half-mask and dark cloak, he yet presented a mystery.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be nice to you?” he replied, wringing the water from his cloak’s hem onto the floor.

  She sat up on an elbow. “There’s no benefit to you.”

  He spread the cloak again on its chair and positioned it closer to the fire. Favoring her with an earnest smile, he said, “Benefit? It’s penance, more like. You provided me with the very best of company on two occasions, and I repaid your kindness by telling you that you were dead. Not all the niceness in the world can make up for such an offense.” His eyes twinkled, but contrition lurked in their depths.

  She had no stomach for jokes, however well-intentioned they were. “Where did your friend go?”

  “He’s asking around the village to see what people know about the manor house and who lives there.” His expression turned intent. “You’ve really been in seclusion all these years?”

  “I was ill,” she said, curling up again on the armrest. “Marielle even sent her girls away so they wouldn’t catch it. It’s a wonder I didn’t die. Or maybe I did, and I’m a ghost who can’t accept her fate. Maybe I have to perform some service to move on to the afterlife.”

  Pip crouched in front of her. “You’re not a ghost,” he said, and he gently brushed a strand of bedraggled hair from her face. When she made a noise of discontent, he caught her hand, never breaking eye contact. “You’re flesh and blood, Cinderella.”

  Warmth traveled up her arms and spread into her very bones. A chilling thought chased it away. “Who’s buried with my parents, then? Or was it an empty box they put in the grave?”

  “There was no box,” he said.

  Her heart stuttered. “What?”

  “You died—she died—” He shook his head, flustered, and tried again. “It happened during an outbreak of influenza. There were so many deaths across the country that the coffin-makers couldn’t keep up with the demand, so the cro
wn decreed that all burials—noble and peasant alike—had to be in a shroud alone. There’s a body in that grave, but it was only wrapped in black linen.”

  Her disbelief magnified into horror. If this was true, it meant that Marielle had gotten a corpse somewhere, had passed it off as her stepdaughter and staged a funeral to show the world that she was dead. The House of Pluterra had met its end in a macabre charade.

  A shiver pulsed through her. She gripped his hand as though it were her only connection to the truth. “What am I to do, Sir Pip?”

  He laid a warm, comforting palm upon her head. “Sleep for now. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

  How could he suggest sleep when her mind was aflame? But she rested her head back anyway. The fire crackled, and Pip paced to the opposite side of the room, to a writing desk. Soon enough, the scratch of a nib against paper met her ears. As she stared at the dark crossbeams on the ceiling, her harrowed night caught up to her. Her eyelids drooped, and she drifted from consciousness, half-anxious and half-satisfied that Marielle would disapprove her sleeping there.

  8

  Vale of Gloom

  “You’re crazy, Nic. Crazy. Everyone in the village says—”

  “I don’t care what everyone says. I know who she is.”

  The argument, though hushed, rose in volume enough to pull Eugenie from her slumber. She opened her eyes to a crackling fire in the grate. Nestled within the fur-lined coverlet, she held perfectly still, her breath in her throat as she listened.

  “You’re talking about deceit of the very worst kind,” said Pip’s friend. “If you don’t have solid proof to back your claims—”

  “The solid proof is curled up in that chair,” Pip replied.

  Eugenie, dread pooling within her, lifted her head. She met the friend’s gaze, but he averted his attention to the hallway.

  Pip, who had flung one finger to point at her, did a double take. He abandoned the argument and hurried to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “What’s happened?” she asked, sitting up. She rubbed grit from the corners of her eyes. “What time is it?”