Princess of Midnight: A Retelling of Cinderella (Fairytales of Folkshore Book 6)

by Lucy Tempest

  I could almost see the wheels turning in her vile mind before she finally snorted. “If you can get everything else done before sundown, and can find something to wear that would be worthy of our servant, then we’ll take you along so you can serve us there. That will be your night off.”

  My breath almost deflated out of me in relief. But I held it back. I needed one last subtle bit of manipulation to cement her decision, letting myself show how tired I felt as my voice cracked. “How will this be my night off? I’ll still be following you around, not resting.”

  “You can rest when you’re dead,” she snapped. “Now get out of my sight.”

  I couldn’t get out of her room fast enough.

  As I stumbled through the house in search of a place to collapse, an amalgam of anxiety and excitement bubbled inside me. Just a few more hours, a few more petty and petulant tasks to see to, and I would be on the track to freedom.

  Finding the last bed in the house in a servant’s quarters, I crumpled on it, all senses gone with the amorphous smoke of my blown-out candle.

  But morning came before I could truly sink into healing sleep. I awoke bone-tired, full of aches—to the house shaking.

  Groggy, I rushed to check out the nearest window and found a procession of the strangest collection of carriages and steeds in the distance. The source for the booming, rhythmic thuds that shook the house and vibrated in my bones was a line of gigantic, ambling animals. They had wooly, corpuscular bodies, legs like oak trees, thick, ivory tusks, and long trunks for noses.

  As I blinked fully awake in fascination, the one at the front curved its trunk up and let out a loud trumpeting noise that sent the onlookers scattering out of its way.

  Other invitees to the Midwinter Ball, I presumed. And from what I could see, incredibly diverse. It seemed an invitation from the Winter King, and the ambition of becoming his queen, had brought potential brides and their families running from all corners of Faerie. This should be an interesting night.

  Though I hoped not interesting in the way my life defined the term. Or else, it would end in disaster.

  Chapter Seven

  All day, I tried to keep up a delicate juggling act.

  On one hand, I couldn’t exhibit my exasperation with their constant demands. On the other, I needed to maintain Dolora’s presumption that she was dragging me to the ball. I had to appear submissive for the former, and disheartened for the latter.

  From the moment I left bed, I performed whatever task they pulled out of thin air just to keep me on my feet and running around. I made each her favorite breakfast and took it up to her bed, I brewed them endless cups of tea, ran them all hot baths, even helped Darla bathe. And I did all that while holding my tongue and keeping my gaze bent to the ground.

  Yet Dolora still watched me like a suspicious vulture all through the day.

  It was probably paranoid to think she suspected my plan. But her surveillance unnerved me nonetheless. Now she wanted every single fireplace in the house roaring, claimed it was because the snowfall had gotten a lot heavier during the night.

  I wondered why she bothered rationalizing her demand, when we both knew she was just trying to wear me out. Out of spite, as usual. And then, keeping me constantly occupied and exhausted, with no space or time to rest or think of myself, was just as good as having me enthralled.

  I had to concede, though, that they probably did need the extra heat. Outside, it was the dead of a winter I’d never seen the likes of.

  The backyard’s snow had solidified into glacier-like mounds, and the surrounding grey-wood trees had become towering spears of ice. Even the evergreens had lost their leaves, their boughs dripping in icicles. The only ones still holding onto their leaves were unlike any trees I’d ever seen on my island, their frost-glazed silver foliage looking like metal, with ice-capped canopies formed at their tops.

  It was a pretty, if desolate, sight, but I guessed it was so far below freezing, those sitting around idly, like those monsters inside the house, must be suffering. For me, the extreme cold soothed my overheating body, especially the burn of my arms as I endlessly swung a copper axe over the thick stump, chopping logs to countless quarters and eighths.

  But it couldn’t do anything for the sickening aversion that shuddered through me with every swing.

  For some reason, chopping firewood had always carried an undercurrent of horror. Even before exertion set in, the very idea made my heartbeat speed up, my insides twist, and my throat constrict. And it wasn’t swinging a potentially dangerous tool like an axe that disturbed me. It was seeing the heartwood of a tree, and chopping through it. It felt as if I was seeing the insides of a person and cutting them to pieces.

  Sometimes, as I split the wood, I could swear I heard the fading echo of pained shouts. Which was ridiculous. It had to be my own suppressed turmoil, my constantly doused urge to scream at the unfairness of my situation. Plants sensed nothing except possibly rain and sunlight. Otherwise, housing all kinds of life forms, not to mention being preyed upon by every other living thing, would be a terrible existence.

  But then I’d found out so many things I considered impossible were real. Another world full of impossibilities existed. So I could at least hope that none of the trees being used to warm houses here were secretly sentient, and I hoped I’d never chopped up one. I could only take so many horrific revelations.

  Still, imagining the wood was Dolora’s body was a great motivator.

  By the time I ran out of logs, and began hauling crates of firewood inside the kitchen, they were yelling that their lunch was late.

  I screamed internally and got busy putting something together.

  Aneira began gobbling up the soup and toasted bread as soon as I put the tray on her lap, with no complaints. Darla just glanced at the bowl in disgust, and was about to pitch it at my head, but luckily it was too hot, making her gasp and drop it back on her tray. I ran out before she could try again with the whole tray, and went to deliver Dolora’s tray.

  I found her in the sitting room. Right by the roaring fireplace, stoking red-hot logs.

  The sight of her by the flames made the burn scar on my right palm suddenly feel very tight, pulling on the healthy flesh surrounding it with its numb damage.

  “Well? Are you going to stand there all day?”

  Swallowing, I approached her with wary steps, ready to put down the tray and bolt.

  But of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “Stoke the flames for me,” she said as she sat down in front of the tray. “It’s much too cold in here.”

  To me, it was sweltering.

  Her irritation spiked. “Did you hear me?”

  Just a few more hours. A few more tasks and I’d get away. The king would repay the debt he owed me by setting me free. He just had to.

  That hope was all that tided me over as I dragged my feet closer and picked up the gilded poker. I held it at arm’s length, keeping my face angled away from the heat that billowed out from under the logs as I turned them.

  Just days ago, she’d been ready to grill my face like it was a steak, and the sensation of the heat now reminded me too much of the chest-bursting terror I’d felt then.

  I’d already started to shake when she decided it was enough. I staggered away to drop the poker in its holder, only to find Dolora watching me with malicious amusement.

  She knew what she was doing to me, and it entertained her.

  “Anything else, Madame?” I forced my voice to sound emotionless.

  “Go help the girls start getting ready, and make sure Aneira doesn’t try sneaking any more food. I need her to fit into that dress.”

  I bowed my head, trying to rein in my nervous tremors. “Yes, Madame.”

  The rest of the day passed with me going back and forth between my stepsisters, their demands yelled across the second floor. I had to help them into their underclothes, lace up corsets and brassieres, start styling their hair, and painting their faces with those pe
culiar colors they’d found in their hairdressers’ drawers.

  The boldest a girl would go back home was red lips or a dark smudge lining her eyes to make them pop. But they wanted something far more daring and elaborate. I had to manage a flattering balance of blues, pinks, and purples for Aneira, to complement her vibrant pink dress. In Darla’s case, I blended warm, autumnal tones to match her canary-yellow dress.

  The latter reminded me of the ball gown Bonnie had worn during that celebration in the Autumn Court, the night her prince had gone missing.

  I hadn’t enjoyed that night. I’d felt so out of place and more alone than ever in that place packed with drunken fairies dancing unknown dances, singing to odd musical arrangements, and performing dangerous acrobatics. Keenan had tailed me half the night, annoying me, pestering me into trying glittery drinks and spicy desserts.

  But now—how I wished I could go back to that night, when even through that depressing sense of alienation, I’d thought that my troubles were over.

  I should have never left that court.

  After suffering through Darla’s preparation, Aneira was far easier. I helped her into her gown, arranged the petals of the giant roses that made its skirt, and I was finally done.

  “Anything else?” I asked her, itching to go get ready myself, buzzing with anticipation.

  Aneira scrutinized her reflection, humming, “What do you think will make me stand out more? Should I change my eye color?”

  “They’re memorable enough right now.”

  It was the truth. The two-toned, heavy-lashed eyes she’d glamored, lacking whites or even proper irises, were hard to ignore.

  “I mean something like maybe having them match my dress.”

  “Pink eyes will make you look like an albino rabbit …”

  I bit my tongue. But it was too late. The words were already out.

  After years of will suppression, now my mind was free, I was constantly feeling impulsive and reactionary. It had been so hard controlling my every word and expression all day.

  Thankfully, my unfiltered opinion hadn’t come out around one of the dangerous ones.

  Aneira only giggled. “Do you think there will be those fey with bunny ears at the ball?”

  “I haven’t seen any like that yet, so I don’t know.” I checked the ornate, gilded clock on her dresser, shaped like a mass of oak leaves and acorns. It was almost sundown. “Will this be all?”

  “Are you always in such a hurry? You never have time when I want you around.”

  “Considering there’s one of me, and three of you to wait on, no, I can’t be on call for your whims whenever you want.”

  I groaned inwardly. Seemed I’d exhausted my ability to act submissive and agreeable today.

  I watched confusion take hold in her reflection. She sure wasn’t used to me talking back, or talking at all. “That’s not what I meant—but you always have the least time for what I want.”

  I sighed, deciding to just let the truth out. “That’s because you’re the least aggressive about what you want.”

  “Can I aggressively demand you stay and help me tweak my appearance?” she asked almost sweetly.

  “I sort of need to get ready myself, since you’re taking me along.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that. Guess it would be handy to have you, in case we need something. Speaking of, I figured out what I need to do.”

  She reached out and gripped my arm, hard. I flinched, but her grip was inescapable as a washed-out green light burst from beneath her palm. My eyes almost bugged out as I saw my veins rise up under my skin, like unearthed roots.

  Next moment, I was deluged by a thousand vague instances when this had happened before. Panic almost burst my heart as I felt like my very life force was draining, and I watched her appearance shift, giving her darker, longer hair and lilac eyes.

  I already knew they’d been using me somehow to fuel their glamor, but seeing it happen was terrifying. Even more so were the unformed memories from when I’d been under their thrall.

  When she released me, I stumbled back, hands slippery with cold sweat, terror thrumming through legs that felt useless beneath me. “H-how do you do that? What kind of black magic is this?”

  Puzzled, she stopped admiring her reflection. “Black magic?”

  “What else would you call this?”

  “You helping us?”

  “Help implies I’m doing something I understand willingly. You’re feeding off me!” I stumbled back further, horror expanding in my chest. “Can you do this to everyone? Is it a troll trait?”

  “Of course, we can’t do this to everyone, stupid.” She chuckled as if I was being ridiculous. “You can’t get apples from a pine tree …”

  Panic suddenly flared in her eyes as she looked at the door in the reflection. She was afraid her mother would hear, would punish her for talking to me about it at all.

  I latched onto her anxiety, tried to use it to keep her off-balance, to reel in answers. “There’s something about me that you can’t get anywhere else, can you?”

  She pretended to be adjusting her gown. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does it matter? You serve your purpose just like everything else we use.”

  “How could I forget? I’m no different than a kettle or a shovel to you three.”

  Her eyes widened, anxiety becoming incredulity. “So? Mother said things like you would just be wasted if we didn’t make use of what you have to offer.”

  Either this was some deranged, dehumanizing fairy mentality or she was talking about something I couldn’t yet grasp. “What are you talking about?”

  She snuck me another confused glance and her lips wobbled, like she was considering responding, but held her tongue.

  “What is it that I, specifically, have to offer?” I persisted.

  This time, to avoid answering me, she swirled away and marched to the bathroom.

  There wasn’t much I could do but wait for her to come out and try again. But she’d already wasted enough of my time.

  Shaking my head, I gave up on getting any explanations. They wouldn’t make a difference anyway.

  I left in a hurry to slip on the dress Ludmila had given me. There wasn’t much that could be done about my hair, and I had a feeling if I touched their makeup or jewelry I’d lose a finger.

  I barely caught up with them at the front door, where Dolora was having a shouting match with a uniformed driver. The carriage I saw through the wide open door was unassuming and box-shaped, and pulled by a strange cross between horses and moose.

  “This isn’t what I paid for!” Dolora yelled at the driver. “I told you we need to make a great entrance!”

  “Mother, let’s just go!” Darla whined. Then she caught sight of me and her mouth dropped open. “Wh-what are you wearing?”

  “A dress?”

  Dolora finally looked away from the door, her blink of shock giving way to a chilling look of barely restrained rage.

  I rushed to explain. “You told me if I was going with you, I’d need to find a dress, so I did.”

  “And when did you get that?” she hissed.

  Cold sweat suddenly drenched me as I realized my mistake. It slid down my back and made me wipe slippery hands on the thin, webbed material of my skirt. “L-last night.”

  She approached me slowly, every loud click of her heels a threat that shook the ground beneath my feet, making me tremble. “So, you planned to come before I decided to take you, and somehow managed to get that very same dress shown to us in the shop yesterday.”

  Full-blown panic overtook me as I frantically searched for a way to make it seem like this was still her idea. “I was being prepared, in case you decided to take me, to observe the terms of the invitation.”

  “You dared think the invitation had anything to do with you?” Darla sneered.

  “Uh—it said all unmarried young women, so I thought you might …”

  “It meant on
ly us!” Darla grabbed the strap of my dress in a tight grip and shook me by it, in lieu of my hair. “You think you’re accompanying us like you’re a part of the family? That you’re something to be seen with as anything but a servant, a slave, when we’re trying to win the favor of a duke or a prince, or even the king?”

  “No,” Dolora said snidely, bone-chilling stare hardening as she walked around me, making me feel I was being circled by a venomous viper that would strike at any second. “She thinks she’ll get her chance to dance with one herself, and get him to take her off our hands.”

  I tried getting away from Darla’s grip, but she just pulled tighter, yelling at me, insulting me, and Dolora grabbed a hold of the skirt, then—

  The dress ripped.

  The webbing snapped into a thousand loose threads and the crystals cascaded all over the floor, pelting it like hail.

  “No,” I wheezed, shock skewering me right between my bruised ribs.

  The dress, the one I’d borrowed with the implicit price of my freedom, what would have taken me to my only chance to grab at it—was destroyed.

  I tried to pull Dolora’s hand off and she backhanded me so hard bloody spit flew out my mouth, and against her grip. My stumble completed ripping the skirt for her.

  “Such a fine, delicate material, rips so easily.” She tutted. “I suppose I can make you come still, in its tatters. But then, you have so much work to do.”

  “But I’m done with everything!”

  Her glamored face lit with evil glee. “There is always more work to be done.”

  Then in deliberate movements, she picked up a vase off a cabinet by the door and threw it on the floor, shattering it to a thousand pieces.

  Darla didn’t give me a moment to react, following her mother’s lead by picking crystal figurines off another table and smashing them around me, yelling, “You think you’re like us? That any of those fairy nobility would look at you? You’re nothing but a rotting husk, and the only things you’ll ever attract are maggots!”

  I leaped at her, attempting to save the glass bust she was about to smash, and my anklet flared to life. The sharp burn made me falter, enough for her to ram the bust into my aching side.