3

Three weeks, and I’m no closer to a solution.

It’s hard to solve puzzles when you’re worn to the bone, working incessantly past the point of exhaustion. I always serve as free labor for my stepfamily, but they’ve never been this ruthless before. There’s so much to be done, every single day—the regular housework, the cooking, the care of the animals, the errands, the sewing, and the repairs to my stepsisters’ accessories.

I sleep only three or four hours a night, and I barely have time to swallow a few bites of food at meals.

Tomorrow night is the first ball, and I don’t think I’d have the energy to attend, even if I were allowed to. I can feel my body breaking down from lack of rest and nutrition. My stepfamily is using me up, spending me like coin, and they don’t care if I die. It’s foolish of them, because if this destroys me, they’ll have no one to do their work. Although I suppose if I dropped dead, Gilda would simply find someone else to wear the anklet .

And then it hits me, as I’m brushing Vashli’s dance slippers. A solution so neat and so perfect that I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

I leap up immediately and rush to the study, where Gilda is sitting at my father’s desk, poring over the family accounts.

“Suppose one of your daughters catches the eye of the Crown Prince and marries him,” I say breathlessly. “You’d want to remove this from me and place it on the Prince, wouldn’t you?” I point to my right ankle, where the anklet lies concealed beneath my woolen stockings.

Gilda looks up at me, her mouth grim but her eyes full of interest.

“You would effectively control the entire kingdom,” I say. “Imagine it. What if I go along with the girls to the ball as your spy? I’ll find information that you can leverage to ensure that the Prince chooses one of your daughters. I’ll coach them on what to say to catch his attention. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that when he selects a bride, it’s Amisa or Vashli.”

She sets down her pen and laces her fingers together, regarding me with an intensity that speeds up my heart rate even more and shortens my breath. I have to fight the sudden urge to cough.

“I’m smart, quick, and capable, more so than your daughters,” I say. “You know it’s true. I can help them. I can make this happen. And if I do, on your daughter’s wedding night, you’ll remove the anklet from me and put it on the Crown Prince. I’ll be free, and you will have more power than you ever dreamed of.”

“I’ve already considered the implications of a royal wedding,” says Gilda. “But you’re very bold to assume I need your help. Tell me, Cinders… how exactly do you plan to get close enough to the Prince to glean any useful information? How will you find this leverage that I can use? How will you , who have never been with a man, teach my daughters to charm the Crown Prince?” She chuckles darkly. “Forgive me if I don’t see this vision of yours very clearly.”

“One chance,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking. One night, and if I don’t return with useful information, you’ll punish me for my failure.”

“Indeed I will.” She smiles, as if she finds the prospect pleasing. “Very well. You may attend the ball tomorrow. Find one of Amisa’s old gowns to wear—Vashli’s will be too large for your bony little body. But Cinders, hear me when I say that if you do anything disloyal, or if you return without any useful leverage, I will sell your virgin pussy to the highest bidder I can find. And this time I mean it. I already have a lead on a duke who likes his women blond, slender, and untouched. He’s a very private man, and he would pay well for a night with you, I have no doubt.”

“Then we have a bargain?” I try to keep my voice from trembling.

“Secure a marriage to the Prince for one of my daughters, and I will set you free,” she replies.

There’s a glint in her eye when she says it. I don’t doubt that when she promises to set me free, she’s really planning to kill me. But she needs to think that I believe her, that I trust her to fulfill her promise. Meanwhile I’ll be searching the royal library for my own path to freedom. And if by chance she does keep her word, I’ll happily yield control of the entire kingdom to my wicked stepmother if it means I can run away and never see her again.

Maybe that makes me a terrible person.

My governess told me once that there are no terrible people, just desperate ones. But I believe some people, like my stepmother, are already wicked, whether by nature or nurture. Desperation only makes them worse .

It won’t be easy to fulfill my bargain with my stepmother and do my research on magical objects, but it’s better than staying in this house, wasting away to nothing.

I bob a curtsy to Gilda and hurry out of the study before she can reconsider. I just have a few more pairs of shoes to brush, and then I need to find a suitable dress, one that I can turn into something halfway decent by tomorrow afternoon.

Late that night, I sew for hours, stitching on ribbons and lace, closing ripped seams, replacing buttons. My eyelids feel itchy and puffy. My fingertips are sore from pushing the needle in and out, in and out.

I finish a seam, knot the thread, and bite it off. Then I stand up and shake out the dress so I can see the result.

It’s not my best work, partly because I was only allowed to use castoff trimmings. A dreadful certainty coils in my stomach that when I step into the palace, I will realize just how pathetic I look compared to everyone else. The one advantage is that I’ll be easy to overlook, which could play in my favor.

After draping the dress across the table, I plop down onto the kitchen chair again and rub my eyes. Then I lean over, my arms folded on the table and my head resting on them. I’m only going to close my eyes for a moment…

Something thumps onto the tabletop. Instinctively I know that it’s a cat landing near my head, but the sound is more muffled than it should be.

I’m wide awake in an instant, shooting upright in alarm—but it’s too late.

Sophie has landed right on my dress, her claws pricking the delicate fabric. And as I watch, horrified, she drops a bloodied mouse carcass onto the lace I painstakingly sewed to the bodice. Then she begins kneading the gown enthusiastically with both paws, immensely pleased with herself.

I want to scream. I want to throw her and the mouse off my dress and fling them against the wall —

But I don’t. Because this is Sophie loving me, in her misguided, pompous, feline way, and I can’t bear the thought of returning such love with cruelty. Not when love is so rare in my world.

Gently I pluck the mouse off the lace, cringing at the bloodstain it leaves behind. “You caught a mouse?” I praise Sophie, my voice strained and weary. “Such a good girl.” I pick her up, giant fluffy monster that she is, and her claws stick in the satin right before she lets go, creating tiny imperfections I can’t repair.

I bury my face in her soft fur, not wanting to see the ruin of my work. She lets me cuddle her for about five seconds. Then she squirms and leaps out of my arms, only to shake herself and pace grandly off into another room.

With shaking fingers I collect the dress. It’s ruined.

I pull out my father’s watch and flip it open. It confirms what I feared… that I slept too long with my head on the table. It’s after five o’clock in the morning. I need to begin the care and feeding of the animals, then start breakfast.

Even if I could find time to remove the bloody lace, there are no more scraps that will match the trim on the dress. And nothing can fix the damage done to the delicate fabric by Sophie’s claws.

“Fuck my life.” I whisper it aloud, while a tear falls from my lower lashes onto the face of the watch. I wipe it off with my thumb, then tuck the watch back into my work dress.

Slowly I shuffle to the back door and slide my stockinged feet into my battered leather boots. I put on my threadbare coat and wrap a thick shawl around myself, knowing it won’t be enough to keep out the pre-dawn cold. I dig my fingerless gloves out of the deep pockets of the coat, then pick up the milk pail.

When I open the back door, the wind hits me like an angry fist. It feels personal, a brutal attack. The whole world and all the gods are battering me, seeing how long I’ll last before I break. Did my father feel like this on his last day?

Holding one hand up to shield my face from the wind, I struggle across the yard toward the barn. It’s a dilapidated mess, with gaps so big the cold pours right in. Not much shelter for the poor cows.

The ground isn’t frozen yet, but it’s only a matter of days before winter comes in earnest and the soil freezes solid. Judging by the keen, fresh scent of the air, we might have our first snowfall tonight.

I yank the barn door open a crack and wedge myself and the bucket through the gap. Despite the drafts leaking through the cracks, there’s a steamy heat pouring off the cows as they stand close together. The biggest one, Merry, lows in gentle greeting, and my sore heart nearly bursts at the simple acknowledgement. I drop the bucket and lean against her, my face pressed to her neck. Her warm, curly coat is coarser than Sophie’s, but it’s comforting all the same.

“Hey, beautiful,” I murmur. A tear traces down my cheek and trembles on my lips.

The youngest of the three cows, whom I’ve named Crabapple, is about eight months old, the result of a local farmer’s kindness. He lent us his bull last year, as a favor to me after I made his wife a beautiful quilt from snippets of dresses my stepsisters outgrew. I got to know the couple through visiting their stall on market days, and when I found out the wife was pregnant, I began crafting the quilt.

Not long after Merry’s successful breeding session, my stepmother discovered my friendship with the farmer’s family, and she ordered me never to speak to them or buy from them again. A month ago, the farmer’s wife spotted me at the market and called out to me, but I could not answer, no matter how hard I tried. I struggled so viciously that the anklet burned my leg. There’s a recent scar beneath the gold band now, layered with other similar scars. They are warnings and reminders that my will is not strong enough to dispel magic.

I pat Crabapple’s nose, then pitch some fresh straw from the back loft into the trough. The third cow, Annabelle, seems half-asleep, more sluggish than usual. She’s been losing weight, and I’m concerned about her. It takes some coaxing and a little hand-feeding to get her to begin taking mouthfuls of hay.

I greet the horses next. I’ll need to muck out their stalls later, but first I fill their feed bags from the dwindling supply of oats.

At last I set the stool in place and sit down to milk Merry. With each firm roll and squeeze of her teats, each hiss of the milk hitting the inside of the pail, I feel my distress easing slightly. The rhythm of it is soothing. At least here, among the animals, I am temporarily safe, and I know exactly what to do.

Once the pail is full, I set it on a shelf and move around Annabelle to inspect a sore I noticed on her flank. “That looks painful, sweet thing,” I croon to her, touching the edge of the wound lightly. Her flank shudders and she shifts a step away, but continues to eat. “We’ll have to get the farrier out here to look at you. Not sure where we’ll find the money to pay him, but—”

“If you’ll allow me,” says a voice.

I startle violently and clap my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream that would surely have panicked the cows.

From a shadowed corner of the barn, a figure emerges—tall and lean, dressed in an unbuttoned white shirt beneath a purple tailcoat. His slim legs are encased in gray pants, and he wears thigh-high boots decorated with strings of purple beads. Violet gems glitter against his bare chest and twinkle along the edges of his pointed ears. His chin-length hair is dark purple at the roots and lavender at the tips, and as he approaches, he tosses it back with a sweep of his long tapered fingers, each one sparkling with rings .

He’s smiling brightly, graciously, almost eagerly. As if he’s delighted to meet me and already expects us to be great friends. His features are practically ethereal, blessed with a beauty so pure he couldn’t possibly be human.

He’s a Faerie. He must be. But why in the name of Fate is he in my barn?

“What the actual fuck?” I exclaim.

He hesitates, a soft laugh breaking from him. The laughter is ridiculously beautiful, too. I’m beginning to hate him just for looking the way he does, like a sparkly violet among earthen clods, and yes, I feel like one of the clods.

“I always try to avoid startling people,” he says apologetically. “But I rarely succeed. Mortals can be so terribly jumpy. You’re doing very well though. You haven’t screamed yet, so—”

He’s reaching for Annabelle, and I react with the defensive instinct of a mother bear, snatching up the pitchfork and jabbing it at him. The tines rip through his coat and shirt, grazing him slightly.

“So you’re a fighter, not a screamer.” He gives me an unbothered smirk. When he passes his hand over the ripped garments, they mend themselves immediately, seamlessly.

Mouth open, I gape at him.

He reaches out toward the cow again, giving me a cautious look. “May I? I promise I intend her no harm.”

I clutch the pitchfork tighter, but I don’t attack him again.

He places his palm over the sore on Annabelle’s side and closes his eyes, his brows bending in concentration. His dark lashes are absurdly luxurious.

When he removes his hand, Annabelle’s flank is completely healed. Not a sign of anything amiss. She chuffs and lows contentedly, as if her mood has suddenly improved.

“How did you do that?” I breathe .

“An inherited gift, of sorts. My father can heal living things through magic,” the Faerie says. “He likes creating spells in edible form, usually candies and treats. He’s excellent at making clothes, too. I’m only half-Fae, but I was born within sight of a mirrored moon by a lavender lake on the night of the seasonal shift, which makes me rather unique. I can heal animals with a touch—though healing humans is a bit more complicated—and I can create beautiful glamoured clothing or mend existing clothes. And I have other gifts as well. My older sister has always been rather jealous of what I can do. She got the wings, but I got most of the magic.” He grins at me, as if any of what he just said made sense.

“What are you doing here ?”

His lavender eyes narrow slightly. “Not even a thank you?”

“Answer the question.”

He shrugs. “It’s quite simple. You called me.”

“I did not!”

The Faerie sighs. “You have something on your person… a ring, a pocket watch, or a necklace with an inscription, yes?”

My hand goes to my chest, pressing the spot where the pocket watch is hidden beneath my dress. “Yes…”

“An old friend of my family used to make such trinkets—objects specifically designed to carry or conduct magic, even in this mortal realm. When he died, I inherited a collection of these items, and I placed spells on them so the objects will summon me when their owner has a great need. May I see yours?”

My pocket watch summoned him? I think of the inscription inside, the one I’ve read a thousand times.

Touch a tear on the face, and a kiss grants his grace.

I dropped a tear on the face of the watch, then touched it to brush it away. And somehow that act summoned this Faerie. Someone whose magic might be able to set me free.

Hope bolts through my chest like a wild horse. Hastily I set down the pitchfork and dig out the pocket watch from its resting place between my breasts. I don’t take the chain from my neck, though—I’m too cautious to hand the object over to him.

To see the watch, the Faerie has to come even closer. He takes it gently from my fingers and opens it.

“Yes, I remember this one,” he murmurs. “I was in disguise in a rather unpleasant city, but I met a good-hearted gentleman in a local pub, and we talked for a while. He said his wife had just borne a baby daughter. He was sorry to leave his family so soon after the birth, but he had business obligations to fulfill in order to provide for them.”

Sounds like my father. A lump condenses in my throat, and tears sting my eyes.

The Faerie looks up, meeting my gaze. “We spoke of the evils of the world, and its dangers. At the end of the night, I revealed my true self to him and offered him my services, should he ever need them. He said he’d rather have me look out for his daughter in the future, in case he were ever unable to protect her. He used the term ‘godfather,’ a human tradition in some cultures, I believe. I traded him this pocket watch in exchange for some blood.”

“You took his blood?” I repeat, eyeing the pitchfork again.

“Easy there,” he chuckles. “Godstars, you’re a vicious one, aren’t you? I only took a few small vials, for use in my spells. That’s how the Fae operate—we make bargains. Something given, something gained. I did your father no harm, trust me. But on that night, I became your Faerie godfather. Once called upon, I would be ready to step in and help you through your troubles.”

A bitter, helpless laugh cracks from my lips. “I’m afraid you’ve come too late. I could have used your help years ago. Anytime in the last seventeen years, really. My father killed himself when I was nine, and ever since then, my existence has been miserable.”

“He killed himself?” The Faerie frowns. “That doesn’t sound like the man I met. ”

“His circumstances changed,” I reply. “And what’s more, he never explained anything about this watch to me. If that story is true, why didn’t he tell me about the inscription? Why didn’t he explain that I could call on you?”

The Faerie looks rather rueful. “I warned him that the watch could only summon me three times, and that if the summons were wasted, I would no longer appear. Perhaps he feared that you, as a small child, might call me for some minor tragedy, like dropping your doll down a well.”

“What fool drops a doll down a well?”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“My father should have told me!” My voice is strained, growing shriller by the second as I realize that I could have escaped this torment years ago had I known about the watch. I have always been secretly angry with my father for marrying Gilda in the first place, and now I have yet another reason to rage at his ghost.

The rational part of my brain tells me Father had good reasons for not explaining about the watch when I was small—and after he married Gilda, he was bound by her commands, most likely restricted from asking anyone for help. But rational thinking doesn’t do much to ease the anger of a desperate person, and I’m as desperate as they come.

My Faerie godfather looks at me with compassionate concern. “You’re clearly in great emotional distress.”

“No shit.”

“Now that I’m here, I’d like to help you. Name your request.”

I open my mouth to tell him about the anklet—and find my tongue bound by the command of my stepmother. She has forbidden me to reveal that secret to anyone. The harder my will presses against the force of her command, the more painfully the anklet burns against my skin .

My mind works swiftly, seeking an alternate route to the freedom I want. The Faerie mended his clothes flawlessly—perhaps he could mend my dress as well. That way I could still attend the ball tonight and seek out the information I need from the library, as well as pursuing the interests of my stepmother.

“You said the watch calls you three times?” I ask.

“Indeed.”

“And I can request something each time?”

“Yes.”

“Then my first request is this—come back tonight, around half past seven. My stepsisters will have left for the ball by then, and if I know my stepmother, she’ll escort them right to the steps of the palace and then find somewhere to drink and gossip before returning home. So I’ll be alone here, and no one will see you.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“When you return tonight, you will repair my damaged dress so I can attend the Prince’s ball. He’s hosting five fancy parties so he can choose his bride from among the eligible young ladies of the land.” My voice twists with caustic judgment at the extreme privilege of the Prince, but the Faerie doesn’t seem to notice.

His lavender eyes brighten until they nearly glow. “A ball? I do love a ball. So you wish to charm and wed the Prince?”

“Oh, no,” I exclaim. “I’m not looking for a husband for myself.”

“Then I fail to see how attending the ball will solve the troubles that made you weep over your father’s watch.”

I can’t stand the look of fascinated pity in his eyes when he gazes at me. My whole body stiffens with rebellious pride and barely suppressed anger, and my tone turns sardonic. “I was crying because a cat damaged my party dress.”

I imagined that excuse would make him view me with disdain, but instead, his eyes soften still more .

“Those were not the tears of a spoiled girl,” he says gently. “I felt your pain through the spell that connects me to the watch. You were in agony—deep agony of the soul.”

“Your magic is wrong,” I retort. “I have no soul. Now begone, and return tonight to fix my dress. Don’t be late.”

He gives me an amused smile. “Don’t worry. I’m never late.”