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

by Lucy Tempest

  But watching my face now, I realized something else. How much the green tinge suited me more than my true coloring, also my mother’s, did. I’d always felt as if my eyes weren’t truly my own—maybe because they were so much like hers, or because I hadn’t truly been inside while under Dolora’s thrall. But the leafy-green eyes looking back at me now felt like me, the true me I was getting to know for the first time.

  Yulian’s head joined my reflection, and frost quickly crept over the edges of the mirror. “I take it you can’t recognize yourself either?”

  How could he tell that? Was I so easy to read?

  Holding his almost-white gaze in the mirror, I shot back a question instead. “I take it you haven’t always been this…blue?”

  “Though I don’t feel anything these days, in some ways I always have been.”

  My lips quirked. “Was that a pun?”

  “It certainly wasn’t a joke,” he deadpanned.

  I didn’t know why, but I started giggling. My mind must be finally crumbling under the emotional whiplash I’d been subjected to, not only in the last week, but also in the last hours.

  And who could blame it? I was here, in Faerie, masquerading as a different creature, having a private audience with the Winter King, and on a covert mission to save his life.

  “I wish I didn’t feel anything.” I sighed as my giggles faded.

  “Apathy has its uses,” the king said, in that monotone that reverberated deep within my chest. “Usually in times of crisis when you need to keep a clear head, or when someone is trying to rile you up, and you’re at risk of reacting foolishly.”

  “That hits a bit too close to home,” I said, turning away from the mirror to face him.

  Up close he really did look like someone who was half frozen, deathly pale underneath the blue tint, his lips dry and whitened. But it was his eyes that—fascinated me the most.

  Unlike Bonnie who had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, all of the Fairborn family I’d met had grey eyes, but they were the silvery, stormy kind. But King Yulian’s were so pale, even their pupils were faded. They had no shades to them, appeared to have no depth, like two flat pieces of white opal had replaced his eyes in their sockets.

  But he’d already said he didn’t recognize his own reflection anymore. So he probably hadn’t been born with these eyes.

  How had they looked before? And why had they changed?

  “Why do you say that?” he finally asked, reminding me of what I’d said last.

  I shrugged uneasily. “Because for years I’ve had people go out of their way to torment me because they knew I couldn’t do anything about it. Though then, I had a measure of that useful apathy forced on me. But I’ve recently become familiar with having to withhold rightful anger in fear of terrible consequences.”

  Without any change in his expression, I still felt his concern as he asked, “Have these people scrounged up excuses to get upset with you, all for the chance to punish you?”

  “They don’t need to scrounge, they always have an abundance of ready excuses. They mostly don’t pretend to have any when they’re forcing me to do something over and over.”

  “Until you achieve an unprecedented level of perfection that no one—not even them—thinks possible or would expect from anyone else?” he finished.

  We might have turned away from the mirror, but never had I felt like I was talking to myself more.

  He quirked an inquisitive brow. “Controlling mother?”

  “Dead mother, psychotic stepmother.”

  “Well, at least you have your father. Both my parents are dead.”

  “My father might as well be dead.”

  Without even attempting the politely uncomfortable grimace I’d seen on the faces of everyone who’d known my situation, he bluntly asked, “Neglectful or abusive?”

  “Neglect bordering on abuse.”

  “Wouldn’t notice if you’re gone, would he?”

  “If he did, I doubt he would care.” Despite the painful topic, I found a smile widening on my lips, and this time it had nothing to do with a hysterical reaction to my situation. “What about you?”

  “Overbearing mother, paranoid father, and demanding grandfather,” he listed indifferently. “But one by one they paled in comparison to my aunt, once Grandfather forced her to make me her heir.” A darkness crossed his face, like the shadow of a storm cloud on an early winter morning. “Let’s just say that my aunt Isolda was in a league of her own when it came to conjuring up and enforcing demands of perfection.”

  “Is she here?” I whispered, looking around. I’d hate to meet someone who sounded even worse than Dolora, and had far more power with it.

  “I have no idea where she is,” he admitted, no hint of emotion in his tone. “Not long after ascending to the throne, she vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  He nodded. “‘Into thin air’ were my father’s exact words, like she was mist.”

  “I wish my stepmother could turn into mist. Better yet, steam.”

  “Is there much of a difference?”

  “Steam is from boiling water, something I hate, as well as anything heat related.”

  Steady as his face was, I could tell he was amused. “Funny, I hear the exact opposite from everyone else.”

  “How so?”

  Before he could answer, music suddenly rose, a beat syncopating over the sweep of string instruments, the soulful laments of wind ones, and the languid trills of a piano.

  From where we were standing by the entrance of the massive ballroom, I could see people beginning to move to the center of a circular dance floor.

  Yulian moved beside me, dragging my gaze back to him. I found his expression as empty as ever, and his arm raised.

  Then he said, “Care to dance?”

  Chapter Twelve

  I stared at the Winter King’s offered arm.

  My heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d approached me, but now it galloped and stumbled.

  Was this really happening? He was asking me to dance?

  This was what I was here for. Engaging the king and commandeering his attention. Yet I hadn’t really thought I had a chance of succeeding in that mission.

  But for some reason, it seemed I was.

  He wanted to dance with me.

  Nobody had ever wanted to dance with me. In fact, in the rare times Dolora had let me accompany them to social functions, to service them, everyone had treated me with disregard, and the best ones with pity. No man had ever looked my way, let alone asked me to dance. But this frozen king had paid no one else but me any attention, had offered no one else his arm.

  This was it. My one chance to save him, and myself. If I did this right, kept him engaged for longer than the duration of this dance, for the whole evening, and then for the next two, I’d get to keep him alive. Then I’d get this anklet off my leg.

  I’d possibly get Etheline to truly turn Dolora into steam.

  That is, if I didn’t end up crushing his feet with those glass slippers, so he’d limp away and not let me near him again.

  Swallowing my nervousness—as this was an imminent possibility since I only knew about dancing from watching others perform it—I set a trembling hand on his offered arm and let him lead me deeper into the ballroom.

  At the edge of the dance floor, he offered me his gloved palm, demanding my other hand. Once I placed it there, with a side step and a spin, he had us joining the rest of the dancing pairs.

  Expecting to stumble on my feet and his, after an uncertain beginning, I found myself gliding in tandem with the flow of music, as one with him and his graceful, assured movements.

  At one point, I felt my feet tingling inside my glass slippers. It made me wonder if they were giving me the gift of dance. If they were, I couldn’t think of one I’d appreciate more in this moment, not even an ability I could use to escape. Or it could be all thanks to his masterful, intuitive leading, and this strange rapport I felt with him.

&
nbsp; Whatever it was, it was nothing short of magical.

  Time seemed to slip away as he swirled me around the dance floor, with me practically pressed up against him, his coldness encompassing me. My now excited sweat turned into a thin glaze that every mirror we passed reflected as shining, glowing skin. Those we neared became encircled with a twinkling rim of frost.

  During our second or tenth dance, I looked up and saw our reflection fogging up completely in a mirror on the ceiling, save for the parts showing through handprints. As he swept me away, I couldn’t help but wonder how those had gotten there. But then I remembered that this was Faerie, and weirder things barely caused its denizens to spare a blink.

  What I really wondered about was why Yulian literally lived up to his name.

  None of the other fairy monarchs I’d met had this sort of magical aura affecting their surroundings. The King of Summer hadn’t been heralded by a heat wave, Queen Rowena hadn’t been accompanied by an autumn breeze and falling foliage, and Etheline hadn’t had grass or flowers springing up from the earth beneath her feet.

  As for this Court’s denizens, it didn’t seem anyone had his cold magic nor shared his peculiar coloring.

  My train of thought went off the rails as we passed below one of those icicle chandeliers, which gleamed its glowing light over his head. I’d never seen hair so totally white and fluffy, like pristine, fresh snow.

  I found myself wanting to touch it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

  Before I could succumb to the urge, he slowed down our dance, plucked a glass of bubbling golden liquid off a passing tray at the edge of the dance floor and offered it to me. I could see he was exerting an effort not to freeze it.

  “I don’t think I got your name,” he said.

  I rummaged through my mind for the name Keenan had given me. “Does it matter?”

  “Seeing as our first conversation was about our familial grievances, yes, it does.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being humorous or not. It was so hard to judge with his inexpressive face.

  “Well, when you put it that way…” I said, attempting a joking tone before trailing off, biting my lip. “Unless you have any errands for me to run, I doubt you’ll remember it.”

  “Of course, I’ll remember it. I’ll be using it to address you for three nights in a row.”

  “Address me to do what?” I asked, frowning.

  “Speak? Dance? Dine? Whatever Simeon expects us to do during this ball,” he said blandly. “If there is a cultural taboo regarding names among your kind, I apologize.”

  “No! I’m just not used to anyone thinking my name has value. And—I don’t like hearing it.”

  “Why is that?”

  Shoulders hitching up defensively, I mumbled, “I feel it has become synonymous with ‘I want something now.’ I dread hearing it because I know it’s never followed by anything good.”

  It was looking like I had said the wrong thing when he suddenly mused, “It makes you feel like a trained dog, doesn’t it? Being acknowledged only to perform a task, or to make the approved actions or noises on command.”

  “Yes!” I nodded, practically going lightheaded with disbelief. He understood! But—how could he? I breathed out my confusion. “How do you know what that feels like? Aren’t you the one making demands of your servants and subjects all day?”

  “I don’t demand, I request,” he said calmly as he led me away from the dance floor.

  I felt my skin crawling as everyone around watched us in open curiosity, and many with patent displeasure. It was clear those who came here in the hope of securing such a vital alliance were unhappy that Yulian had paid no other girl any attention.

  Seemingly oblivious to everyone’s scrutiny, he led me towards the open balcony door and continued, “But as someone who was born and bred to serve a functional purpose, I’ve rarely been called except to do something expected of me.”

  “What functional purpose is that?”

  He cast a hand out as we stepped out onto the balcony, where I could see the dotted-with-firelight, grayscale silhouettes of the city far below. “Maintaining my Court. I am the one who possesses its magic.” He stopped us at the balustrade, and we continued sipping our drinks for a moment before he added, “But now my state affects that of the land, and it keeps getting colder, it’s most probably why someone tried to kill me.”

  I choked on the tangy, citrusy drink. “You think that’s why this happened?”

  “It’s the only reason I can gauge, since I do my best to be a good king. But that wouldn’t matter if I’m going to freeze the whole court.”

  “This might be a dumb question, but doesn’t being the Winter Court mean it’s always, you know, cold? Frozen even?”

  “You’d think so.” The firm edges of his chiseled mouth tugged, in what I imagined was a bitter smirk. “But we have our seasons, same as any other Court or land. We have our temperate months, with cloudy days, crop planting and rainfall, our chilly months with windstorms, harvests, and bleaker days, our freezing months with snow, hibernation and longer nights, and our warmer months, with sunshine, birds and blooming flora.”

  Though his matter-of-fact description of his land was delivered with flat emotion, I still felt his deep affection for it, and his deeper regret.

  “And now it’s like this all the time,” I concluded as I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, surveying the frosted state of the land below.

  “It has been getting worse by the day.”

  “Why? If you always had your powers, what caused this shift?”

  His lips quirked in what looked like a self-deprecating smile, the most I’d seen him emote so far. “You really don’t know?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know many things. I’ve been rather—cooped up in my home.”

  He stared at me as if he couldn’t decide whether to believe me. Then he suddenly huffed mirthlessly. “I’m cursed.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I grumbled thoughtlessly.

  His huff this time sounded like an actual chuckle.

  I frowned as an idea hit me. “Who cursed you? Was it the Spring Queen?”

  He shook his head. “It would be quite ironic if the Queen of Spring—the shepherdess of clement weather and blossoming nature—conspired to create a land eternally stuck in the dead of winter, stifling any hope of plants growing from under the snow or animals surviving the vicious cold.”

  Thinking of Etheline, and what she’d done to Prince Leander and his sister, and what she was forcing me to do now, I couldn’t help the venomous bitterness in my own huff. “It would be the perfect cover. No one would ever suspect her.”

  “It would. Unfortunately, it was a woman from another court that doomed me.”

  “Who?”

  He stepped away, putting some distance between us. “That’s a very personal story.”

  “I thought we were sharing what troubled us.”

  “It’s becoming a little unbalanced, with me sharing such intimate details when I still don’t know your name.”

  He had me there.

  “It doesn’t have to be your given name,” he added quickly. “Just something I can use to speak to you.”

  “Just to speak? Not to be used in any future demands?”

  A spark of amusement reached his eyes at my dogged paranoia, and I thought I saw their color shift, like the sky on an end of winter day, barely blue against translucent clouds rolling in shades of white and grey.

  “I told you …”

  “You don’t demand, you request,” I finished for him. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe—Your Majesty.”

  “People never gave you much reason to trust them, did they?”

  That lump rose to block my breathing again as I shook my head. “No. But if you must, you may call me Ella.”

  “Ella,” he repeated, his voice taking on a contemplative, almost appreciative note. “I assume it’s short for something. Do you have any other names or nicknames?”<
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  “Why? You don’t like it?”

  He blinked at my suspicious tone. “Just attempting some personal conversation. I hear people discussing such things.”

  “You hear people? Don’t you talk with friends?”

  “I wasn’t allowed to have friends. Queen Isolda deemed them a distraction and a danger, and said I should maintain a constant and equal distance from all my subjects and courtiers.” His monotonous delivery sounded as if he was quoting her. “If I was caught being friendly, or was even assumed to be less than neutral, I’d be punished.”

  “You mean you had people policing your conversations and actions?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “May I ask what kind of punishment you got for, say, chatting with a servant?”

  “That particular grievance got me locked in a cellar without food or water for several days. It was better that I spoke to no one, rather than speaking to someone not worth my words, she said. It took many incarcerations for that lesson to sink in.”

  I shuddered. “Your aunt would have gotten along famously with my stepmother.”

  “What’s the worst you’ve gotten for misspeaking?”

  “Punched in the jaw, with a threat to have it broken next time.”

  He hummed, nodding. “I see your point. I once had the gall to complain that I wanted to play with some minister’s children, said something along the lines of ‘just because you have no friends, doesn’t mean we all have to be friendless.’ She lowered my body temperature way below freezing.” He tapped his teeth. “The thing I remember most among the agony that caused, even when I’m capable of surviving such temperatures, was that my gums grew so brittle, I felt like my teeth would snap off and that my tongue would shatter if I moved it.”

  Horror shot right through me, and I did my best not to visualize a frozen tongue snapping in his mouth only for him to swallow it.

  I winced as bile rose from my empty stomach. “That’s one way to shut someone up for good.”

  “It was morbid, but effective. I think she used that technique on any dissenters.”

  “The disappearance of your aunt seems like it was less ‘into thin air’ and more like ‘over this balcony,’” I said crankily.