Catelyn Winona
patreon
Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairytales (pt. 5)
🕑 Added 2022-10-28 17:32:27 +0000 UTCSummary: Cinderella makes it to the first night of the ball.
-------.
When Cinderella is very young, her mother calls her little Cinder.
“You came to be when your father and I’s love came together,” she explains to her daughter. She brushes Cinderella’s hair from her face with a tender touch. “The fire of our passion gave us you. One day, my little Cinder, you’ll ignite and be a beautiful fire all your own.”
“Our Cinder.” Her father laughs when Cinderella relays the story over dinner. “Our Cinder-ella, hm?”
Little Cinderella refuses to be called anything else. There’s a warm power in her new name that tickles her chest every time one of her parents calls her by it. Her father is concerned, but her mother laughs.
“It is still a name we’ve given her,” her mother says when he voices his concerns. “She is a child. Let her grow into her true name in her own time, dear.”
Her father grudgingly acquiesces. “Nobody is going to take her seriously with that sort of nickname.”
“Perhaps the right people will,” her mother says. She smiles at Cinderella who’s playing in front of the fire. “Time will only tell.”
And so Cinderella becomes her name. She clings to it like a talisman. When her mother dies, nobody calls her Cinder anymore, but Cinderella is just as good when it comes from her father’s mouth, even when it stops bringing the warmth to her chest the way it used to. Him calling her that means he remembers. It means he cares.
Her stepsisters make fun of her for it. Cinder means coal, they say. Soot. Dirt. A fitting name for her who is always so filthy after raking leaves and tending fires. They tell her that it’s no wonder her father doesn’t come back home with dirt for a daughter.
Cinderella still loves her name, but she knows that she’s become sensitive to sharing it. The years of mockery bruised her in a way she didn’t expect. The people she wanted to love her never treated her name with respect. They never asked about the origin of it. So she hoards her name like one of the few possessions she has left, only sharing it when she’s sure she won’t be teased again.
Is it any wonder she never told the boy her name? Half frozen in winter and so vulnerable she thought it better to keep this last bit of warmth to herself than share it with her rescuer? By the time she noticed the gap in their meeting, it was too late. The boy in the tree never gave her his name so, by example, she never gave hers either.
That’s going to make finding him at the ball a little difficult.
Cinderella accepts the gloved hand of the coachman, stepping down onto cobblestone laid so smoothly she knows she won’t have trouble walking through the castle doors alone. The coachman escorts her anyway, placing her hand into the crook of his arm like she’s a real noble lady.
Cinderella keeps her chin up. She’s not a real noble lady, but tonight she must act like one. Isn’t that the point of the invitation? Her back burns from holding her shoulders properly. She looks up at the glittering castle, lit by sconces along the exterior wall, and thinks, I must fit in.
“The Master of Ceremonies is in charge of announcing the arrival of guests,” the coachman says. He’d only given Cinderella one startled look when Helga took her to him and then he’d become impossible to read. His tone is polite, but distant. “Is there a name or title you’d like to go by?”
She can’t be announced. All at once the reality of her decision crashes down on her. Knowing her stepmother and stepsisters, they’re already inside. If Cinderella is announced, they’ll know that she disobeyed them, that she shrugged off their “mischief” and gained some sponsor they knew nothing about to get here.
“…I am simply the daughter of an absent baron,” Cinderella says at last. The entrance is fast approaching, a short line of nobles waiting patiently to be announced and let into the event. “Surely it is too much of an honor to be announced by the same person responsible for announcing the King and Queen.”
The coachman falters. She wouldn’t have caught it if she weren’t looking so closely. His next step is a little too short for Cinderella’s and his arm twitches before relaxing again.
“Many choose to be announced by their titles alone,” he says at last. He glances at Cinderella from the corner of his eye. Is it her imagination or is there interest in his gaze? “If I may offer some advice?”
“I would never turn away advice,” Cinderella says. Her heart is starting to beat too quickly. The nobles in front of her are gorgeous. The fabrics and ornaments adorning them are just as extravagant as those on her own gown. She’s going to the same place as them, may even dance with some of them. She’s nervous, yes, but also excited.
“There will be those who ask for your name,” the coachman says. He sounds as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “You may give it to them, of course, if you choose. However, this is a ball. You aren’t on trial and you owe no debts. You may give them something to call you, as you have just given me, but that is the extent of what is required. Do you understand?”
Cinderella doesn’t. She hums as the line moves forward, twisting his words around in her mind. “I will consider your words.”
The coachman’s lip twitches. “See that you do.”
He is warmer to her than he has been since picking her up from the Emerald Castle. As they wait, he whispers the positions of the nobles around them. Duchess of Blackwood’s son and heir, Earl of Northlake’s child, Viscount Sinset’s daughter—
Cinderella drinks in the information as quickly as she can, grateful for the way matching each name to a face soothes her nerves.
Then, all at once, it’s her turn to go in.
She goes to let go of the coachman’s arm, but he holds onto her hand for a moment. For the first time, he looks at her directly. His eyes are silver and shining in the candlelight, the wrinkles along his mouth tight with determination.
“You owe no debts,” he whispers urgently. Feverishly. His hand squeezes her and he looks over his shoulder as if afraid of eavesdroppers. “Remember, baron’s daughter.”
Then the moment is over. The coachman straightens, face impassive, and he goes to whisper her title to the Master of Ceremonies. Then, duty done, he slinks back out to the carriage without once meeting Cinderella’s eyes again.
“Baron’s daughter,” the Master of Ceremonies calls. He extends his hand to Cinderella. He helps her over the threshold. “Have fun.”
Cinderella is thrust into a world of color.
The ballroom is huge, the ceiling soaring at the height of her father’s manor. Her father’s manor could fit into this room, in fact. Columns along the edges etched with beautiful faces and vines support the vaulted ceiling. There are strange and fantastic mosaics everywhere she looks. The same night sky that she’d seen in the Emerald Castle curls like a river through depictions of fruit and flowers. The mosaic leaks down from the ceiling to the walls where it bursts into stars.
Tables filled with gold plates and crystal flutes line the hall. Food Cinderella has only ever seen in books fills them. Chicken with flesh so moist it glistens in the candlelight. Fruit tarts and cakes, bite-sized pies, a tower of finger sandwiches. The glasses glitter next to the spread. As she watches, one man fills two with a bubbling liquid the color of ambrosia and then darts away to a waiting lady.
Oh, and the people! The music! The laughter!
A dance is happening already. The nobles look like works of art come to life, swooping and twirling in the center of the hall. Their gowns and suits glitter with every move, their wide smiles gleaming, an inner glow coming through their skin. The music is so sweet that Cinderella almost wants to laugh herself for the joy of it. Some of them are laughing, open and gaily like children experiencing the sun after a long winter.
Cinderella can’t join them yet. It’s an effort to wrestle the bubble of joy rising in her chest back, but she manages it. Cinderella is pragmatic. Cinderella is patient. She keeps to the edges of the hall, putting the buffet tables between herself and the dancing for a moment. She wants to take it all in, to paint this night like a portrait in her mind before she joins.
And, most importantly, she wants to know where her stepfamily is before she loses herself in merriment.
It doesn’t take long to find them. They almost find her first. Cinderella is forced to duck behind a carved column as they pass.
“—asked to dance,” Anastasia is saying. She plucks a glass of champagne from the nearest table and then whines when her mother quickly snatches it away. “Why didn’t you let me accept?”
“It isn’t polite to dance before the Prince arrives,” Stepmother says. She sighs and hands Drizella a handkerchief when she picks up one of the finger sandwiches. “Don’t you dare get anything on your dress, either of you. You must look your best when the Prince is announced.”
“I want to watch the musicians,” Drizella says. She points to the front of the hall, just left of the dais where a small orchestra is concentrating on their instruments. “I’ve never seen a harp before!”
Cinderella steps out from behind the column when she hears their retreating footsteps. It is her first time seeing any of their gowns. They’re beautiful. Drizella’s managed her hair on her own and it shines under the candlelight. Her dress is lilac with silver embroidery. For a moment, Cinderella is worried. No one else in the hall is wearing purple. Is the lighter color enough to not offend the Royalty?
Anastasia is wearing a green gown with a daring back. The green is deeper than Cinderella’s, but bright enough to enhance the glittering blue embroidery along the skirt and bodice. She’s still carrying herself like she’s real nobility, her toes flashing out from under her hem with every step.
Stepmother is more understated. Her steel grey dress is demure enough in color to show that she’s a mother, but the cut is very similar to the fashionable nobles around her. She looks like a portrait from a time gone by with her ruffled collar and pinned hair.
They’re beautiful and the longing resurges brutally. What would it have been like if Cinderella were part of them? If they were family? If they accepted her love and loved her back? Would she be dressed in another color? Would she be laughing with Anastasia at the opulence of the chandeliers above them?
“May I ask you to dance?”
Cinderella doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. A young man is at her elbow, gloved hand extended to her. He’s dressed simply compared to other gentlemen she’s seen, his suit a traditional black with only an orange pocket square for color. He’s wearing a mask like he’s at a masquerade and where his suit is simple, his mask is ornate. The orange fabric is coated in translucent gems. Behind it, his eyes are odd. Are his pupils too large? Too narrow?
“Yes,” Cinderella says. She doesn’t think it’s rude to dance before the Prince arrives. If it was, why would the music already be playing? Feeling uncharacteristically bold, she says, “You may ask.”
The man’s smile widens. He sweeps an elegant bow and asks, “May I have this dance?”
Cinderella laughs. She accepts the man’s hand. “We may share this dance. Depending on how it goes, I may let you have it.”
“Clever,” the man says and sweeps her away.
She’s grateful when her dance partner leads her to the opposite side of the hall as her stepfamily. That’s all she has a chance to feel before the dance consumes her.
Cinderella was worried that she wouldn’t be a good dancer. And, she thinks, she’s not. But her partner is and with his gentle guidance, she finds herself remembering the cadence of the steps. The music throbs in her chest. Faster than she thought possible, she’s spinning, twirling, and gliding with her partner. It’s fun. It feels natural.
“You said you were out of practice,” her partner accuses.
“I am,” Cinderella says. Her body is thrumming. She feels so completely present that she can’t help but laugh. She smiles up at him. “This is wonderful.”
The man seems stunned by her sudden joy. He stumbles, falling out of sync with Cinderella on a turn. Cinderella is quickly pulled into the arms of another partner.
“Iz,” her previous partner growls.
Iz, a dark-haired young man, laughs and guides Cinderella into the next song. “There are many young ladies who haven’t been asked for a dance.” He winks at Cinderella and patiently waits for her to adjust to the faster tempo of the song. “We’d best let them have a chance to be swindled, hm?”
“He was very polite,” Cinderella defends without heat. Her previous partner didn’t seem actually upset. Is it common practice to cut in at balls? “Unlike some, he asked me for a dance.”
Iz, rather than being chastised, is delighted. His handsome face splits into a genuine smile, showing Cinderella sharp teeth. “He did, did he? What did you say?”
The song is fast and complicated. Cinderella pauses a moment before answering, focusing on her footwork. When she succeeds in not stepping on his feet, she laughs. “What does it matter? We’re dancing now.”
Iz supports her in a turn that leaves her toes barely skimming the floor. When he sets her back down, he asks, “If I asked you for a dance, what would you say?”
Cinderella considers that. Iz is handsome, his face unobstructed by a mask. He seems less intense than her first partner, but darker. His sharp teeth wink at her and, though she’s not afraid, she doubts she’d have teased him like she teased the masked man. “It might be best you didn’t ask.”
“Ouch.” Iz adjust his hold on her waist. “I suppose I’ll just need to do better than him, hm?”
He certainly tries. Iz is a wonderful dancer, even better than her masked partner. He isn’t as gentle, but he isn’t rough either. When Cinderella is unsure of the steps, he pushes her into them or lifts her to accommodate. The dance feels like a competition rather than a dance at times. The moment Cinderella feels herself catching up to Iz’ pace, he pulls out another trick.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Cinderella pants after a particularly low dip.
“Forgive an old man his strategies,” Iz says, pulling her back up. He lifts his chin. “I have a reputation here. I can’t have just anybody out dancing me.”
“And yet here I am,” Cinderella teases. Old man? She doesn’t ask.
“Here you are,” Iz agree gravely. He holds her hand as Cinderella passes around him. Their song is ending, seamlessly sliding into the next. “I’ll have to know the name of my conqueror, hm?”
She nearly tells him. “I’m—” she catches his eye and her words falter. There’s a hunger in his gaze that chases some of the warmth from her limbs. She finishes “—a baron’s daughter.”
Iz’ hand tightens on hers. “But surely even baron’s daughters have names—ouch!”
A fan collides with the back of Iz’ head. Surprised, he lets go of Cinderella and, for the second time that night, Cinderella is pulled into another’s arms.
“Better luck next time,” the woman tells Iz. She’s a ray of red from her hair to her dress to the jewels on the toes of her shoes. She uses her full skirts to block Iz from reaching for Cinderella again. “I’ll be taking this dance.”
Luckily the next song is slow. The mysterious woman doesn’t speak to Cinderella for the first quarter of it as Cinderella catches her breath. She picks a gliding step that gets them away from Cinderella’s previous partners. Their skirts, green and red, are striking when they brush against the other.
Finally, the red woman speaks. “We’re supposed to be on our best behavior. Cy and Iz clearly don’t have best in their vocabulary. I hope you weren’t frightened.”
Cinderella’s brow furrows. “Frightened?”
“It’s already such a mess,” the woman continues as if not hearing Cinderella. She’s taller than Cinderella and her eyes are fixed on the ballroom over Cinderella’s head. “What the King and Queen were thinking…”
For the first time, Cinderella looks away from her partner. She doesn’t see anything out of place that could be construed as a “mess.” The guests are still dancing, their jewels and beading flashing in the candlelight. There is still laughter in the air. The tables are full of food and drink. Sure, the laughter is a little strained, but Cinderella can understand that. She’s feeling a little tired herself.
“I don’t understand,” Cinderella says.
The red woman looks down to study Cinderella. Her face is kind, round cheeks and high, arching brows. She purses her lips. “You seem fine.” She seems to think for a long moment. “There are rules that some of the more…provincial nobles aren’t aware of.”
“Like a special etiquette?”
“Exactly. A special sort of etiquette only taught in the Capital.” The red woman examines Cinderella again. “Though you seem to know a few rules?”
Does she? Cinderella hasn’t been doing anything differently than what her mother taught her. Uncomfortable with the intensity of the woman’s stare, Cinderella pulls away before the start of the next song. “This dance has been lovely, but I’m afraid I lack the endurance for another. I’ll excuse myself.”
“Ah, well, I can’t fight exhaustion,” the red woman says. She sweeps a curtsy to Cinderella. “They call me Morrigan, lady. I’d be honored if you did the same.”
Courtesy dictates Cinderella reciprocates, but she’s no longer feeling warm and joyful. The laughter that had been so uplifting is beginning to sound grating and discordant. The sweet music is insistent, pounding at Cinderella’s bones. She does her best to push the sensation away. She begins to feel light-headed. “You honor me. I’m only a mere baron’s daughter.” She turns to go.
The red woman blocks Cinderella before she can leave the dance floor. Her eyes (And are her eyes red?) dart around the floor. She leans in close to Cinderella’s ear. “I like your sense and so I will give you a warning. Don’t stay another night, baron’s daughter. Go home. Tonight.”
“Pardon?” Cinderella asks.
But Morrigan has already been swept away by the dancers again, there and gone in a blink.
Cinderella stumbles past the buffet tables. Her head is ringing. There’s something about the music – she can’t shut it out. No, it’s the laughter. It sounds disingenuous now. She presses a hand to her temple and looks for a patio or something where she can get fresh air.
Behind her, the music is fading. The Master of Ceremonies calls, “All bow for the entrance of her majesty and his majesty, the King and Queen!”
Cinderella doesn’t stop. She ducks down the first hall she finds. The heat that’s been rising in her breaks like a bubble and Cinderella nearly sags to the floor in relief. She didn’t realize how hot she was, how tightly wound, how tense. However, she has better manners than to collapse here and better sense than to be found ignoring the entrance of the King and Queen.
She continues down the hall, looking for a door to a courtyard or a private room. But the flagstone hall is so empty that she can hear the echo of voices from the ballroom even after coming all this way. The first few doors she tries are locked.
Cinderella finds the emptiness of the hall soothing after the sensory overload that was the ballroom. The pictures on the walls are dark in color scheme and impersonal in subject. A bowl of fruit with a handful of grapes scattered around the base. A wonderfully detailed portrait of a lamb and a haystack. A book laid out on a table with a fountain pen propped up on its spine. A tree standing on a hill, the dry grass surrounding it waving in an invisible wind.
The tree. Cinderella wants to talk to her friend. Now, far away from the ball, she feels…unsettled. She’s never been around so many people before. She’d felt so confident and bold in the moment, but she doesn’t know. Is it obvious that she’s never worn a dress like this? Did her dance partners laugh at her when she left? Why did Morrigan warn her away from another night at the ball? Because she could sense Cinderella doesn’t belong?
At last there’s a set of french doors along the hall. One is already partially cracked and the cool breeze that rolls through it feels like a balm against Cinderella’s flushed skin. She slips past the fluttering curtain and into a courtyard.
“Beautiful,” Cinderella breathes. Her breath fogs the air and she rubs her arms against the chill. There’s an oak tree in the center of a square of greenery. Directly overhead, the moon is big and full over the castle’s roofline. Carefully tended flowers frame a stone path directly up to the base of the tree. At the trunk is a small bench, just big enough for two people.
Cinderella follows the path. She doesn’t know if she’s trespassing, but would it matter? Everyone, including the royal family, is at the ball. She just needs a moment here and then she’ll be gone like she was never there. She sits on the bench and closes her eyes in relief. Her feet throb when her weight leaves them. She’s not used to heels.
“Didn’t you have a nice time dancing?”
The chill is chased away. The sound of the breeze through the oak tree vanishes. Without having to open her eyes, Cinderella knows that there are rainbows of magic in the air, twining under the moonlight like phantoms.
Cinderella smiles. “Hello, my friend.”
Her friend’s presence surrounds her, and Cinderella lets the last of her tension go.
