At the accusation, Cinderella’s brow furrowed. Had she? She could remember the day her stepmother had arrived so clearly. They’d come during her music lesson, and she’d raced out of it as soon as she’d seen her father’s carriage outside the window, trundling toward home. No one had told her about Lady Tremaine, so it had jolted Cinderella to see her: the heart-shaped hair piled high, making her seem even taller than her father, her long neck and unforgiving posture. She’d been wearing a wine-colored dress with a high collar. One daughter on either side, both with evenly curled ringlets, neither smiling.
“She’s a lady,” one of the servants had said, passing Cinderella, who hid by the stairs. “Best not run to your papa and hug him as you always do. Keep your chin up, and curtsy when you greet his guest.”
That she’d done. But maybe she’d held her chin too high or curtsied too low. Her papa had never required her to be on such stiff behavior before, and she’d so wanted to impress her new mother. She had been so nervous.
“Lady Tremaine,” Cinderella had said in greeting, with her deepest curtsy. Papa chuckled, gently pulling her up.
“No need for that, Cinderella. We are family now.”
“Oh, Papa!” she exclaimed, hugging him fiercely. “You’ve brought me a mother!”
In her excitement, her hair bow came undone, and her father retied it for her. “Why don’t you show Drizella and Anastasia the music room while Lady Tremaine and I settle into the chateau?”
“I have a music lesson this afternoon,” she’d said to her new sisters, careful to be polite and considerate. She’d so wanted Anastasia and Drizella to like her. “My teacher wants me to learn a new song. She’s upstairs waiting now. Would you like to join me?”
“I want to sing,” Drizella had said. “Anastasia plays the flute.”
How could she have known that her stepsisters had no talent for music? She hadn’t meant to embarrass them.
Later Cinderella had caught the servants chatting more in the kitchen. They hadn’t seen her, and she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but she had never forgotten their conversation:
“I don’t like the looks of our new mistress. You see the way she eyes the finances? Just now she was telling me I’ve been feeding the chickens too much, and that I’ve a heavy hand with the butter. I fear she married the good master for his money.”
“Hush, you’ll get yourself in trouble talking like that! Her husband was a lord.”
“Yes, but a penniless one.”
“That can’t be true. The master wouldn’t—”
“The master’s been fooled, I swear. I heard that Lord Tremaine squandered his family’s fortune gambling. When he was called to serve in the war, he joined only to escape his creditors. Then he tried to desert and was hanged. It was a disgrace.”
“You can’t believe these sorts of rumors.”
“They’re not rumors! You know what a kind heart the master has. He probably met her during his travels and took pity on her and her daughters. But she isn’t innocent; if only you could hear half the things people say about her! Delusions of grandeur, for one. And now that she’s mistress of the house, who I truly worry about is dear Cin—”
The servants had seen her then and hadn’t said any more.
At the time, Cinderella hadn’t understood the importance of what she’d overheard. Even after her father had passed away, leaving Lady Tremaine as head of the household, she hadn’t given her stepmother’s past much thought.
Whenever her stepmother was cruel to her, she told herself she was better off staying here—in her father’s home with her stepfamily—than venturing outside.
But what if she’d been wrong? Her stepmother was calculating, and she would stop at nothing to ensure her future as well as her daughters’. She was also ruthless. Cinderella just hadn’t let herself acknowledge how ruthless. She’d shielded herself by burying her unhappiness in daydreams and pretending that she was fine. That they needed her.
She looked up at Lady Tremaine, a woman who’d once had everything that mattered to her: wealth, status, and the admiration of her peers. Now she lived in a dated chateau, with no servants except her daughters and so little money that she’d had to sell the draperies to pay for their gowns.
“You misunderstood me, Stepmother,” said Cinderella quietly. “I wish we could have settled this years ago, if this is what’s been bothering you. I didn’t look down on Anastasia or Drizella. I was only wishing I had a mother, like they did. Mine died—”
“I heard enough about your dead mother from your dead father,” Lady Tremaine snapped. “When he passed, I took it upon myself to reform you. I’ve done my best trying to raise you into a respectable girl, but I can see my efforts have been in vain.” She kicked the glass shards toward Cinderella. “Clean this mess. I’ll decide what to do with you later.”
Her stepmother turned on her heel, and before Cinderella could lurch for the door, it slammed shut again, the key turning in the lock to keep her from leaving.
Outside, her stepsisters’ voices echoed up the stairwell.
“What are you going to do, Mother?” Anastasia asked. “She can’t stay here! What if the Grand Duke comes back and—”
“I am aware, Anastasia.”
“W-w-well . . . we can’t keep her locked up in there forever.”
Lady Tremaine’s tone rose a notch, as if she wanted Cinderella to hear: “I am going to send her away.”
“Send her away?” Drizella repeated. “Mother, have you thought this through? If you do that, who’s going to press our clothes? Who’ll cook breakfast and bring us tea and—” Drizella went suddenly quiet, a sign that Lady Tremaine had cast her a deadly look.
During the heavy silence that followed, Cinderella inched toward the door, pressing her ear against the wood. Her heart roared in her ears, but she needed to hear what her stepmother was going to say.
“There’s a man from the far seas who makes his trade in troublesome girls.” A deliberate pause. “It is to our good fortune that he happens to be in town again tonight.”
“So . . . you’re going to sell her?”
“I will certainly consider it. I have considered it before. The price he’s willing to pay will be enough for us to hire a new maid.”
Cinderella held her breath, panic rioting within her. She pressed her ear against the door to catch more, but all she could hear were Anastasia’s and Drizella’s laughs echoing up into the tower.
It was too cruel. Sinking to her knees, Cinderella hugged herself. For a moment, she’d let herself fantasize about a world in which she could present her glass slipper to the Grand Duke, be brought to the prince, and pick up with him where they had left off. She had thought it possible to ease away the loneliness so deeply set in her heart.
“Maybe I never should have gone to the ball,” she whispered to herself. “I was happy enough before, wasn’t I? Pretending that everything was all right.”
She laughed sadly at how miserable that sounded. Even now she was pretending—just to get herself through what was to come.
And the worst of it was that she couldn’t even fight it.