12

No one in Eisling House knows I attended the ball last night. While my step-family eats breakfast, I listen from the kitchen, catching bits of gossip. Apparently the King made a brief appearance at the ball with his son and danced with several of the ladies, including my stepsisters.

The idea of him holding their hands and moving in rhythm with them nauseates me. My jealousy makes no sense, because I know I’ve had a kind of intimacy with him that they’ll never know… but it still bothers me. And in the light of day, I can admit to myself that I’m dreadfully jealous of his other mistress, too. Which of us will he introduce at the Prince’s engagement feast? Will I even be allowed to attend?

And then I hear Amisa say my name in what she probably thinks is a low tone. “The Prince wants us to bring Cinders tonight.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” says Gilda.

“It’s true,” says Vashli sulkily. “He said we must make sure that our sister comes to the ball. ”

“This is an outrage,” Gilda exclaims. “That girl was supposed to help one of you secure the Prince as a husband, not supplant you. She isn’t going, and that’s final.”

“But he said if we don’t bring her, we can’t come,” whines Amisa.

“Are you sure?” asks Gilda.

Apparently the girls nod, because Gilda snarls, “That little fucking traitor. Very well. She’ll go tonight. But we’ll make sure she appears in such a way that the Prince won’t want her. Won’t we, girls?”

My stepsisters chuckle in malevolent agreement. The sound chills my spine. I have no idea what they’ve planned for me, and I curl my fingers around my pocket watch for reassurance.

They don’t know that I have a powerful Faerie godfather on my side. Technically I can call him once more with the watch—or perhaps multiple times since he owes me a few extra favors. I’m not sure what the rules are exactly, but I know he’ll come through for me. Whatever they do to me, he can fix it.

My stepmother rings for me, and when I enter the dining room, she says, “Clear away the breakfast things, Cinders. Today you’ll scrub the floors, do the laundry, and prepare everything for our outing tonight. You’ll be riding into the city with us. Be sure you’re dressed appropriately. We’ll gather in the sitting room before we leave, so I can make sure you have the correct attire. Will you be borrowing another gown from this mysterious family friend of yours?”

So she hasn’t forgotten. My stomach churns with dread that she’ll press the issue and force me to disclose the truth about Killian. But she questioned me just now, rather than commanding me, so I can lie to her this time. I have the space to create a false narrative that could help me shape any further truths I’m forced to reveal. I hang my head and say, “No, my father’s friend doesn’t want to help me anymore. I’ve pressed their good graces too far, borrowing the dresses and carriage. ”

“Of course you drove them away.” My stepmother rolls her eyes. “We could have used such a connection.”

I suspect she’d be angrier about it if she wasn’t scheming to control the entire kingdom. With the Prince on her hook, she must not feel the need to investigate my mysterious “friend” more deeply.

“What will you wear tonight?” asks Amisa.

“I do have a dress I was given,” I say.

“By whom, pray tell?” inquires Gilda.

“Someone powerful who cares about me.” The blush on my cheeks isn’t a false one, and they interpret it as I hoped they would.

“The Prince,” gasps Amisa. “The Prince sent you a gown?”

I nod shyly. Vashli slams down her fork and sweeps her entire place setting off the table with her arm, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Excellent.” My stepmother’s eyes glitter like dark gemstones. “We look forward to seeing the dress this evening.”

All day, they’re far crueler and more demanding than usual. Gilda is impossible to please and keeps making me redo tasks to her satisfaction. Amisa smacks my hands and face several times while I’m helping her prepare, and she complains that I smell—which is probably true, since I’ve been doing chores and haven’t had time to bathe.

Killian will fix it, I whisper to myself.

Worst of all is Vashli, whom I realize is wildly in love with the Prince and hates me for stealing his heart. Her words cut the deepest.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, or what you said to my mother to convince her to let you attend those first two balls,” she says, while I’m arranging her hair. “You could never be a good wife to the Prince. You’re a weak-willed little slave who beats and cuts herself because she’s so miserable. ”

I don’t reply. I couldn’t reveal the truth to Vashli if I wanted to.

“You’re a fucking worm.” My stepsister glares at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing table. “You have no backbone. You never stand up to Mother because you were born without a will of your own. You were born to be used up by people like us. You like being trampled and ridiculed and ruined. You’re not worthy of existing, and you’re certainly not worthy of Brantley. Maybe you pretend to listen to him, but you could never understand him like I do. You would make a terrible queen.”

“You’re probably right,” I say calmly.

“Of course I’m right. I’m much smarter than you. Smarter than my selfish fucking mother and my idiot sister. I swear I will kill you before I let you be Brantley’s queen. Do you hear me? I’ll come down to that cellar at night and slit your damn throat. I’m not joking, Cinders.”

I can tell by the blaze in her eyes that she’s absolutely, murderously sincere. She’s been miserable and angry her whole life, under the surface, and she has now centered all that anger and misery on me. I’m the obstacle in her path, the one thing standing between her and the life she wants. She’s desperate, and I understand desperation all too well.

“I don’t want the Prince,” I tell her truthfully. “I don’t know why he’s obsessed with me—”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I realize it the moment the words leave my mouth. It sounds like a boast, like I’m so charming that I captured his attention without even trying.

Vashli stands up and whirls around in one fluid motion. I don’t even see the nail scissors in her hand until they’re slashing across my cheek.

We stand there, facing each other, with her clutching the scissors and me pressing my fingers to the bleeding cut on my face .

“I fucking hate you,” she snarls through heavy breaths.

I can sense that she’s a second away from stabbing me repeatedly with those scissors, so I retreat slowly. “Amisa can finish your hair. Or you can do it yourself.”

“Fuck you,” she spits.

I drop the hairpins I was holding on the floor, leave the room, and descend the back stairs to the cellar. My hands are trembling as I dab a damp cloth along the cut on my cheek.

I could call the Faerie, but I can’t bear for him to see me this shaken. Once I’ve cleaned the cut, I flee outside to feed the chickens and cows. It snowed early this morning, so I gather a handful of the fresh powder and press it to the wound on my face.

Now that it’s colder, the goats are in the barn, too, especially at night. The chickens are huddled in their coop, although one of them, an independent-minded hen I’ve named Ladybird, often struts around in the yard despite the cold. She and Sophie have a strange friendship where they watch each other suspiciously when they’re both outside. Lord Hogmorton has his own area of the barn, with freedom to go into the yard as he wishes.

As usual, being with the animals soothes me. They each have their own personalities and their own ways of showing attachment and affection toward me. I spot Sophie stalking along a rafter in the barn with astonishing balance for such a large cat. I set down the tinned fish I brought her, and she leaps down to the barn floor swiftly, stalking up to the offering with all the dignity of a queen.

Once I’m done feeding the other animals, I stroke Merry’s nose and talk to her softly for a while. I should be getting ready, but I can’t bear the thought of going back into that house, so I linger until I have no choice. Then I return to the cellar, clean myself as best I can at the washstand, and put on the new underwear Killian gave me. When I take down the dress he left for me, I find a note.

This gown was my mother’s. I’ve tailored it to suit you, and I have no doubt your beauty will improve it. Was that a compliment? Sorry, I can’t help myself. -K

My lip wobbles, and tears pool in my eyes. I feel like crumpling to the floor and sobbing into the turquoise material, but I don’t have time to let myself fall apart.

When I slip into the dress, it’s a perfect fit.

My hair has natural waves, so I don’t bother with curlers. I don’t have time, anyway. I brush out my hair and style it simply with a few pins. It feels odd, preparing for the ball without Killian. He won’t show up until my family has left, and by then I’ll be gone as well.

I have no jewelry except the pocket watch. At least it’s silver, a pretty piece if not a luxurious one. As usual, Killian has forgotten about shoes, so I have no choice but to use the plain leather slippers I typically wear to market. They don’t look right with the dress, but thankfully the gown’s hem brushes the floor, so they won’t be noticeable until I start to dance.

The very idea of dancing seems dreadful when I’m in such a hopeless mood. Will the King be there tonight? Will I have a chance to slip away from the insistent Prince? What is my stepmother planning to do? How will she make me unpalatable to him?

“Cinders! Come up to the sitting room at once,” calls Gilda from somewhere above. My feet start moving toward the steps before I even fully register her words. The magic of the anklet propels me into the sitting room, where Gilda and the girls are waiting in a row. I feel rather like a condemned criminal going before a firing squad.

“That’s a plainer dress than usual,” sneers Amisa. “The color looks terrible on you. ”

Vashli says nothing, but she stares at me with murder in her eyes.

“Girls, do you have the perfume we prepared for Cinders?” asks Gilda.

Amisa sniggers and pats the little reticule hanging from her wrist. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good. Don’t use it until you arrive. We wouldn’t want to stink up the carriage. Cinders, submit to being perfumed when the time comes.”

It’s a command, one I can’t circumvent. Fuck. “Yes, my lady,” I reply.

“The two of you go on out to the carriage,” says Gilda, her cold gaze locked with mine. “I want a private word with Cinders.”

The departure of her daughters can only mean one thing. I’m about to be punished in some terrible way that she doesn’t want them to witness.

Once the front door closes, Gilda says softly, “Tear the dress. Use your nails, your strength—rip it apart until it hangs in rags.”

This dress belonged to Killian’s mother. It was his gift to me—a precious gift—I can’t do this—

I cry out as the anklet begins to burn my skin in punishment for even that half-second of resistance. My body obeys her, my hands clutching the lovely fabric and tearing it apart. The dress is well made, so it takes effort.

He can fix it. He can fix all of this.

“Tear off the pearls and scatter them,” orders Gilda.

My fingers find the pearls, and threads snap as I tug them free. They rain to the floor as I excoriate the dress, raking my nails over it, ruining it.

I’m crying silently. No sobs, only tears .

“Rip the skirt more,” Gilda commands. “Good. Now take this.” She hands me a rough, dry sponge from the kitchen. “Scour your arms and legs with that until I tell you to stop.”

Teeth gritted, I rub my limbs with the harsh sponge until little dots of blood begin to rise all over my skin.

“Now rub your face with it,” she says. “All over. Hard.”

Killian will fix this. He can help me.

The sponge feels like sandpaper on my face. I don’t bother pleading with her or asking her why she’s making me do this. Questioning or begging always makes the punishment worse.

“Enter the ballroom several minutes after my daughters do,” my stepmother says. “If anyone asks what happened to you, tell them you did this to yourself. No matter what the Prince says to you, reply to him only with insults, curses, and rude words for the entire evening. He’ll think you’re mad. He’ll want nothing to do with you after tonight. Now stop scrubbing yourself raw. We can’t have you appearing with no skin at all.”

I throw down the sponge. “I hate you.”

“Oh, I know you do.” She smiles grimly. “You tried to outwit me, Cinders. You need to understand that this isn’t a game you can win. Your fucking father may have escaped me, but you never will.” She lifts my chin, inspecting the damage I’ve done to my face. “You’ll be with me, anklet or not, until the day you die. I’ll make sure of it. Now put on a cloak and go to the carriage. When you step into the ballroom, take off the cloak and reveal what lies beneath.”

I don’t respond. I merely obey.

Outside, the cold air bites the chafed skin of my face so painfully I want to scream. When I climb into the carriage, Amisa and Vashli stare at me. Amisa looks aghast, but Vashli gives me a slow smile of malevolent satisfaction.

“What happened to you?” exclaims Amisa.

“I did this to myself,” I say mechanically .

“God, Cinders,” she says, shifting away from me. “You’re very disturbed, you know that?”

“No shit,” I mutter.

After Gilda climbs in, Worden clucks to the horses and we begin to move.

If Worden noticed my injuries when I approached the carriage, he said nothing. I shouldn’t be surprised. He has said and done nothing to help me for seventeen years. I know he relies on this job to survive, and he can’t risk falling out of my stepmother’s good graces—but the fact that he has never once defended me still hurts.

I sit in my personal cloud of pain, suffering in silence. I don’t dare shed more tears or make a sound. Being in such close quarters with Gilda is dangerous. Even with her daughters present, there are subtle commands she could give to make my existence worse.

The carriage drops her off at a stately townhouse for her party with the other mamas. Only then do I allow myself to breathe a little more freely. But the pain is such that I don’t dare shift my position, or my chafed skin will scream at me.

When we pull up in front of the palace, Worden helps the two girls out of the carriage and leaves me to get down alone. He climbs back up to his seat and drives away toward the lawn where the other carriages are parked.

“Now for your perfume,” says Amisa, with less enthusiasm than she showed earlier. She removes a tiny bottle of brownish liquid from her reticule and looks down at it doubtfully. “Vashli, don’t you think she’ll be embarrassed enough?”

“Remember what Mother said,” Vashli replies in a low tone. “We are to inform the Prince that she is deeply unwell, sick in the head. That’s why she stayed home last night. We didn’t want to bring her tonight, since she is in the middle of an episode, but we obeyed his command. We have to sell the idea that she is mad, so she needs to smell like she soiled herself. ”

“But…” Amisa hesitates, wincing.

“Give it to me.” Vashli snatches the bottle and sprays me liberally with liquid that smells like horse-shit. “There. It’s done. Cinders, are you wearing that ugly watch around your neck?”

“Yes,” I say tightly.

“Wait ten minutes and then follow us.” She turns away, drawing Amisa with her. Amisa glances back over her shoulder, and for the first time in her life, she looks both regretful and sympathetic.

Maybe there’s hope for her yet.

A couple of the footmen posted along the steps of the palace are looking at me strangely. They’re too far away to smell me, and thanks to the cloak, they can’t see the state of my body and my dress, but they can probably tell something’s wrong with my face.

One of them looks as if he’s about to move toward me, so I say loudly, “I just need a moment,” and I turn aside off the central steps onto the snow-covered lawn and hurry toward the shadow of a giant evergreen bush shaped like a bear rearing up on its hind legs.

When I flip open my pocket watch, it’s easy to spill a few tears on the face. I smear them around with a fingertip and whisper, “Killian. Please.”

I don’t want him to see me like this. But I refuse to attend the ball with my skin raw and my dress in rags, smelling like excrement. Gilda never said that I had to enter the ballroom in this exact state—only that I must enter it several minutes after her daughters. She did command me to be rude to the Prince, though, which is a problem I’ll need to resolve once my appearance is taken care of.

I move around the bush until I’m shielded from the view of the footmen and guards. The moon is full and bright tonight, glowing on the new-fallen snow. If I weren’t so distraught, it would be beautiful .

A tall, slender male figure emerges from the darkness and strides toward me. “Celinda?”

Silently I drop the cloak and stand there exposed, my torn clothing and skin revealed by moonlight.

“Oh fuck,” Killian whispers. He moves as if to hug me, but I cringe, fearful that the contact would hurt my chafed skin.

“I’ll fucking kill that woman,” he hisses.

“You can’t, and you know it. Just help me, please.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He waves his hand, and the scent surrounding my body dissipates, replaced with a floral fragrance. The torn parts of the dress knit themselves back together, and new pearls appear to decorate the bodice, waist, and hem.

But he doesn’t stop there. Magic swirls around my back and shoulders as he crafts something new—a magnificent collar of rigid, sparkling lace that branches outward from my shoulders and frames my face. My hair curls into golden ringlets, and sparkling bracelets appear along my arms. When I notice a glow behind me, I glance over my shoulder and see a pair of gauzy dragonfly wings waving at my back. They look as if they could have been fabricated by a skilled human, crafted of wire, gauze, and lace, sprinkled generously with glitter, but they move when I do, and I know their true source—the infinite artistry of my Faerie godfather’s creative mind.

I hold out my foot, and he transforms my plain slippers into dancing shoes that match the turquoise dress. My pocket watch becomes a necklace, turquoise stones in a silver setting.

But my skin is still raw, and the movement of the dress against my scoured legs is intensely painful.

Killian moves nearer to me, agony on his lovely face. “Now I need to heal you.”

“Please,” I whisper. “And quickly. I have to go in a few minutes. ”

“Fuck.” He tilts his forehead against mine. “I’m so angry with your stepmother… I don’t think I can get hard enough to do this.”

“Please.” I sink to my knees in the snow and place my hand between his legs, rubbing lightly until his body begins to react. With shaking fingers I open his pants and take out his cock.

I haven’t touched him like this before, yet he feels familiar. When I put him between my lips, I sigh with pleasure at the warm smoothness of him, with a touch of salty precum at the tip. For a moment, I forget about the pain coursing over my skin, and I lose myself in the pleasure of tasting him, swirling my tongue around his length, sinking him deeper into my open throat.

He moans softly, and I pull back long enough to murmur, “Sorry for using you this way.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” he says hoarsely. “I would give you much more of myself if you’d let me. I’d give you anything—fuck yes… just like that.” He groans again, his hands sunk into my hair, urging me to suck him faster. I bob my head on him, my tongue writhing, my cheeks sucking. Creamy vanilla explodes in my mouth, and I drink his release greedily, swallowing every drop.

I can feel the magic of his cum working already, soothing my pain, healing my torn skin. With a final firm suck to extract every bit of his release, I let him pop out of my mouth.

He staggers a little, breathing heavily as he refastens his pants. “God-stars, that was exquisite.”

“I need you to do something else, if you can,” I tell him. “Can you make my stepsisters and my stepmother think I’m still ragged and wounded when they see me?”

“A glamour laid upon you, just for their eyes?” he confirms, then touches both my temples and my shoulders. “It’s done.”

“Perfect. And then, I’ve also been commanded to be rude to the Prince, to deliver curses and insults whenever he speaks to me. He has been kind to me, and I believe he’s a good person, so I’d rather not hurt and offend him tonight.”

“Alright.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Ideally we’d use a spell that makes him hear only the sweetest words, no matter what is spoken to him. I think my father has something like that in his shop, but it might take me several minutes to find it.”

“Go and get it,” I say. “I have to enter the ballroom now, but I’ll avoid speaking with the Prince as long as I can.”

He hesitates. “I suppose I could have fetched one of my father’s healing candies for you, rather than coming in your mouth.”

“I preferred it this way.” My heart is too sore for a real smile, but I give him a tiny one. I love the way his face lights up when he sees it.

As he’s turning away, I catch his hand, my eyes filling with tears of a gratitude too deep to express. “Killian, I…”

His gaze softens. “I know.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m walking back toward the palace entrance, drawn by the inevitable command of my wicked stepmother.