The Wronged Princess - Book I Read online

  She brandished the poker beneath the bed like a broom. Marcel darted forward and nipped Stepmamá’s forearm. She did not seem to notice.

  “Come out, child. I am waiting.”

  “Stepmamá, non. Please,” she begged.

  “There is no one to hear, my dear. You know ’tis worse if you fail to obey, non?” Another swipe of the poker missed her arm by mere inches.

  If she came out now, Stepmamá would likely kill her. “Why?” she sobbed. “Why do you hate me so?”

  “Mamá?” Pricilla’s voice echoed through the chamber, clearly startling Stepmamá, the poker clattered to the floor. “What are you doing? Is there a mouse beneath the bed?”

  “Oui, oui. Une souris!” Stepmamá stood and let the bed skirt drop leaving Cinderella shrouded in blessed gloom once more.

  Cinderella stuffed a fist in her mouth to stifle her cries. Marcel’s tiny body moved close.

  “I’ve come to check on Cinderella. But, alas, she is nowhere to be found, the ungrateful child.”

  “Mamá. You know you will catch your death if you are not careful.” Cinderella heard Pricilla’s tongue cluck as if she were the mother and not the other way round. “You know how sickly you can become. Let us worry not about her. We must get you back to your chamber, post haste.”

  Cinderella drew Marcel in the palm of her hand. Comforting him; or was it he who comforted her? She listened as Pricilla helped Stepmamá to her feet, cognizant of the shift in movement. Seconds later the door closed softly behind them. An ominous silence descended over the chamber.

  Massive quakes racked her body, making it difficult to crawl from beneath the large bed. She set Marcel aside and with fingers frozen and stiff from the cold, she reached for the poker. A deep mar of streaked ash had it slipping from her hand, clanging to the floor as reality set in. Great waves of hiccupping sobs roared through her. “What did I do? How could she hate me so?” she cried out. “Oh, Papá. Would that you were here…”

  “Cinde? Cinde.” Essie’s arms suddenly wrapped her shoulders. She hadn’t heard her come in. “Come, dear. You are freezing so.”

  Cinderella let Essie guide her to the bed, let her tuck the covers about her. She felt the touch of a damp cloth on her face, tears being gently wiped away. She was barely aware of Essie climbing in alongside her murmuring nonsensical words of comfort while chills of fear racked her body.

  "Oh, Essie. Why does she hate me so?" she whispered, still quivering beneath the covers. “Why?” The question burst forth before she finally succumbing to a fitful slumber.

  Chapter 32

  “Mamá, what were you thinking? The queen could have you thrown in the gallows.”

  “Oh, my dear, Pricilla.”

  Pricilla would have been prone to laughter were the outcome not so alarming.

  “That child shall be the death of me,” she spat. “Of us. All of my carefully laid plans.”

  Pricilla watched her mother fan her face with the exaggerated dramatics of the jesters hired for a lavish evening designed for entertainment. She led Mamá down the quiet corridor, still working to slow the pounding of her heart. It threatened to land on the imported rugs they walked upon. A bloody mess it would be, too.

  Lord, if she had not awakened and…Why, it was almost as if she’d possessed some sort of insightful magical powers that had her checking Mamá’s bed. When she’d discovered her missing—well, that did not take magical powers. It only took living with Mamá for the last eighteen years. ’Twas only a matter of moments before Pricilla was directing her through the door of her plush chamber. She led Mamá to the bed and lowered herself into a nearby chair on wobbly legs unable to hold her up a second longer.

  Pricilla looked over at her mother illuminated by silver moonlight streaming through sheer linings. She was a problem to be sure. Something dire was sure to happen if they did not find some way to distract her. But how on earth were she and Essie to manage diverting Mamá’s amusements elsewhere? And on the heels of the betrothal ball, ’twould be a miracle someone did not end up dead or worse.

  She should have never shoved that silver baton in Cinderella’s hands, she thought morosely. Pricilla could have taken care of things quite nicely with that little stick. She propped her chin on a fist. Nothing or no one else came to mind. They were on their own.

  “That despicable child led me astray,” Mamá hissed.

  “Shush, Mamá, someone will hear,” Pricilla whispered desperately. She jumped up and adjusted the pillows. Mamá was working herself into a frenzy. Pricilla stayed Mamá with an arm as she attempted her robust body from the bed. It took strenuous effort, appearing none the wiser.

  "She is out to destroy me. Moi.” She flounced her large frame on the bed dipping the soft mattress quite deep.

  Pricilla flinched at the viciousness in her tone. Had Mamá always been so monstrous? Pricilla pushed the question from mind, knowing answers to the reflection glass of herself would not glean a pretty picture.

  “Mayhap, you have one of your megrims, Mamá. Where is your potion?” Pricilla used the moonbeam through the window for light searching the vanity.

  An odd flicker tinged the atmosphere but it was gone in a flash. A quick glance through the sheer drapes showed clear skies, the moon full. Strange.

  Moving to the bedside table, she spotted the potion and a small glass. Funny, she thought she’d looked there. It suddenly dawned on her what she must do. With shaking fingers she uncorked the potion. “Mamá?” Pricilla asked softly.

  “Oui, dearest. My potion. I-I do seem to be having one of my megrims.”

  Pricilla poured a measure into the glass. Then, lest she stop herself, poured another, then another… She placed the glass to Mamá’s lips.

  Mamá drank hungrily.

  “Sleep, Mamá. Soon you’ll feel much better,” Pricilla said, softly. She pressed Mamá against the pillows, brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

  “Merci, darling.” Mamá leaned back and patted her cheek. “I have always favored you, you know, ma chére?” She whispered, a smile on her lips. Her eyes drifted shut.

  “Je suis desolé, Mamá,” Pricilla choked out. Her voice sounded rough and raspy to her own ears. “The betrothal ball is on the morrow. You need your sleep, you know.” Pricilla grasped Mamá’s hand and lowered herself on the mattress, shocked and dry-eyed, appalled by her actions. Mamá would not be giving anyone trouble much longer.

  Pricilla sat there for a long while.

  Chapter 33

  They were almost out of time.

  The evening of the betrothal ball had finally descended despite Essie's determination to keep it at bay. Cinderella was surprised, but felt her pain. Her feelings grew worse when she considered her own deception. Correction: deceptions. Not only was she Prince's "mysterious princess" but she had done the unthinkable in setting her lips against his. Without his consent. Oh, the humiliation. She drew her fingers against her mouth as the memory surged through her. Shaking fingers moved to her temples. How was she to survive the culpability of such egregious action? How could she ever face Essie again? Or Prince?

  The seamstress stood off to one side waiting to administer a final fitting for their gowns.

  “Where is Stepmamá?” Cinderella asked with a nervous quiet. “I’ve yet to see her this day.”

  “Neither have I,” Essie snapped. “I hope you are not complaining of the fact.” She turned to the timid Manette and flung her hands out to her perfectly coiffed hair. "Do something with this…this unmanageable mane."

  Cinderella eyed both sisters warily. ’Twould seem she was not the only one on edge. This was an Essie of old, barking at the shy girl. She fumbled forward spilling the contents from her hands onto the floor.

  "Now, see what you have done, you little imbécile.” Essie's eyes had every lit taper flickering with fury.

  "That's enough, Essie," Cinderella said. Her voice was soft, but strong, bringing Essie's head up quickly. Cinderella dipped forward to help the p
oor girl gather the scattered pins.

  "Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît, Manette." Tears filled Essie's eyes wiping away the edge of Cinderella's pique. She bent down to help as well.

  Pricilla's unusual docile manner during the entire exchange drew Cinderella's attention. She watched the maid don a dress of soft powder blue silk trimmed in scallops of embroidered silver over her head. Tiny bows edged the trim that gave a compelling effect, turning her gray eyes rich with color. It was her jittery fingers brushing over the soft silk that finally sunk in.

  "What is it, Pricilla?" Cinderella knew she’d heard the soft tone, but did not acknowledge the question right away.

  "No…nothing."

  ’Twas nothing, all right. Cinderella rose and went to her, clasped her hand and squeezed. Pricilla's eyes lifted to meet Cinderella's in the mirror. Nothing could have prepared Cinderella for the sight that met her, the stormy depths that reached out of her silver-gray eyes.

  "Whatever troubles you, do not worry so."

  "Cill?" Essie appeared on her other side, took up her hand, and waited.

  Cinderella had to admit the sight of the three of them standing before the mirror was naught other than momentous. Somber, though the tone.

  "I killed her."

  A chill of dread rippled up Cinderella's spine. Striking like a coiled snake.

  "Killed who, Cill?" Essie asked. Concern did not color Essie’s pitch.

  "No! Don't say it," Cinderella hissed.

  But Pricilla would not be reprieved. "Mamá," she whispered.

  "Of course, you didn’t kill her.” Essie patted her hand. "We just want to kill her. She dropped her hand. “Come. We must finish dressing for this outrageous farce.” A frown marred her brow, obviously remembering her current dilemma. She strode toward Manette who held out an ivory cream silk edged with the softest whispering of white velvet.

  But Cinderella did not move. She met Pricilla's eyes in the glass and knew she spoke the truth.

  Cinderella drew herself up and proclaimed in a soft yet fierce determination, "She killed herself. Do you understand me? She. Killed. Herself," she repeated. Cinderella did not know who she tried to convince, Pricilla or herself.

  The grip she had on Pricilla was returned tenfold. A tense silence stretched between them.

  "Oui. She killed herself," Pricilla whispered, nodding.

  Cinderella watched her a moment longer willing her to remain calm. Pricilla’s words pounded through her with glimmer of hope that would have her baking in the depths of Hades. Could Stepmamá truly be gone? Morbid as it was if it were so, the relief was staggering. Cinderella owed Pricilla more than she could say. Convinced by Pricilla’s slow calm intakes, Cinderella released her hands and moved off slowly toward Manette who now struggled to keep the wrinkles from a breathtaking emerald green silk. She glanced back over her shoulder one last time to see Pricilla still standing before the looking glass her winsome spirit dampened, yet coming to terms with her nefarious deeds.

  Cinderella should be envious of her translucent skin and shimmering light blond hair that appeared so fragile in her distress. She knew her own eyes were puffy and strained from her midnight ordeal with Stepmamá, jumping as she did at every little creak in the floor she could not identify.

  Not normally given to frivolous gestures, Pricilla seemed to pull herself up in one fell swoop, fussed over her appearance in the reflection glass for a moment or two longer before turning a pragmatic direct gaze on Essie.

  Cinderella let out a long held breath.

  Pricilla was back, for the moment, leastways. Though her confrontational blaze did not bode well.

  Stomach pinched in apprehension at Pricilla’s next words. Cinderella found herself trying to edge her way out of her peripheral sight.

  “Something is wrong,” Pricilla said, tapping her chin in contemplation. "The white makes you look…I don't know… Essie. Wan…pallid, colorless, sallow.” Pricilla flung her hand out as more adjectives escaped her. "That dress is all wrong for you.”

  "Um, Pricilla, I vow she begets your meaning." Cinderella winced and resisted brushing damp palms over the lovely green silk in her skirts. Oh, this was not good at all. Almost all traces of her previous apprehension vanquished.

  Essie's pent up vexation had met its end, not that Cinderella could blame her. “What is that supposed to mean?” she shrieked, “We have been trying these dresses a week past and you vow to say something, now?”

  To Pricilla's credit, she did appear chagrined, Cinderella was relieved to see. Yet, it did not stop Cinderella from rushing over and grasping Essie's hand. She darted Pricilla her harshest glare. Not that it could help Essie. The white did make her appear ashen and bloodless, but mayhap it had more to do with wrought nerves.

  Pricilla ignored Essie’s angry outburst and Cinderella’s meanest stare. Ha, ’twas the biggest jest round, anyhow. “I cannot be sure; but it has just occurred to me, rationally speaking of course."

  "Of course," Essie retorted.

  Pricilla paid her no mind. "The white would look much better on Cinde with her dark coloring. The green would work fabulous on you—match your eyes to perfection.”

  Essie cast a critical gaze over Cinderella, making Cinderella cringe. Essie's nerves were not the only ones wrought. If the floor could swallow Cinderella up, she would be most grateful. She sent up a silent prayer to Fairy Godmother. As if anything could unbreak her magic stick. It was hopeless.

  “I do so love that color,” Essie professed. “Mayhap I would not be so nervous if I did not feel so much like the sacrificial lamb on its way to the slaughter?”

  An apt analogy, Cinderella professed inwardly.

  Oui, they were right. But Cinderella—lips pressed tightly together—refused to comment, opting for another silent prayer of an open floor. She was small. All she needed was a minute crack to swallow her whole. She would ne’er complain. The white dress was stunning and it did make Esmeralda’s pale skin look chalky. If Essie donned that green dress she had no doubt Prince would take one look at her and fall heedlessly in love.

  Cinderella deserved this, of course. Did she not, indeed, steal a kiss from her sister’s betrothed without his knowing? Would this not serve as restitution for all time?

  She gazed longingly at the ivory dress. It was hers. She wanted to slide it over her head one last time before being hauled away as the fraud she was. Fear had her trembling to the point of swooning.

  Oh, what was she so afraid of? Stepmamá was all but dead, she chided herself. Pricilla had confessed to her murder, though it was strange that the horns had not yet sounded. Mayhap she was not the only one thrilled about such a scenario and the poor wretched soul who happened upon her cold dead body had decided to keep mum.

  Panic surged through Cinderella. Mayhap it was time. Non. It was past time. They deserved to know the truth, come what may. This was the moment to grasp, the opportunity to confess all. That she was the mysterious princess. Oh, blast it. Once she donned that white dress there would be no need to tell them anything. The world would know the second it floated over her head, because she should be wearing it.

  Perhaps, if she fainted.

  Oh, she was the worst of cowards. No question about it.

  But she was not ready. Since her father’s death, she’d been alienated, detested, disliked and mistreated by both Essie and Pricilla. And now they had formed a … a sisterhood—the three of them. As likely a scenario one might never happen upon a second time.

  Wasn’t that the perfect fairy tale?

  But happy endings of this sort just were not done. Stepsisters in any tale were the bane of the heroine’s very existence. But this new unspoken harmony ruined the story for that scenario. How could she bear to relinquish this new kinship? She actually liked…mayhap even loved, the both of them. They were now true sisters no matter what the fairy tales of old would have one believe.

  Even with Pricilla's wary, critical, and somewhat outspoken characteristics they cared for
one another—like real sisters. Certainly, the first barrier had been difficult, but now it felt solid and right. Pricilla would never have put herself between Stepmamá and Cinderella, otherwise. The thought of hurting either of them pierced her heart like a burning arrow.

  “Well?” Essie asked. "What say you, Cinde?”

  Essie's tentative tone should have indicated askance awaiting an answer. And Cinderella hesitated, opened her mouth to say—say what? But, Pricilla, with her typical impatience and matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, calm, straightforwardness, took care of the matter by plowing over any consideration either she or Essie might have. “Well, I do not see the problem.” She snapped her fingers at Kira, Manette’s assistant. "Vous, vite!”

  The poor thing practically tripped over her own feet, jumping to Pricilla’s command.

  "The white shall be quite striking on you, Cinde, with your dark hair and eyes. Why do you hesitate? Quick, we are out of time.” Essie implored. She bustled to Pricilla’s commands as well, with a vengeance, Cinderella thought with a scowl. The stays down the back of Essie's dress fell quickly apart.

  Cinderella spun about, faced both of them. “I…I want you both to know—” she stopped. Her breath came rapidly. So much so her head swam with the rush of oxygen. She gulped the air, finding her fragile control teetering on a glass edge, shards ready to rip her to pieces.

  "Cinde, you are blabbering like a fool. Unhook her dress," Essie pressed Manette.

  “That these…past few days…have been…” Oh, heavens, she was hyperventilating. The chamber air swirled over them in a thick fog. Mayhap, she would faint. She fanned her hands before her cheeks. Where was the breeze of Essie’s batting eyes when one had need of them?