2

“Wait… what?” I blink at the wax-sealed envelope in my hand.

The messenger is already turning away, heading back down the steps to the carriage drive in front of the house. Clearly he doesn’t wish to answer any questions.

“Fine,” I mutter, closing the door and laying the envelope in the silver tray on the side table, where I always put the correspondence for Gilda and her daughters. There are never any letters for me.

Except… this envelope is addressed “To the Ladies of the House.” And technically, I am also a lady of the house by birthright. So technically, I would be within my rights to open the invitation.

An invitation to the palace , the messenger said. But when? And why? There were many such invitations in the messenger’s satchel. We’re not the only recipients.

With my fingertip, I stroke the edge of the envelope. If I dare to peek inside, I’ll be punished. I’m not sure satisfying my curiosity is worth the price I’ll have to pay .

Gilda is a connoisseur of painful and humiliating punishments. Since the anklet I wear binds me to her will, I’m forced to do anything she wants—and what she wants varies wildly depending on her mood. Sometimes I’m forced to pull my hair out, bite my own lips until they bleed, put my fingertip in a candle flame, or dance until I faint from exhaustion. Once, she made me eat mouse shit. Another time, she forced me to go out naked into the winter night and shovel the front path. I almost didn’t survive that one.

I’ve learned to separate my conscious self from my body during those moments, to distance my emotions from whatever I’m suffering at the time. But the memory of those punishments is powerful enough to make me draw back from the invitation and leave it sitting unopened on the tray.

For the next few hours, I continue with the chores, until the front door bursts open and Gilda rushes in, trailed by her daughters, both of whom are shrieking, “Did we get one? Did we get one? Oh, we did! Oh, what does it say?”

“I presume it says exactly what Lady Hausen’s invitation said,” replies my stepmother testily. “Give me space to breathe, you noisy fools!”

The girls withdraw slightly, but the very flowers on their bonnets are trembling with anticipation as their mother opens the letter. I come to the doorway of the sitting room where I was dusting, cautiously interested in the contents of the envelope.

“There are going to be five grand balls at the palace—parties like no one has ever seen,” says Gilda, her eyes widening as she reads the missive. “The Crown Prince has invited every unmarried woman between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, from the capital and its surrounding towns and boroughs. On the sixth night, at a great feast, the Crown Prince will choose his bride!”

“His bride?” shrieks Amisa .

Gilda flips the card over and inspects the back side, frowning. “There’s nothing else. No further information, and no mention of family members escorting their eligible daughters to the ball.”

“In this kingdom, women over twenty don’t need an escort,” Vashli points out.

Gilda purses her lips, looking deeply displeased. I have no doubt she wants to accompany her daughters to the event, and the idea that she isn’t invited piques her terribly. Which delights me more than it should.

“What I want to know,” Vashli continues, “is why he’s inviting all the unmarried women. Shouldn’t he invite only those of noble blood or good breeding?”

“There’s some jibber-jabber about that at the beginning of the letter,” says Gilda. “Something about equal opportunities, all social classes being represented, nonsense of that sort. Not worth bothering about. What’s important is that the first ball is being held in less than a month. Five balls in row, one every night, all in the same week—I never heard of such a thing! You girls will each need five new dresses—no, six if we count the feast at the end!”

Six new dresses apiece… My heart sinks. There’s no way we can afford so many new gowns, which means some of their old ones will have to be made over and altered. I know who will be saddled with that burden, not to mention the labor of mending their stockings, gloves, ribbons and jewelry. They’ll want their perfume bottles refilled and their stock of hair products replenished, which means a trip to the perfumer’s shop, and that won’t come cheap.

“How are we to pay for it all?” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.

Gilda and her daughters look at me, apparently shocked that I dared to speak .

My stepmother’s eyes harden. “You’ll find more things for us to sell, Cinders. And I know of at least one thing we haven’t sold yet that might fetch a decent price.”

Since I was around thirteen, my stepmother has threatened to sell my virginity. I sincerely believe the only reason she hasn’t done it yet is because she’s afraid our neighbors would find out, and that word would spread in her social circles. She can’t risk her reputation being soiled, or her daughters will lose their chance of finding respectable husbands.

But that doesn’t stop her from holding the threat over my head. I should be used to it by now, but the idea still has the power to strike terror in my heart. Deep down, I fear that someday I’ll push her too far, or she’ll be too desperate, and she’ll use me as a final method of currency. I won’t have a choice. I won’t be able to say no, or fight, or scream, because she’ll command me to submit to whatever man is willing to pay the highest price.

Long ago, when she first fixed the band around my ankle, she laid a command on me that I must never speak of the anklet to anyone, and that I would never kill, harm, or threaten her or her daughters. I’m also forbidden to touch weapons, with the only exceptions being necessary implements for cooking or chores, such as a pitchfork or a kitchen knife.

For a long time I never wanted to harm my step-family. I thought if I worked hard and behaved sweetly that Gilda might eventually love me. Not that I really wanted her love, after what happened to my father—but it was the only positive outcome I could see, the only way for my life to become more bearable.

Years of cruelty killed that hope and engendered darker dreams—dreams of running away, dreams of killing Gilda and taking the anklet off myself. But though I’ve tried to carry out those plans, I can’t. The magic won’t allow it.

Once or twice, when I’ve been out running errands, I’ve ventured into bookshops and spent precious minutes searching frantically for books about Fae objects and artifacts. But I found very little information, and none that pertained to my dilemma.

The palace library would have a wider selection of books. I’ve heard there’s a vault full of volumes about Faerie lore and magic. If any place holds the answer to my freedom, it’s that library. And until today, I never had the slightest hope of accessing it. But the scented card in my stepmother’s hands might be the key.

“I can make over some of the older gowns to look new and stylish,” I venture. “I can mend the gloves and stockings, too. And I’ll find something to sell, some way to get a few new dresses.”

My stepmother’s gaze narrows with suspicion. “How uncharacteristically accommodating of you, Cinders.”

I swallow and say, as respectfully as I can, “I’m happy to help. Perhaps, if there’s one dress that’s out of fashion, that nobody wants, I could adapt it for myself? After I finish everything else, of course.”

“Adapt it for yourself?” Amisa exclaims. “What an odd thing to say! Where would you wear it? To bed in the cellar?” She snorts with laughter.

“I would wear it to the Prince’s parties,” I say quietly.

“To… to the…” Amisa gapes at me. “Oh gods, she actually thinks she has a chance of enticing the Prince! Oh Mother, it’s too much!” She dissolves into peals of laughter, joined by her sister.

I grip the duster so tightly I’m afraid it will break, and I look into my stepmother’s eyes. “Please. Please let me go to one of the parties. Just one. I swear I’ll do everything you want, and I’ll do it cheerfully. I won’t find loopholes or drag my feet—I will do everything you say, precisely as you want it done, if only I can go just once.”

“Girls,” says Gilda, in a voice like black stone, “go upstairs. Now. ”

The girls’ laughter fades, and they hurry to obey.

I know why she’s sending them away. Throughout our years as a dysfunctional family, Gilda has managed to hide from her daughters the exact reason why I obey her every command. The worst punishments have always been conducted in secret, with my stepsisters only seeing the results, never the acts themselves. It’s her one decent trait, that she tries to protect her daughters from being exposed to the worst parts of her nature.

With the girls gone, she turns her gaze on me. “You seem to think you have something to bargain with, Cinders. You do not. Why would I make some sort of foolish deal with you, when you are forced to obey me either way? If I wanted you willing and cheerful, I would simply command it, and you would assume the correct attitude. But as you know, I prefer you morose and miserable.” Her smile is icy, merciless. “It’s more fun that way.”

Teeth clenched, I look down at the floor, conscious that pleading or protest will only make her more determined to deny me.

“Finish the chores,” says Gilda. “Then return to me, and I will give you specific instructions for the making over of the old gowns and the purchase of new ones.”

Furious tears blur my vision as I turn mechanically away from her and continue dusting the furniture in the sitting room.

My father used to tell me I was clever, that he’d never seen a child so adept at solving every little problem that came her way. Sometimes he would buy wooden puzzle boxes for me, just to admire how quickly I figured them out.

“This puzzle is too hard, Father,” I whisper as I drag the duster along the mantel. “It broke you, and it’s breaking me.”

Three weeks. I have three weeks ahead of me, during which I must somehow persuade Gilda to let me attend the Prince’s ball—not all, just one of them. One night during which I can sneak away to the royal library and find the secret that will set me free.