Sinful Cinderella
by Anita Valle
Copyright 2015 by Anita Valle
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the cast of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, e-mail the author at
[email protected] Cover Art by Anita Valle
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First Edition: September 2015
Prologue
That prince is mine.
Not yet, of course. But I’ll get him. And his castle. And his kingdom! Mine. Then I’ll flaunt my victory in my stepsisters’ faces, rub their crooked noses in it. But they won’t get to taste my wealth, not a crumb.
Trouble is, I can’t do it until I’ve saved enough white magic. And to do that, I have to be good.
I hate being good.
Chapter 1
Stepmother summons me to the sitting room.
She’s tried to persuade me to call her Mother. Or Countess. Or even Elira, her given name. I persist with Stepmother. A reminder to her and to me of what she truly is: an object to be stepped on.
Once I have enough white magic, I’ll crush her like a beetle beneath my heel. Crunch, crunch, crunch will go her bones.
I enter the sitting room which is mostly white. The lace curtains, the velvet furniture, the plush carpet. I think Stepmother chose white because it shows every speck of dirt so splendidly. There’s always a spot for me to scrub out somewhere.
“Hello, my darling,” Stepmother says. Though she treats me like a servant, she insists on calling me ‘darling’ like her daughters. Probably revenge for my calling her Stepmother. I promise you, I’m nobody’s darling.
She holds a long sheet of parchment in her brittle fingers. The bottom of it curls upward and I notice the royal seal at the bottom. It’s from the king.
“It seems,” Stepmother says, “that the prince is giving a ball.”
“Oh,” I say, perfectly respectful. But really I want to say, so? The prince can’t go a season without a ball or two. He’s a party mongrel.
Stepmother taps the parchment with her finger. “This one is interesting. He has requested that all the unmarried young ladies of the kingdom attend.”
“Unmarried?” My fingertips tingle. “Does that mean I may go too?”
Stepmother lifts her pigeon-gray eyes to me. Amused. Disdainful. She doesn’t have to say a word.
Of course I’m not going.
“Now,” she says, “my daughters will need gowns for this ball. New gowns, naturally. Something... striking... and sure to entice the prince.” She smiles coldly at me. “You have three days.”
My stomach pinches. “Three days?” To sew two ball gowns from scratch? Buying the cloth, selecting a design, cutting the pieces, sewing-sewing-sewing, and then the fittings, adjustments, revisions while my stepsisters fuss and fidget. I need a month to make those gowns.
“In addition to your other chores, of course,” Stepmother says.
I don’t trust my voice so I merely nod.
Stepmother stands, rolling the parchment. “You should buy the cloth now before the best pieces are snatched up. Oh... and when you return, I notice there’s a smudge of something on the arm of this couch.” She smiles at me. “Don’t forget it.”
“Yes, Stepmother.”
Chapter 2
Oh, I hate her.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Actually, I hate everything about my life. Even this street I’m walking on to get to the wretched cloth merchant. It’s so quaint and cutesy you would throw up if you saw it. Rows of charming houses, all with pointed roofs, painted shutters, and window boxes full of flowers. Tacky flowers like poppies and geraniums. No sense of style whatsoever.
Hmm.... I straighten the dull gray skirt of my dress as a smile pricks my lips. The royal palace is probably just as cutesy. But that will change when I am queen. Frigid elegance is what I go for. Black marble floors. Silver chandeliers. A throne made of... crystal. Yes, I would like that. A solid crystal throne where I’ll sit and wield terror to the people of this paltry kingdom. You’re not a true queen unless they’re all afraid of you.
“Good day, my lord.” I smile suggestively at Lord Burton strolling past, his wife on his arm. He nods uneasily. The wife’s eyes are like daggers, first on me, then on him. Jealous, of course, they all are.
I’m not ashamed to say that I’m beautiful. Why should I be modest about it? It took years of stowing up white magic to perfect my appearance. I had to scrub floors for a year to get my hair this golden. Scrape out fireplaces for two winters to straighten the slope of my nose. Mend mountains of stockings and petticoats to shrink the size of my feet. Here, perhaps, I was overly enthusiastic. My feet are really too small now, almost like a child’s. But I don’t mind. Something else for women to envy.
Which brings me back to Stepmother....
I said she treats me like a servant. That’s true, of course, but I have to admit it’s largely my own doing. Once I discovered that acts of servitude gained me more gooey globs of white magic, I began offering to do chores for my stepmother and stepsisters. The more cheerfully I performed the task, the more white magic I earned. And when Stepmother saw me happily shouldering the work she once paid servants to do, well, why not? She let the servants go and cast it all on me. My chores mounted, my beauty blossomed, but hate curled like briars around my heart.
Because Stepmother changed. I don’t see why sweeping stairs and washing linen should suddenly make me inferior, but that is how she acted. And her dimwitted daughters followed suit. Faster than a baby bird plummets from a nest, I became an object of mockery and contempt. The work was no longer requested but commanded. They even seized my bedroom, claiming it would make an “excellent library” and banished me to the empty end of the attic. It’s not even a proper room. Just the side where their junk isn’t piled.
I reach the cloth merchant, a quaint little shop squished in between the milliner’s and the cobbler’s. All the shops have red painted doors, big square windows with little square panes, and happy signs. I get in the door and that’s as far as I can go.
Ugh. Stepmother was right as raisins. The shop is wall-to-wall women. Bumping, churning, grabbing, yelling, haggling. The floor is lost beneath their skirts, swishing and sliding around each other. One glance at the heavily-shelved wall tells me the red cloth is already gone. No matter. My stepsister Lunilla will be mad but she’s always mad. I call her “Loony” to myself.
I inch along the back wall behind the crush of customers, hoping no one treads on my tiny feet. I suck in my stomach and slip around the cumbersome rump of Lady Odelia who can’t decide whether to buy pink silk or blue velvet. Puh! As if she’s got a chance for the prince in either.
My shoulder bumps the far wall of shelves and here I find some breathing space. No one is interested in the bolts of black and somber gray. My eyes rove over the fabrics as I patiently wait my turn (patient waiting gains more white magic). And that’s when I see it: a roll of satin, dark as midnight but luminous as a black pearl. The room behind me fades into mist. I see myself entering the royal ballroom in a gown made of this shimmering darkness, my golden hair glittering above it, the only woman in the whole room wearing black.
Something striking, Stepmother had said.
How could the prince fail to notice?
r /> I curl my fingers around the heavy roll and ease it into my arms like a baby. Somehow, someway, I am going to that ball.
Chapter 3
I guess I should tell you about the white magic.
It’s in my room (or my half of the attic). I keep it in a cupboard near my bed, locked. I wear the key on a string around my neck. It’s as precious to me as my eyeballs.
Three bolts of cloth lie on my bed. My gorgeous black, garish purple for Loony, and a gentle blue for Moody, my other stepsister. Her real name is Melodie but trust me, there’s nothing harmonious about her. Her personality is one flat note, the lowest groan on a pipe organ.
I’m checking my eyes in the small, square mirror that hangs on my wall. They’re good. Naturally a nice, pale blue. But this ball, this prince will call for the exceptional. I need eyes like jewels. Like sapphires.
My stupid steps are all out, having their big, knobby feet fitted for new shoes. Lots of luck. Now’s a good time to use the white magic.
I lift the string over my head. I click the key into the lock and turn. Behind the wooden door, alone in the cupboard, sits a crystal decanter, much like what my father once used to keep brandy. It’s round and beautiful with tiny flashing facets. The decanter holds two inches of white liquid, thick as cream, but giving off a rainbow sheen. I don’t know what substance the white magic is made of, but I think of it as melted pearls.
Slowly, reverently, I lower the decanter to my dressing table. I open the top drawer and dig out the silver spoon I use only for white magic. It probably wouldn’t make a difference what kind of spoon I use. But to me, details count.
Two inches of liquid. Nineteen months since I last used some magic and the bottle wasn’t empty then. That’s how hard it is to earn. Washing every window in the house yields, maybe, half a teaspoon. But it’s worth it, every bit.
I remove the crystal stopper. Drip by drip, I fill the spoon. I stand before the small mirror to admire the girl within, her immaculate skin, sensuous lips, petal-pink cheeks, delicate chin. All the work of white magic. But thus far I’ve never touched my eyes.
“Beautiful eyes,” I say to the spoon. “Brighter. Bluer. And long lashes.”
I swallow the spoonful. It’s smooth and sweet, like almond milk and maple syrup and a hint of something tropical, like coconut. I close my eyes as the magic becomes sparkles of light that swarm into my irises. It doesn’t hurt. Just feels a bit warm and tickly.
I open my eyes. Hmm. A bit bluer, a bit brighter. But not enough. I sigh and tip out another spoonful. I always want to use as little as possible.
“Brighter, bluer, long lashes.” And swallow.
I wait for the sparkles to stop their dance beneath my eyelids. Amazing! My eyes are blue as peacock feathers. Bright as stained glass windows with a late sun behind them. But then I notice my lashes, still short.
I curse savagely. Another spoonful. Each one has cost me weeks of chores and cheerfulness. Hundreds of mended stockings. Scrubbing the floor and smiling when Loony steps on my fingers on purpose. Apologizing when Stepmother wonders aloud why the illness took my father and not me - him she needed. And I don’t know how much magic I’ll need to get myself to this ball. Probably all of it.
I swallow. And it’s worth it. My lashes are lush, dark brown, curling beautifully around my new eyes. Goddess eyes. Temptress eyes. Eyes that no man can resist.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” I whisper. “Who is the fairest one of all?”
The beauty in the mirror grins. Her teeth are white and perfect.
Chapter 4
“CinderelLAH!”
“Yes, Loon – Lunilla?”
“This is the dress I want.” She points to a page in an illustrated book of fashions and my head wants to explode. Outrageously puffed sleeves and a wide skirt with so many ruffles it’ll take ten miles of fabric. Ruffles are torture to sew. Pinch and stitch, pinch and stitch, over and over and over, until you feel trapped and panicky, sentenced to sew for eternity. And I still have to make Moody’s dress. And then my own. In two and a half days.
I’m going to die.
I look at Loony. She’s a big girl, big all over – chest, hands, nose, teeth – with wild hair, orange as carrots. She likes to wear tomato red and other blazing hues that clash against her hair. Which is why I bought garish purple for her gown. It looked like something she’d wear.
And I was right. Both Loony and Moody liked their fabrics. I know because they said nothing. When they don’t like what I do, they snarl and yap like nasty little lapdogs. But when I do something right, I get silence. A trick they learned from their mother.
“Don’t you think a dressmaker could do it better?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate.
“Undoubtedly. But you’re cheaper, at least that’s what Mother says. And it better be good and not fall apart while I’m dancing!”
That’s a fun image. Loony losing her dress while dancing with the prince. If it weren’t for that darn white magic I could arrange it.
I sigh. “What about you, Melodie? Which dress?”
Moody sits on the white couch, looking eternally bored. She resembles Stepmother, brown-haired and blah-faced. She smiles, on average, about once a year.
Moody shrugs her thin shoulders. “Don’t care. Don’t really want to go.” Her voice is as flat as her hair.
“Why don’t you stay home?” I say hopefully. If I can be spared one ball gown, so much the better.
“Mother won’t let me.”
“Of course not, don’t you get it? This is a chance to be queen,” Loony says.
“He’s too old,” Moody drones. Her hand dangles off the arm of the couch, swaying lazily.
“No he’s not, he’s thirty!” Loony fluffs down on the couch beside her sister. I remember making the corn-yellow dress she’s wearing and that took a week. Somebody save me.
“That’s ten years older than you,” Moody says. “Twelve years older than me and Cindy. It’s creepy.”
I don’t think it’s creepy. Quite honestly, I’ve always had a thing for older men. The lords and dukes and barons of this town, they all like me. They like me very well. Especially when their wives are away. But I soon discovered that such behavior lost me large quantities of white magic, so the men had to go. But they remember, and I remember. Like Lord Burton who I passed on the street today, shrinking when I smiled at him. Silly brute, it was only one night.
“I’m just glad he’s getting married again,” Loony says. “I thought he’d never get over the first wife.”
“But there’s the daughter,” Moody says. “A rotten little apple, I hear. Sorry, but I don’t want to be her mother.”
“Stepmother,” I correct her. I forgot about the daughter. How old would she be now, seven or eight? I don’t even know her name.
Our prince, you see, was married before. He had a sweet, smiling wife with shiny black hair and I hated her. And then she did the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me: she dropped dead. Clunk, just like that. No one seems to know what caused it. But it didn’t matter because the prince – and my chance to be queen – became available again.
And you never know. The daughter might be just as nice and follow her mother’s example. After all, children can have accidents too.
Chapter 5
Sewing hell.
That’s where I am.
It’s late, my neck is stiff, my fingers cramped. I’ve got all the pieces cut for Loony’s purple monstrosity. Now I’m stitching them together. I need to finish the entire gown tonight. Spend tomorrow making Moody’s. Then on the next day, the day of the ball, I can make mine.
But it’s not enough time.
I yawn, sucking in the whole night. So, so tired. My stupid steps went to bed hours ago. I wonder if the white magic could perk me up a little. I never tried it for that and don’t want to. I will need every drop for the ball.
Our prince’s name is Edgar. The name may not be beautiful but oh my, he sure is. Blonde like me. A co
nfident grin. I’ve caught glimpses of him when his carriage rolls through town, just a flash of face in the window. I wonder if his eyes are blue, or green. I wonder if his voice is soft. I wonder if his smile can make me feel snug and safe, like my father’s did.
Papa....
I lower my hands, lost under mounds of purple. I’m sitting on a chair beside my bed and now I droop sideways, resting my cheek on the faded quilt. I close my eyes and think about Papa. It smooths the wrinkles in my heart.
Papa. The only person I have to love. You realize I spend a lot of time hating: Stepmother, Loony and Moody, the men who amused themselves with me, the women of this town who stopped speaking to me when I descended from count’s daughter to lowly servant. But I can never hate Papa. Dead or alive, everyone needs someone to love, someone to feel with your heart when you close your eyes at night. It’s the only thing that keeps me from feeling completely alone.
Papa. When I was a child, he would curl me into his arms, let me tuck my face in his neck. I remember the scratch of his beard on my cheek. We took all of our meal’s together, sitting at the table’s corner where we could talk companionably, and he’d say, “Tell me what’s in your Cinderella head tonight.” On days when business tied up his time, he would squeeze my elbow as he hurried past me, a reminder that I was loved even when he couldn’t say it.
Papa. The only mistake he ever made was marrying That Woman. But even that I cannot hate him for. He did it for me, to replace the mother I lost at birth and give me sisters to play with. It wasn’t a bad idea. They seemed nice at first; I was happy. I tried to ignore the resentment I saw in Stepmother’s face when my father kissed my forehead or rustled my hair with his fingers. For his sake, she restrained her contempt, so I never really knew how much she hated me.