Relief flooded Cinderella’s chest. “I see. Yes, ma’am.”
“And if anyone asks whose attendant you are, you are not mine.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
Cinderella had no idea where to go. An hour wasn’t long enough to explore the castle with its maze of hallways, anterooms, and courts.
Deciding it was best not to wander too far, she made her way around the duchess’s wing and stopped before a long hall that housed a gallery of portraits.
To her immediate left was a portrait of the king and duchess as children. Genevieve carried her baby brother in her arms, a half smile perched on her lips as George tugged on her sleeve. In another painting, the two were slightly older, riding the same pony in front of a fountain in the royal gardens. The duchess had a mischievous glint in her eye, and a wide grin Cinderella couldn’t imagine the stern lady wearing now.
Seeing the duchess as a girl of five or six made Cinderella smile.
They looked close, the king and his sister. I wonder what changed.
With a sigh, she progressed down the hall, observing the king growing older with each painting she passed. In the middle of the gallery, a regal young woman appeared by King George’s side.
The queen.
Whoever had painted her had captured the intensity of her gaze, for it was so arresting that when Cinderella stopped to get a closer look, she almost curtsied before the portrait.
She leaned toward the painting, studying the queen. Her hair was raven black like her son, the prince’s, her eyes dark yet luminous.
“Back from your morning ride, Your Highness?”
Cinderella threw a glance behind her, and her heart nearly stopped. At the other end of the hall—was the prince!
A deep frown beset his face as he strode down the hall, looking harried. His attendant practically had to run to keep up with him.
Do I bow? she wondered frantically. She needed to make a decision before he passed her.
Hastily, she bent into a curtsy. She knew she was not to peek up and glance at him, not to say a single word unless addressed or spoken to. But she couldn’t help it.
She looked up.
Seeing him again, a wash of memories overwhelmed her. How wonderful it had been to dance—for the first time in years! When she closed her eyes she could still remember the smell of the ballroom: a potpourri of perfumes from the hundreds of guests, with the faintest hint of lemon from the shining floors. She could feel the soft ruby carpet under her heels, and hear the lush waltz music echoing up to the high ceilings of the ballroom.
And how kind he had been to her. Not a trace of the arrogance she would’ve expected from the royal heir to the kingdom—she supposed that was why she hadn’t even known he was the prince.
And their kiss.
Simply remembering it made Cinderella’s face warm.
Your Highness— she almost said, but she stopped herself. Your Highness, what? Your Highness, I’m the runaway princess. Only, I’m not really a princess. I’m just Cinderella.
She bit her tongue. She couldn’t do it.
Why not?
She stared after him as he passed her, not sure if she knew the answer.
The prince wasn’t dressed in formal attire, but in a navy suit with a thin cord of silver trimming the sleeves and collar. No medals adorned his jacket, and no epaulets sat on his shoulders. Yet Cinderella found she liked him even more like this, with a smudge of dirt on the cuff of his sleeve and a stray piece of hay clinging to the side of his pants.
How much he looked simply like a young man she might have met in town. She could almost have forgotten he was a prince.
Almost.
Prince Charles was nearly at the end of the corridor when he suddenly stopped. He turned and retraced his steps until he stood in front of her, and Cinderella held her breath, her pulse hammering in her ears.
He smiled at her, and something flickered across his dark eyes—a spark of recognition.
Cinderella’s heart lifted.
“You,” he said quietly. He gestured at her lavender sash. “You must be Aunt Genevieve’s new attendant.”
Cinderella blinked, sure she had misheard, but the prince kept speaking.
“Welcome. My aunt is very dear to me, and I would be most grateful if you saw to it that she is comfortable here.”
Cinderella’s lips parted with disappointment. Struggling to find the words, she curtsied again. Before she could utter anything at all, Prince Charles wished her well and was gone.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she whispered, watching him disappear down the hall.
Slowly, as her heart sank, a terrible ache rose in her throat. She had been sure he would recognize her. Was it the wig?
Why didn’t I take it off? Why didn’t I say anything?
She inhaled, trying to ease away the sadness swelling inside her. Even with the wig, she thought he would have known her. Maybe . . . maybe it hadn’t been love, after all. Maybe he was only searching for her because his father wanted him to get married.
What does it matter? she admonished herself. This is the chance at happiness I’ve always wanted. I’m free of my stepmother, and I have a new life in the palace. It’d be silly to risk losing that new life and throw my heart away on a boy—prince or not—that I don’t even know.
I’m not going to look for him again, she decided, pushing all thoughts of Prince Charles aside. She needed her work as the duchess’s attendant more than she needed a prince. She’d pour all her energy toward her position in the palace. Then she’d make new dreams for herself—dreams like seeing more of the world, and helping others.
Like her fairy godmother.
She frowned, murmuring to herself. “The next time I see her, I’ll have to ask what she meant by her magic being forbidden here.”
But she had no idea when she’d see Lenore again; she couldn’t summon her fairy godmother while she was working in the palace . . . not after what she had said—or hadn’t said—about the ban on magic. Certainly not with the Grand Duke constantly lurking about, waiting on her for reports.
His portrait stared at Cinderella from the wall, and a wave of dread rushed over her. In her first hour serving Duchess Genevieve, she’d done nothing but help the king’s sister dress for lunch. What exactly was the duke expecting her to report to him? What her fashion tastes were? What flavor tea she liked to drink?
Cinderella hoped she wouldn’t have to find out.
Prince Charles wished he had something—or someone—to blame for being late to lunch. Under his breath, he ran through a list of excuses, each more pitiful than the last.
“Apologies, Aunt Genevieve. My horse stumbled over a fence during my morning ride. It’s my fault . . . I was distracted.
“Apologies, Aunt Genevieve. I was so engrossed in the book I’m reading, and I didn’t hear the clock strike noon. What book is it? I . . . I can’t recall the title.”
He shook his head, trying again, “Apologies, Aunt Genevieve. I wandered too far from the palace and got lost. Where was I, you say? In the gardens . . . I wanted to see whether the roses have bloomed.”
He shook his head at himself. Got lost? On the palace grounds, where you spent every free moment of your childhood exploring? Where there are at least five guards watching you at all times?
None of his excuses were true, but worse, they weren’t even good lies, and he knew it. Passing his horse’s reins to the stable hand, he returned to the palace and made for the royal dining hall, where his aunt and father awaited.