
....Prince strode from the chamber with Sir Arnald close behind.

His eyes met hers. Surprised, of course.

She groaned.

His lips tipped in a slow smile that ignited a pulsating fire through her veins. The stick vibrated with a thrumming intensity. Its power reverberated up her arm until her body trembled with its potent energy.

But she was unused to such forceful fervor, and panicked. Did the only thing possible when two powerful men were striding toward her like starved cats, and she, only a tiny defenseless bird. She pointed the palpitating wand straight at them—
copyright © 2012 by Kathy L Wheeler

3nd edition, September 2016

All Rights Reserved

kathylwheeler.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Kathy L Wheeler.

Cover Art © romancenovelcovers.com
Dear Reader,

When you read this twist on Cinderella, you will see how much I love the story. It was written with the 1965 Rodgers and Hammerstein, version in mind that stared Ginger Rogers as the Fairy Godmother and Leslie Ann Warren's film debut. Ms. Warren was 17 when it aired. Armed with our full box of tissues, my two sisters and I would lay on our stomachs to watch ready for our cries of retribution and joy. This was an annual event at the time.

_This is why my Cinderella has dark hair and not blond. She is as "meek and as mild as a mouse" but throughout the series, I hope you see my vision as a strong, elegant young woman emerges. (As did my writing of this story by the 3_ rd _edition)._

There is a "3.5": Lady Kendra Frazier's story, a character from book iii. This title is The English Lily. And, alas, lastly the fourth book, a sad tale indeed, The Price of Scorn: Cinderella's Evil Stepmother. She was the evil stepmother after all.

Please enjoy. And, if you have any inclination how much reviews mean to an author, that would be greatly appreciated as well.

My sincerest thanks,

Kae Elle Wheeler
The Wronged Princess – book i

Kathy L Wheeler _writing as_

Kae Elle Wheeler 
Table of Contents

Copyright

Note to Reader

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue I

Epilogue II

Epilogue III

About Kathy

Other Books

# Prologue

"'Tis time to set our plan in motion, sister dear."

"She is very young, _oui_?" Queen Thomasine, of Chalmers Kingdom, spoke in hushed tones to her twin—Cinderella's illustrious fairy godmother. "She cannot be more than all of seventeen, I vow."

Thomasine ignored her sister's comment with compressed lips and paced the small sparse chamber. She preferred not to think of a ten-year-old being forced into such a situation. What she did prefer to think of, however, was how enamored her son, Prince Edric Osmond Thorn VIII, was over the unknown beauty seen fleeing the ballroom at the stroke of midnight a sennight prior.

A lovely ball she herself had staged. "Are you certain this scheme of ours shall work? Not only did the girl managed to lose that glass slipper in her haste to depart, but this ridiculous notion of trying it on every maiden in the kingdom to _find_ her, that silly boy of mine has concocted, leaves me speechless." Her shock was so acute, she felt faint. "If that is not the most preposterous idea I have ever heard—"

A suspicious snort echoed against the chamber walls. Thomasine's gaze cut to her sister. She detected nothing in Faustine's face, just intelligent gray eyes mirroring her own thoughts.

With a sigh, Thomasine fell in a nearby chair with an indignant flop. "I realize he is only nineteen, but I fear he may be following in my dear Osmond's stead. As much as I adore my husband and king—why I vow this monarchy would have long since perished without our brains and intuitiveness."

Faustine's smile was condescending at best. "'Twill be difficult, dear, but 'tis all for the greater good, just as we've discussed. You shall see." Her sister's lack of concern unnerved her. It was all Thomasine could do to restrain the effort to confront her son. Tell him her vexations on the matter. But young men rarely listened to their mothers, no matter how wise the action. And, Prince Charming, as he'd been so lovingly referred to since a chattering infant—the name had attached like mortar to stone—was no different.

She rose and squared her shoulders and faced her petite sister with her elegantly styled coiffure, so similar to her own. "You realize a skilled formula is necessary in camouflaging my son's powers of recognition, _non_? We would not want to hamper the outcome of this little undertaking. The whole purpose is teaching him to think through his impulsive tendencies."

" _Oui, oui_." Faustine stood quickly—poised, rather—to make her unusual exit.

"Not to mention our future princess has seen you up close. Once she sees _me_ —I am queen, you know—and, well, we do resemble one another, _non?_ "

" _Mais oui,_ Thomasine. Now," her impatience clear. "If you've no more obstructions to impinge my delay?"

" _Attends_ ...wait!" Thomasine lunged toward her.

Her frothy pink gown reminded Thomasine of an overly sweet confection. Dotted with an egregious host of tiny diamonds—the dress might better serve as a beacon in the eye of a storm. "What of the powers bestowed by the mysterious Monsieur Pinetti?"

Faustine flung out a hand. "What of them?"

Thomasine studied her expression carefully. Not a twinge of concern marred her dainty brow. How did she do it? "Will he consider this an abuse of power?"

"Bah, how will he find out, _ma chère_? Do not worry so. What can go wrong?" She flicked the thin silver baton she held— _Poof!_ She dissipated, leaving an air of sparkling shimmers in her wake.

"What, indeed?" Thomasine addressed to the now empty chamber.

# Chapter 1

Cinderella could not believe it—she'd lost her shoe, and it was glass, too. "Oh, Marcel," she choked out. Her sweet pet was nothing but a gray dormouse. "What will Fairy Godmother say?" She sniffed back the irritating tears that refused to stop.

Marcel's head cocked to one side. He perched on his hind legs and squeaked his acquiescence.

"Your support is most appreciated. The answer is easy, of course. I shall be chastised on how irresponsible I was." She scowled. 'Twas a shame her nature disallowed dropping to the floor in self-pity. There was no way back to find the blasted thing either. That ridiculous coach had morphed back into a big fat pumpkin at the stroke of midnight. 'Twas only by sheer luck, she hadn't been dwarfed into a seed.

Cinderella paced the floor from her own little corner to the cottage door and back, wearing a path on the gleaming worn-wood floors (by her own hand), and peered through cheerful red and white gingham curtains with each pass. Luckily, she had a few moments to compose herself. What if her family somehow recognized her as the unknown guest at the ball? Stepmama would kill her if she ever learned the truth.

" _Non. Non_. Stepmama would not _kill_ me." Her words bounded through the cottage. At least that was her hope. "Fairy Godmother would surely save me from a fate as dire as death. Wouldn't she?" Marcel scrambled over her skirts to her hand, squeaking his alarm. She ran her finger over his soft gray head, absently. She was not all that convinced the entire evening was not one wrought entirely from her imagination.

Trundling carriage wheels rattled the window panes and Marcel scrambled to the floor. Cinderella's heartbeat spiked as her stepsisters and stepmother made their way down the isolated road to their small corner of Chalmers Kingdom. Knots of trepidation coiled her insides. Mayhap she was not so ready after all.

Oh, lord. How had she allowed herself into such a predicament? She should have heeded the lessons she'd been lauded since the age of eight. The apron Her fingers twined tightly within her fingers and ripped. _This_ was what came of believing in fairy tales.

Heartbreak and fear.

With deep measured breaths, Cinderella made a concerted effort to crush the jangled nerves, but anxiety palpitated through her veins. With each passing second, the carriage drew closer, her stomach roiled. She dashed to the wool-padded footstool and plopped down. Even that was not enough to soothe the mountain of apprehension and she rose again to peer through the parted curtains.

She wiped her clammy, trembling hands over her drab skirts and watched the conveyance creak to its excruciating stop.

She inhaled a deep, shaking breath.

Stepmama swept from the buggy with the aid of their only footman, much like a reigning queen. _Ha_. _In Stepmama's wildest dreams._ Her nose, long and crooked, made for a less-than-attractive sight. The deep furrows in her forehead reflected her blatant narrow-mindedness. The bitter lines about her mouth aging her more than her actual years.

Papa and she had married when Cinderella was three. He must truly have loved her. A feat she still struggled to comprehend. Why else would he have married her?

Anonymity provided decent cover for Cinderella's true feelings as her eyes followed the procession of her vicious stepsisters to the door. She cast a quick glance to Marcel. His encouraging nod was a soothing balm.

Having suffered at her family's hands for so many years, Cinderella had learned when to speak and when to hold her tongue. She and her sisters had reached marriageable ages and she couldn't quell the spark of hope twisting through her as she hugged her secret to her heart.

Prince Charming of Chalmers wanted _her_.

Cinderella backed from the window and donned her most earnest and heartfelt expression readying for her family to barge through the door. Panic struck. "Marcel," she gasped, "Hide!"

With a tiny mew he fled beneath the baseboard just as the door crashed back.

"Was the ball truly wonderful?" She gushed. Ugh. But survival in this quaint cottage remained vital.

"Of course, Cinderella."

It never ceased to amaze her how Pricilla and Esmeralda could spat in unison like rusted, cringing door hinges.

Pricilla's pert features pinched in a way that gave a hint of her how she might someday fully resemble Stepmama. Sadly, so. "Until that mysterious princess showed up."

Cinderella swallowed. "Mysterious princess?" Her pitch rivaled Marcel's squeak.

Esmeralda sniffed, tossing her head of copper curls. "Once _she_ showed up, the prince refuted any other marriageable prospects."

Cinderella's mask of practiced blankness threatened to dissolve. Excruciating as it would be, she must languish through the next hour if she had any hope of learning what had happened after her departure.

As expected, her sisters droned on with mundane descriptions of dresses and ballroom decorations. She quelled her questions and picked up a dust cloth, swiping the already spotless bookshelves. A shame she didn't possess the skills to redirect the conversation to Prince and the monopolization of his "mysterious princess."

Unable to stifle her eye rolls to the ceiling as they prattled on, she scrubbed the baseboards and calmly made her faces to the wall. Well, she had asked, had she not?

She deserved the torture, she supposed with an inward sigh, having let curiosity get the better of her. She repressed the impulse to spill her secret. Experience had given her the gift of patience, but it was trying at best.

"What is with you, Cinderella?" Stepmama's gaze narrowed with penetrating suspicion and undisguised curiosity.

Cinderella froze. "No... nothing, Stepmama."

"You seem almost—giddy," Stepmama accused in her nasal and high pitched grate. She sauntered over and gripped Cinderella's chin, jerking her head up. Her beaked nose almost touching Cinderella's. "Scrape those cobwebs from your hair, girl. If I did not know better, I might believe that was glitter covering your head." She paused as if considering such a possibility, then let loose a loud cackle.

Oh, it was difficult quashing the temptation to confess. _It is_ _glitter_ , _Stepmama. You see, I am Prince Charming's betrothed. That's right. Your future queen._

A sting landed across her cheek, jerking her out of the fantasy. "Pay attention!" With a disgusted huff, her stepmother rose.

" _Oui_ , Stepmama." Cinderella smoothed a palm over her burning flesh. " _Tea_. May I get you tea, Madame?"

" _Non_. But my feet do desire a soaking. Fetch water for my tired and aching limbs." Cinderella knew an escape when one presented itself.

" _Mais oui_ , Stepmama. Right away."

Stepmama dropped her massive frame into the one comfortable chair in the room and shifted her unnerving attention to Esmeralda.

Shudders skittered down Cinderella's spine. "Stop that incessant blinking at once. How am to I ever marry you off with that repulsive twitch?"

Cinderella slipped through the cottage door to fetch the pail of water with __ Stepmama's bellowing screech pealing against the walls.

Once beyond sight Cinderella bent over and shook out her long dark hair out where, indeed, shiny particles floated like magic dust to the ground in a shimmering shower of sparkles. She lifted her face to the heavens, air cooling her hot face, and grinned. She was not destined for the life Stepmama had decided for her after all.

Prince Charming reclined atop the red velvet coverlets on his royal bed. Arms folded behind his head, he crossed one shiny booted ankle over the other and contemplated the miraculous and disastrous results of the ball.

A ball Maman had insisted upon to facilitate finding a bride. A bride for which he'd had no desire—until now.

Candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls that competed with the roaring fire in the grate. Ten and nine was too young for marriage. Even for an heir apparent. Modern men married much older these days just as he'd been set to enlighten Maman after the last debutante had trod his boot and patience, but the words all but dissipated when the vision in creamy ivory silk appeared atop the grandiose staircase, far above the ballroom on the pedestal she deserved.

The light of a thousand candles blaze her path to him. He needed no introduction—she was the one. He hadn't been the only one stymied by her. Stunned silence rumbled through the ballroom then buzzing snippets rippling around as he made his way to her.

"Who is she?" They'd breathed.

"Where did she come from?" They'd whispered.

"Such a beauty." They'd murmured.

Star-struck gazes riveted their attention. But they focused—not on him— _non._ 'Twas the most unusual sensation.

Mouth dry, he tried to swallow. Nothing short of death could tear his eyes from the white velvet-trimmed gown and bared shoulders that accentuated her graceful neck but for the sliver of her delicate gold chain adorned with its single teardrop diamond.

The room shimmered an iridescent glow, her arrival holding the population enthralled—and to him? The entire kingdom ceased to exist.

Prince surged forward. His path narrowed to a precise and sharp focus that led to her and the magic of the evening to come.

Long, slender fingers slid along the massive balustrade, stealing his breath, constricting his chest. He dared not blink lest she disappear. Step after step, the folds of her graceful gown billowed teasing him with a peek of fragile glass slippers—until that moment—the moment she'd glided into his waiting arms.

They twirled through the ballroom with one perfect waltz following another. Knowing he'd stepped, or _danced_ , past the stricture of protocol, yet helpless against its pull. Rich mahogany locks piled high on her head, in a sophisticated twist clasped into place with a small and elegant jeweled crown. No curls to mar its thickness or beauty.

He was breathless, speechless, captivated.

Whomever this mysterious princess was, she was his now. Or soon would be. He must remember to thank Maman for her insistence on searching out his bride. He stared at the frescoed ceiling, remembering the air that shimmered around her like the halo of an angel. Eyes of the darkest, most decadent chocolate one could only dream, devouring him. Full lips that trembled with a timid smile.

He was caught.

"Will I love you because you're beautiful?" He'd whispered softly against her cheek. "Or because you're wonderful?"

"I am but a dream," she whispered back. Her voice matched her—soft, enticing, mysterious.

"Perhaps," he agreed. He didn't know. He couldn't know. The urge to sing from the rooftops soared through him. It was a defining moment, he decreed. Because now he knew...he'd found...

_Princess_ Charming.

The evening raced past in a whirlwind of dancing. No words were needed. There would be a lifetime to talk. Right then 'twas enough to revel in the feel of her hand in his, her scented of hair. She floated like the whisper of a cloud, the mist of a ghost.

'Twas a lovely night. One he knew he'd never see again.

The stroke of midnight rang out from the tower clock: twelve bongs.

It seemed only ten minutes since he'd met her.

"What's that noise?" She'd asked. Her voice was as soft as feather down, her smile disarming, distracting.

He smiled back. "Just the tower clock," he'd responded, mesmerized by those luscious, full, red lips. "The night is young, my lady. 'Tis only midnight, the night is still young." He could not decide if the fragranced blooms inundating his senses came from the surrounding gardens, or the flower in his arms.

"Midnight," she breathed. Then blinked. Then stilled—there in the midst of the dance floor—alarm marred her lovely features, panic colored her voice. "I-I must go."

Before he'd realized her intentions, she'd spun, ran from the garden. The throng of dancers cleared the way, stunned by her haste. Into the ballroom, she flew, up the stairs, the doors parting as if on command, allowing— _non_ — _assisting_ her escape.

Dumbstruck and bewildered, he'd stood, his limbs like thickly-coated molasses or heavy leads of steel.

He jerked to the present, torn from the enchantment-turned-horror of this night.

Prince bounded from the bed and paced his large, opulent chamber. He was a man who had never wanted for anything in all his nineteen years, he reasoned. Of that, his parents had made certain. He was _Royalty_.

"Royalty, I say!" He yelled to the empty room.

"Sire?" His annoying friend and companion. In truth, his cousin, though he'd deny the fact if queried. Arnald poked his head through the door.

"Nothing, Arnald. Be off." The latch clicked softly.

He frowned. Why a young and beautiful princess run? From _him?_ Arnald, he could understand. The man's manners resembled that of an ox. It confounded one's mind.

Prince stopped before a luxuriously padded-chair and sunk down, chin resting on his fist. But, alas, she was gone. He tried to summon his anger. 'Twas impossible. She was too beautiful for him to be truly angry—too sweet for his outrage.

Lovestruck. That's what he was, he thought glumly. Mayhap, really 'twas all a dream.

Restless, he stood again and gazed out at the night sky. 'Twould be dawn soon. The sun would rise, and he with no idea where to find her. He'd not even learned her name.

"Why? Why had she run?"

"Because you are such a child," Arnald said.

"I thought I told you to be gone," Prince snapped.

"Hah! Who else would you have to talk to?"

Prince scowled at the truth of that statement. "I have much to offer. A home, large coffers. _Overflowing_ coffers." Prince resumed his pacing. "Lands, clothes, servants—" He stopped.

"And?" Arnald prompted.

And... _Love_? He dared not spout that out to his cousin. He would never hear the end. He cleared his throat. "Young women are known to fantasize their notions of romantic love, _non?_ " He spoke slowly, carefully averting his eyes from the teasing light he would surely see in Arnald's.

"I vow that is so."

"And, I must marry regardless, _oui_?"

" _Oui_."

Justification saved face, and Prince leaped on the excuse, knowing he lied to Arnald all the while. "Then she is whom I will marry. Maman is determined, after all."

_"Oui,_ determined," Arnald repeated, chuckling.

"Get out," Prince growled. "I need to think."

Prince had dashed after her, but he'd realized his princess's intentions one second too late.

All he'd caught was the tail of the shiny golden coach drawn. Six matching white horses carrying her away at breakneck speed, could only watch in helpless despair, her farewell wave from a small rear window. Anguish magnified by shimmering tears in her exquisite eyes.

His head fell, the ground blurred in his vision. He blinked, then blinked again. Slowly, he knelt to one knee, terrified his eyes deceived him.

There—in plain sight—on the stoop, one stair down from the ballroom doors, lay proof that his night of heaven had not been a figment of his imagination. A wispy dream of his future bride vanishing into thin air, never to be seen again...lay a single glass slipper.

# Chapter 2

Queen Thomasine almost rue the day she'd bore a son.

_Almost_ , for she loved her son dearly. But one would be hard pressed to refrain from admitting the how pleasant and amicable a daughter would be. Someone with whom she could embroider, or titter on about the failings of men. She sighed. Such bonding experiences, she thought wistfully.

Regrettably, that had not been her fate.

She pushed away the fantasies and turned to the misfortune at hand. For days now, seven to be precise, Prince had moped about the palace, hoping against hope his mysterious young woman would somehow reappear. Drop into his life the same way she'd dropped out.

Thomasine had deliberately let a full sennight of his nonsense persist before finally summoning. It was time to set forth her and her twin's underhanded scheme. 'Twas not without some guilt, however.

She quashed the feelings and lifted her chin, determined to see their plans through. "Have you decided what you are to do now, _mon fils_? This week past was doing naught but brooding and sulking about."

His gaping shock was most telling.

"Maman. You don't understand." His tone sharp. She'd She'd offended him.

A searing retort would do neither of them good. How irritating to realize how a young man could fail to believe a mother's inability to understand such dilemmas. Bah, what was it with today's children? Did they believe their parents had sprung from the womb grown? Not experienced love and infatuations in their own youth? That they hadn't _had_ a youth?

Thomasine pinched the bridge of her nose. Tried to remember this _was_ the future king. She gripped her patience with the vice of serpent's fangs. "My dear, "'Tis time to move past this fixation." she ground out.

Prince lowered himself into an opposing chair, his face flush with utter devastation.

Her heart softened. She frowned, and in a rush of defensiveness for him, spouted, "Frankly, I find myself amazed that this...this woman-child had the nerve to run from the ball— _our_ ball—in such an officious manner. To _run_ , at all, in fact, was most unladylike." She sniffed. "But, alas, not being in her shoes—well, so to speak—I suppose I shall withhold my judgment for the present time."

Squaring her shoulders, stiffening her resolve, Thomasine vowed to see through her and Faustine's plan, no matter the difficulty. She cleared her throat and spoke briskly. "The question is, dear, what are your plans to remedy the situation?" She had great faith in his intellect; it just needed uncovering.

His expression made her wonder if she'd grown horns.

Thomasine shook her head in self-deprecation. "I vow I bear full responsibility for this predicament, of course. Well," she amended frowning, "except for the portion your father is responsible for." She adopted her regal tone-to-the-masses, matter-of-fact intonation. "As the guiding parent, however, I have come to the conclusion that I have failed miserably in teaching you to act responsibly and timely when faced in a crisis situation." She paced the length of the chamber. Thinking was always best when she had the versatility of movement.

She stole a glimpse in her son's direction. He _looked_ as if he were trying to comprehend. Mayhap there was hope. His glazed, blank expression revealed just how very clueless he was with her every uttered word.

Thomasine had to shake off her aggravation, knowing instinctively a daughter would have been much sharper on the uptake. It was as if her son and she were from different celestial orbits.

She eyed him carefully.

His gaze narrowed and hope sparked within her. His eyes seemed to focus on some divine light above her head, and she somehow resisted the urge to lift her head for a peek.

"Ah!" His inspirational gasp startled her. Palpable excitement gave her hope, though she remained cautious. "I have her slipper," he said slowly. His eyes met hers, shining with pride. "I shall take it to every maiden in Chalmers. Whomever it fits—that is where I shall find my bride."

"Oh, my." Thomasine fell back in her chair, fighting an impulse to enlighten him on just how impractical the idea was—what consequences such an outcome could prompt.

She drew in a deep breath and considered him with a prudent gaze. Why not quite the direction she and her sister had envisioned, mayhap 'twas something they could work with. Letting out that breath slowly, she tried accessing the positive aspects.

First and foremost, it was at least an idea surged from the appendage sitting atop his shoulders. Honestly, the man needed to marry. She would feel better when he could utilize his _intended's_ acumen. Of course, were he married there would be no use for... she tapped a finger on her chin.

She swallowed a sigh. A harsh lesson would indeed be required. For when the time came to lead their kingdom, however small, into the future... a shudder snaked up her spine. A lesson would serve him well, no matter how difficult the task.

She let a slow smile curve her lips. "'Tis a wonderful idea, _mon cher_."

He blinked.

As much as it pained her, Thomasine sent him off—with her blessing.

Word spread quickly throughout Chalmers Kingdom. Prince Charming was on the hunt for his mysterious princess.

His future queen.

She only prayed the young woman proved worthy of their efforts.

# Chapter 3

News of Prince Charming's outrageous plan reached the cottage within days. Hours possibly. The competency of communication through word of mouth was quite amazing when one evaluated its efficiency to any minute degree, and Cinderella was outraged.

The range of emotions roaring through her started with stunned horror that would morph quickly to morbid, albeit hidden, amusement as Stepmama and the stepsisters danced around their small abode.

The likely prospect that _her_ glass slipper should fit one of her evil stepsisters was... laughable, and vile enough to make one consider casting up one's accounts. Not to mention the need to suppress the unexpected yet hovering hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt. She feared her head would explode.

"Do you think he shall be here soon?" Pricilla spouted, turning cool gray eyes on Stepmama. Her blond, almost white hair, bounced bobbing curls. Ever the ultimate image of Stepmama, were it not for Stepmama's rotund figure.

Stepmama considered Pricilla with a glance of calculated amusement.

Cinderella fought a shiver of trepidation that prickled bumps on her skin. What tactic was __ Stepmama now hatching in that malevolent mind of hers? With bated breath, Cinderella snatched up a worn cloth and dusted the buffet, praying for some brilliant insight to surge forth.

She forced herself to breathe, calming herself with the thought she _would_ have her chance with Prince as well. He was asking for _all_ the maidens to try the slipper, _non_? They could not stop her. They _could_ not, she vowed, pressing her lips together.

"We shall be prepared," Stepmama announced. "Both of you, follow Cinderella about this house. Make certain that she has swept, scrubbed, cleaned, polished, waxed, _and_ sanitized each and every viable surface." Her brittle, high pitched voice grated. "Leave no corner untouched."

And so they did.

'Twas another two days before the cottage was deemed readied and spotless. Unfortunately, with nothing to occupy her sisters, they floundered about restlessly. Something that always bespoke trouble. On normal days they just were annoying and underfoot. Bored, however, made them dangerous.

Cinderella fought for every ounce of control and piece of sanity as she sat on the stool in her little corner. She tore the off the last thread of her newly stitched apron, and started the mending process of stockings as she listened in horrific silence. Esmeralda and Pricilla bickered on whose foot was the most exquisite. On whom Prince would deem the prettiest. On whom should try the blasted slipper first. On whom it would actually fit! Eyes firmly on the task before her, Cinderella's lips tipped.

"What are you snickering about, Cinderella?" Pricilla sneered. "That the shoe will fit _you_?" At which point both sisters cackled hysterically.

_Ha! such absurdity_. Let them. She compressed her lips knowing she would laugh last. "It could, you know." The words slipped out.

Shocked silence shattered against the walls. Cinderella lifted her eyes from the stocking she held. Both sisters and Stepmama stared in dumbfounded stupor.

_Oh, no._ She'd made a very large tactical error.

Pricilla was the first to recover, casting Cinderella a bleak, tight-lipped smile. Cold gray eyes and cruel expression had Esmeralda stepping back, her eyes fluttering with bird-flapping intensity.

Pricilla rose from her wooden chair and glided gracefully towards Cinderella. The move was deceptively casual. She would be a fool to believe otherwise.

"What has you so busy this lovely morn, Cinderella?" Her dainty smile personified her evil mother to perfection.

She licked her dry lips. "Es-Esmeralda's petticoat." Her voice restrained.

Pricilla lifted the soft fabric from her lap. " _Certainement_. I can see." She held it out, contemplating. But, in a flash of fury, ripped apart Cinderella's painstaking work. The delicate fabric fell to her lap in tatters.

Esmeralda's gasp filled the air but Cinderella dared not shift her focus.

"You are quite the seamstress, _oui_?" Pricilla's lips curled in a twisted cruel.

She reached for the garment with a shaking hand, never taking her eyes from Pricilla.

"Pricilla, my darling, you shall be the first to sport the slipper," Stepmama said. She spoke as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred. "As the eldest, 'tis only fitting." Then howled with laughter at her silly pun, jowls shaking with mirth. The sight would provoke nightmares.

But, of course, 'twas not out of the ordinary, was it? Cinderella thought, swallowing sudden tears. She'd let her mouth get the better of her. She knew for certain the slipper would fit her. It was hers, was it not? She stabbed the needle through the petticoat, pricking her finger, watching blood spread and marring the white material. She blinked quickly, trying to think. All she had to do was concentrate on that one detail, _that the shoe belonged to her._ The torment wouldn't last forever. She had only to hang on to her dreams.

Pounding hooves vibrated the cottage, staying the violence poisoning the tense atmosphere.

Cinderella surprised herself and her stepsisters, fighting for a place at the window alongside them. Something she'd never attempted before. The anticipation of the prince's visit had to be the only reason no one threw a punch.

Stepmama hissed in exasperation, "Girls! We do _not_ hang out an open window like common...harlots. The prince shall come to us!" She raised her chin where skin beneath hung like that of a gobbling turkey. Cinderella, so attuned to the excitement, let a giggle escape.

Stepmama turned to her and snarled, "Not you! _You_ shall remain inside."

"B-but, Stepmama—" Another crack of Stepmama's open palm knocked her head back. She covered the heated flesh.

"You _dare_ to spar with me, child?"

Her words dashed all hope.

"To the basement," Stepmama hissed.

"But..."

Her hand lifted again, reinforcing the threat. "But nothing. Away with you. Quickly."

Cinderella dared not disobey. She spun from the window hands clenched, swallowed the choking tears, and started to the basement door. Stepmama's glare sent her running. She slipped behind the basement door, but in a fit of rebellion perched on the top stair.

A firm knock pounded the door. Cinderella peered through the crack.

Esmeralda tugged it back with an unnatural and timid reserve, her green eyes batting wildly.

A footman, stood ridged and formal, most distinguished in his white pantaloons with their red stripe down one side. Cinderella had never seen the like, awed by his corresponding jacket adorned with gold tassels. Stepmama's preoccupied stupor with such grandeur allowed Cinderella's furtive peek to go unnoticed.

Without warning, the footman's clipped cultured tones bellowed as if they were not standing within touching distance. "His Royal Highness to see the _maidens_ of the house." The heels of his shiny black boots coincided with a sharp formal bow bent straight over from the waist.

A swift movement from another similarly dressed individual pulled a trumpet to his lips. The blaring sound had everyone flinching, even Stepmama. At least Cinderella had the luxury of covering her ears. She choked back a laugh, mingling with tears at her family's strained expressions.

Someone spoke softly. Not Prince. Cinderella would have recognized his deep voice anywhere. It had haunted her dreams for a week past now. "Perhaps we should conduct the business of the slipper trying-on the bench in your lovely garden, Madame."

Stepmama flounced through the door with Esmeralda and Pricilla trailing like little ducklings. Little _ugly_ ducklings, she amended, scowling. The door slammed shut behind them.

La! This was her chance. She darted to the window, hiding behind the mostly closed the curtains. Alas, 'twas a risk worthy of furious wrath.

Prince, _her_ Prince, dismounted from his horse in a graceful drop to the ground, along with her stomach and the thousands of butterflies that had taken up residence.

He was just as she remembered. Hair, black as night tied at his nape with a velvet queue; that firm jaw, determined jaw; strong, white teeth; corded muscles. Her fingers tingled remembering how his hand swallowed hers as he'd guided her about the ballroom, dance after dance after dance.

"Mew." She lowered her palm for Marcel, without taking her eyes from her beloved, raised him to the window sill.

"Look at him, my sweet. See how wide his shoulders are? How graceful his hands?"

Marcel peeped.

Her stepsisters' lowered gracefully to the bench with their bacs to the house. That left Cinderella the opportunity to gaze upon Prince. As long as Stepmama kept her attention on the shoe-trying, Cinderella was safe.

An entourage of six surround Prince. Another gentleman to one side opened a wooden box with a show of spectacular theatrics.

She gasped. Her glass shoe.

Tears blurred the sight of Prince kneeling before Pricilla, constricting her air intake. How had she never noticed the sun's brilliance glinting off Pricilla's silvery blond locks? A tingling, lightheaded sensation assaulted her. Her knees shook and she had to lean over and force short breaths to hold off a faint.

Slowly rising again, she concentrated on the dark curl that had fallen over the prince's brow. Her pulse reacted violently to his hand clutching Pricilla's foot and the effort to not scream squeezed an iron band across her chest. He pulled her foot forward and slipped the shoe past her toes—then tugged, shifted, wrestled—

Cinderella watched his face carefully, irritation creeping through at his determination. He cut his glance to Pricilla, a smile lighting his face. A smile that sent Cinderella's fluttering heart racing with envy.

Thankfully, no amount of manipulation could make Pricilla's large foot slide into Cinderella's slipper. Triumph surged through her as he shifted over to Esmeralda's waiting foot.

Was that...relief on his face? _Oui_ , she was certain of it, she thought, sucking in oxygen.

Stepmama's jaunty, over-exaggerated features twisted into scowl as the chance for one of her precious daughters marrying genuine royalty suddenly dropped by a colossal fifty percent.

Cinderella pulled herself up, wary excitement crashing through her. What if she ran outside and demanded Prince to try the slipper on _her_ dainty foot? She glanced down. One look at her patched frock and she slumped. He would never be convinced that she was the girl he was looking for. And, afterwards... well, she might not survive Stepmama's violent temper this time.

She peeked through the curtains and watched as Prince began the same ritual of replacing Esmeralda's one shoe with the glass one.

Astonishment congealed Cinderella's blood into an iced statue, rendering her immobile, shifting quickly to stunned horror as the glass slipper slid on her sister's dainty foot with surprising ease.

Cinderella choked on a gasp, backing away from her veiled place at the window.

Panic surged deep in Prince's abdomen. It roared through his veins like boiling acid as the slipper in his one hand glided neatly onto the foot he held with the other. He froze, unable to form a coherent thought. He snuck a cautious glance to the face belonging to said foot. Her eyes blinked so rapidly he was almost certain she hadn't caught his glance. Rising slowly, he steeled himself to meet the eyes of this new and unexpected affianced.

Her bright copper curls blew in a brisk breeze that were not all that unattractive. It's just that those locks were far from the deep rich mahogany he'd been searching for.

He pulled back his shoulders and prayed his voice wouldn't crack with the pressure of the forthcoming announcement. "It appears to be a fit." And of course, his composure withstood with nineteen years of training in self-possession, impassive expressions, and reinforced tactful negotiations. Imperative skills when one wrestled with a terror building so deep within one's chest, one might implode on the spot.

"Well, of course it fits!" The hideous mother said, benevolently.

Sainthood. After this disastrous journey, he'd surely qualify for sainthood.

"Do quit batting your eyes, Esmeralda. You could stir up the soil," her mother snapped.

Just beyond the girl's shoulder Prince caught sight of cheerful red and white curtains fluttering at the window.

Amazing. Her eyes did seem to create a wind. Despite the boulder lodged in his chest, he fixed an impassive gaze on his new betrothed, Egeld...Este—well, her name escaped him at the moment—and contemplated the situation. Dread settled over him, along Maman's pained expression leaping through his mind.

He was not a religious man, by any means, but divine intervention would not be amiss in this moment.

Cinderella backed away, tears cascading in rivulets. She should have heeded Stepmama's command and stayed in the basement. How could it have not occurred to her that Esmeralda's foot would fit her slipper? Her chest would shatter from the pain. Could one die of a broken heart? When Papa passed from this world to the next, Stepmama had confiscated all of Cinderella's belongings.

Even on the rare occasion Cinderella found herself lucky enough allowed to her own possessions, did she not steal into Esmeralda's wardrobe and try on her shoes? Both Esmeralda and Pricilla had lovely slippers and Esmeralda's fit her perfectly. Her gaze swept the darkness in a terrifying panic. Who was she to turn to for help? There was no confronting her family now. _Her shoe fit Esmeralda._ There was __ no one. The desolation was brick slung around her neck in deep water. No matter how hard she kicked, she just kept sinking.

Frustrated tears blinded her way down the stairs. Should Fairy Godmother even be willing to help, why should she? _Cinderella_ was the ninny that slipped out of the blasted shoe in the first place. She barely made to to her straw bed in the corner of the dingy space, the weight so heavy in her chest. Her life was a black hole of hopelessness.

Marcel squealed in sympathy.

"What am I to do?" she cried.

He shook his head. Touched by his forlorn compassion, she smiled. It was watery at best. " _Merci_ _beaucoup_ ," she sniffed. "'Tis true, I guess. One reaps what one sows. My deceit has caught me cold."

A tingling whisper wafted through the shadows, bits of glitter giving off a candlelight glow. The dark basement lit up in a shower of sparkles that swirled upward in a slow motion.

A gown of the softest pink chiffon shifted into focus after an artist's genius touch on a blank page. The angel's face appeared, one foot in a rapid staccato tattoo. She snapped her shiny stick toward an old black kettle in the corner, whipping it into a high-backed padded chair fit for...well, a Fairy Godmother.

"Hello, dear."

Her voice held a little sympathy. _Very little_.

Fairy Godmother swung around, and all but plunked into the chair like a sullen child. The silver stick clattered to the floor and with an irritated huff. She snatched it up and brushed an elegant hand over her skirts then met Cinderella's gaze with a bold stare. She shook her head with a sad smile and soft sigh.

The dejected sound crushed Cinderella. She muffled her sobs in her hands. "I suppose when the tower clock struck twelve I tempted fate one step too far. I was so enthralled, you see." She wasn't even certain her whispered words could be heard. She plowed on before her nerve deserted her. "But I ran. I ran as fast as I could."

After a long silence, Cinderella lifted her head. All was lost. She could see it in Fairy Godmother's eyes. Ashamed, she dropped her head again. "I-I lost my shoe."

" _Oui,_ I know, dear," Fairy Godmother said. Her voice was much gentler than Cinderella deserved, she burst into tears again.

"It never occurred to me Esmeralda's foot should fit my slipper." She hiccupped. "He never saw her face. _I'm_ _his mysterious princess_. What am I to do?" she wailed.

"Do not fret, Cinderella, my sweeting. I regret to say this is more than just about you." Fairy Godmother spoke kindly but she didn't make sense.

" _Pardonnez-moi,_ I don't understand?"

"Hmm. How shall I say this?"

Cinderella flinched under her piercing gaze, one that sent tingles racing up her spine. "I have been chatting with the queen, my dear."

Confusion wrapped Cinderella in a thick cocoon as Fairy Godmother continued her matter-of-fact...tirade. "Frankly, my dear, she is thoroughly appalled by her son's lack of imagination in pursuit of his...ahem...mysterious princess."

"But...but, there is no need. Don't you see?" Cinderella rose to her knees, poking herself in the chest with her thumb. "I am _she_. I am his mysterious princess _._ " Hope filled her.

" _Oui_ , _I_ know you are, _ma chère_."

"So, all will be well then." Relief assailed her, and and she wiped her face with her apron. Gave Fairy Godmother her brightest smile.

Fairy Godmother pressed on. "Honestly, I can certainly understand the queen's disconcertment. What had the boy hoped to expect when he took that slipper to try on every maiden in the kingdom, hmm?" A dark premonition stole over Cinderella.

Fairy Godmother's exasperation stunned her. Not a single work could squeeze past the lump in her throat and there was so much to say. Fear mingled with something she could not define. _Dread, it was dread_.

Still Fairy Godmother rambled on. Bizarre ramblings, speaking more to herself.

"Did he truthfully believe only one person in all the land should fit a shoe in that size?" Irritation colored Fairy Godmother's features, her impatience now reigning full force. "I vow, the human race would not survive long if one led with such lack-witted intelligence. It is quite beyond my comprehension."

Cinderella's mouth gaped. She was too stunned to respond.

Fairy Godmother pinned her with a sharp gaze, set her finger beneath Cinderella's chin and lifted it closed. "The queen has begged my, um, cooperation," she said.

"I...I beg your...your pardon?" she choked out.

"As much as it pains me to put you through this, dear, I do believe the larger picture takes precedence." Fairy Godmother stood, and a certain panic roared through Cinderella. "I'm afraid there's no hope for it." With a sharp nod she dissipated along with her chair, leaving behind the black kettle. Dust and all.

The stick clattered to the floor once more, rolling to a stop at Cinderella's feet. She stared at it somewhat stunned.

Any pretense of control deserted her. "Fairy Godmother, _arrêtez_. Wait. Don't go," To her immense relief, sparkles filled the air and Fairy Godmother reappeared. "Oh, thank goodness. I knew you wouldn't leave me."

But she just smiled a quick, sad smile, and snatched up her silver baton. "This thing! 'Tis nothing but a nuisance, I vow," she muttered, melting away.

"But...but..." Cinderella's voice trailed though she longed to scream. She knew in her heart Fairy Godmother would not be returning. The tears ran rampant as she cast a forlorn gaze about the room. Free of shimmers or glitters, or any other signs of life.

'Twould have been better if she'd never offered Cinderella hope in the first place, she thought bitterly, despair obliterating any lingering promises. Her glance landed on Marcel perched in the corner. At least he'd been spared.

She dried her tears. They were useless anyway. She mustered up smile at his encouraging peep and vowed not to think of what could have been.

Almost forgetting the matron of the little group, Prince spun about. He clicked his heels and bowed over his future mother-in-law swollen appendage in a grand gesture that only a charming prince could maneuver. At the very least he knew his strengths.

"Please make ready by the end of a fortnight, _Madame_. A carriage shall be conveyed to transport your family at that time."

The stately incline of her head reminded him she'd once been married to a Prussian _duc._ He wondered briefly what happened to turn her into such a brash and demanding character as he turned and took his newly betrothed's hand and kissed the air above. Admittedly, he was slightly awed by the power of the breeze that touched his brow. "Until later, my lady."

Odd, how those eyes flurried in anticipation, or was it apprehension? How had this happened? Is this what his life was to become? Married to a...a woman who...

He pulled himself together. There must be a way around this disastrous development. No matter that he was the culprit that set the entire calamity in motion. He was his own worst enemy.

Prince mounted his horse, a great brute of a stallion, something a man could take pride in.

The frightening mother cast her daughter an exasperated look. She dipped a deep curtsy, prodding her daughters to do the same. Prince managed to hold back a groan. He raised a hand in farewell, and kicked his horse's flanks.

Somehow he and Arnald would claw their way from this scrape. Just like they always had. Surely, they could manage one more.

With a quick nod, he signaled the royal party to follow. Once they'd made distance he shook his head, numbed by the turn of events.

A sharp gust of wind burst from nowhere and unable to resist, cast a last glance behind. The mother's robust figure disappeared into the cottage, followed by the blonde with the over-large feet. Even from this reach he could see her stiff back fuming with resentment.

The stunning outcome of the day's events burned ups through his chest, setting him on the verge of hysterical laughter. He bit it back. He didn't want to terrify his party.

Prince shifted in his seat, facing the entourage, and cited calmly—because that is how one's leader was expected to carry oneself regardless of the bewilderment stealing his sanity. "Well, I do believe we have accomplished our search." He would never know how he managed not to strangulate on the words as he motioned the footmen and trumpet player to lead on. He narrowed his eyes on Arnald, who was swiping a suspicious smirk from his face, not quickly enough, however. "Do you find something amusing, Cousin?" Prince demanded softly.

"Oh, _oui_ , Cousin. I believe I find thought of the next few weeks _highly_ entertaining."

He scowled, wondering what his mother would think when he had his cousin's body stretched on the rack until his arms and legs ripped from his body.

What a completely hopeless situation. Prince guided his men through to the courtyard stables, slid from his horse and pitched the reins to a waiting groom. All without falling to his knees in frustration.

It wasn't _her_. Where was his mysterious princess? He'd searched everywhere. 'Twas as if she'd vanished into thin air. And now what was he to do? He could not conceivably marry Lady Elspeth. _Non, non_ , that was not right. Erasma?

And, those eyes. _Mon...Dieu!_ Determining the color? Impossible when they hammered like a thousand horses in an Indian desert in the midst of a dry spell. Nor could he remember the color of her hair, her dress. Those eyes were quite the distraction. And not in a good way. A hysterical laugh stirred high in his chest. He just needed to remain calm. Her eyes were an obvious sore point with her mother. He shook his head to clear the picture of Lady Erlinda, growling in frustration.

He'd been so focused on the goal of the slipper fitting that when the petite and surprisingly elegant foot slid right in—well, it was clear he had not followed the idea through with any sort of clarity. He needed advice and quickly. From anyone but his blasted cousin.

Papa? Possibly, he thought frowning, but even at Papa's best, his mind was slipping away. Abruptly dismissing the footmen, he stalked through the castle to the library.

A roaring fire blazed in the enormous hearth, giving the chamber warmth despite its high-reaching, frescoed ceiling and large windows. The heavy mahogany bookcases overflowed with books that covered two solid walls from top to bottom. Freshly waxed wood scented the chamber. Prince had loved this room as a child, partially due to the heat it provided in the monstrosity he called home.

He spied his father slumped in an overstuffed gilded chair, feet propped on the matching ottoman, reading spectacles askew and a hand splaying his chest. The picture was completed by the massive book that lay open across his lap.

Papa had a zeal for laughter that would explode through the castle walls when the slightest humor took his fancy. "Sir?"

Nothing. This truly was not in the realm of Papa's strengths. Prince considered the sight of his slumberous father, and pushed a hand through his wind-ruffed hair. As life would have it, age carried Papa along. Nowadays, tis mind wandered about. His absent-minded and childlike excitement was endearing in its way. But, Papa would not be able to help him. His decision was plain. He must seek Maman.

Prince almost slapped his forehead. She was not only a paragon of virtue, she was also very wise. This was most likely her plan all along—to counsel him; she was quite clever in her way.

Most times, wanted or not, she was a fountain of advice. _Oui_. A reasonable tranquility settled through him with the decision, the blood in his veins slowing to an acceptable level, his panic subsiding. He let out a steady breath and moved quietly near his father. He set a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.

"Have you seen Maman?" His snoozing father jarred to attention.

Prince winced. "Sorry, Papa."

"Ahhhhh," Papa stammered. His booming voice filled the room even in the throes of half sleep, drawing a tender smile from Prince. " _Non, non_ , son. As you can see I chose to pass the time reading."

" _Certainement_ , Papa," he said, lips twitching. Silence stretched between them. "Papa?"

"Yes, well." Papa cleared his throat noisily and readjusted his glasses. "She is out."

Prince let out a resigned sigh and excused himself. 

# Chapter 4

Thomasine's repetitive steps were designed to stem an impatience that would stun the masses. Reigning queens did not pace in deserted chambers designed to stay young brides from escaping bound marriage contracts in which they'd had no say. Hence, the strategically placed windows walls edging an unreachable ceiling. One could only imagine the spectacular view as waves beyond crashed against the jagged cliffs. The only way out was to fly, if one could squeeze through the small opening.

The hardwood floors echoed with her steps against the stone walls, even in light slippers. This portion of the castle had been uninhabited for years, creating the ideal location for her and Faustine's clandestine meets. Prince could not possibly think to find her here.

At times, she would swear, if queens were allowed to swear, that boy seemed as clueless as his aging father. She'd been quite clever, she thought, locating a spot where some overly helpful servant did not lurk, ready to offer their assistance.

On her fifteenth, or perhaps her twentieth, turn about the room, the familiar ringlet of ripples wafted from the floors.

"I'm worried for him," Thomasine declared.

" _Ma chére_ ," Her sister tsk-tsk'd, "you said yourself this task should be carried to fruition, otherwise, the dear boy should never learn to concoct a reasonable thought of his own. I would remind you that this entire scheme lies directly at your feet."

Thomasine sniffed, disgusted with her lack of resolve. "Oh, what difference does it make? Let my son find a woman able think for him as I have for Osmond all these years." She pressed her finger against an errant tear. "We can surely see from my own example, having a brilliant woman at one's side is advantageous, Faustine."

"Please refrain from calling me that obscene name. You know how I detest it," her sister bit out.

Thomasine's patience dissipated, but not in a flurry of sparkles. "Well, 'tis your given name, is it not? Besides which, the name 'Faustine' means highest of luck. And what we need now is luck."

Faustine scrutinized her twin. The same dark, curling hair, the same flashing blue eyes, and upturned noses. Their only difference in the moment was Thomasine's defensive posture, stern expression, and clenched fists. And, well, Thomasine's magnificent, if rather bland, frock compared to her own pink, tulle gown. The diamonds sewn throughout were especially pleasing.

She reined in her straying thoughts. "Well, of course, it doesn't _hurt_ anything, but what of your determination that the next king in line take pride in decisions he himself could and should make?" Faustine, clasped her sister's hand, spoke gently. Thomasine was most defensive when it came to Prince, understandably so. "You have always wanted more for him. You have said so yourself."

"Your point." Thomasine demanded, tapping one foot.

Thomasine's irritation hid her true fear. Fear her only son would fall victim to the same weakness of mind that ravaged their own father, and those fears were real enough, Faustine allowed. Didn't she harbor those same fears for Arnald?

"My dear, you've nothing to worry over. You know most of Papa's traits were in direct relation to a lack of self-discipline, self-worth, and strong values."

Faustine could see Thomasine's resolve weakening and Faustine did her duty to set things back on their righted path. She drew herself up and met Thomasine, nose to nose. "Don't you think I wish the same? He is my nephew after all." She dropped Thomasine's hand and waved her wand threateningly.

Thomasine's body sagged, her face falling in her palms. "What if this scheme should go too far? and he actually _marries_ the wrong one? What then?"

"Trust, my dear, trust."

Thomasine lifted her head, eyes glinting with renewed determination. " _Oui, oui_. I suppose you are right."

Relief filled Faustine. She _was_ right, Thomasine just needed reassurance they were following the set course for Chalmers future leadership of king and country.

"And, put that stick away. You are sure to poke someone's eye out." Thomasine spun on her heel and quit the chamber in a streak of dust, rivaling Faustine's own sparkles. Quite impressive.

# Chapter 5

The unwelcome fortnight passed with the same haste the tower clock had struck midnight two weeks past. Cinderella sat imprisoned within the loveliest coach of brocaded, silk draped windows and leather seats. She fixed her gaze on the dark paneled wall and lovely sconces, avoiding eye contact with her evil stepmother and vicious sisters, huddled deep in her thin wool pelisse, her tight fist in place for the missing buttons. Her other hand was sunk deep into her apron pocket, seeking Marcel's comforting presence. Her smuggled companion warmed her more than the heated bricks used to offset cool fall air.

He nudged her calloused fingers as if offering his reassurance.

She swallowed hard, praying she did not cast up her accounts in the confines of her plush cage—that or cry. She focused on the heavy curtains trimmed in thick gold tatting and concentrated on the bounce of perfect matching horses as they trotted closer to Chalmers Castle. Closer to disaster.

She had yet get through one night without the plaguing nightmare of Esmeralda marrying Prince Charming. _Her_ Prince. She bit back the bitter and stared out the carriage window.

" _My_ daughter, the Princess of Chalmers." Stepmama's elation in the words chilled Cinderella to her bones. She prayed, yet again, for a miracle. But miracles were in short supply. She also asked for a sustaining stomach. Not quite as difficult for the angels since she'd not had much in the way of sustenance. She tugged her gaze from a passing landscape of brightly colored foliage, risking a glance to her arch enemy, Esmeralda. Each passing day, the effort to maintain her nonchalance grew more excruciating than the day before.

" _Maman_ , _s'il vous plait_ ," Esmeralda breathed.

Esmeralda did seem rather terrified, but Cinderella knew it was just an act. She'd seen it time and time again through the years; from both Pricilla and Esmeralda. Consummate actresses—both of them. Cinderella's resentments ran too deep to harbor much in the way of sympathy.

Esmeralda's downcast eyes beat as rapid as the wings of a...a...flying monkey! Cinderella bit back a derisive snort that would have likely earned her being bodily tossed from the carriage. She could just make out the pale strain of white about Esmeralda's mouth. She was having no trouble playing up her fear.

Across, Stepmama reclined on the leather upholstered bench her focus narrowed on Esmeralda. Unfortunate for Esmeralda. As were her batting eyes. _Poor little Essie_. Ha! Perhaps, if she had not taken to snatching Prince from Cinderella's grasp, she might have been inclined for more empathy towards the copper-haired brat.

Still, if there was anyone who understood her stepsister's precarious possession, it was she.

Shocking really, as Stepmama had never treated her own daughters with anything less than pampered favor.

"Please _what,_ Essie?" Pricilla hissed.

Cinderella flinched at the animosity spewing from Pricilla and pressed herself deeper into the space of her own little corner, clenching the fabric deep inside her pocket. Marcel's mew reached her ears, and her fingers loosened. The bench she shared with Pricilla vibrated with Pricilla's fury.

Cinderella quelled a shiver, grateful Pricilla's anger was not directed at her. The atmosphere grew thick with tension, and Cinderella held her breath. No one had heard Marcel's cry.

Fear quickly shifted to resent that burned through Cinderella. Pricilla wasn't even the one who was wronged. She moved her gaze back to the mountainous view. A majestic splendor against an afternoon sky that had little calming effect. Nor did the lush trees or stalks of soft pink heather lining the hillsides. It was all a façade, just like her bland demeanor.

"You know that shoe was not mine, Maman." Esmeralda's voice was soft, determined.

A quick whiplash of the resounding crack crashed through the interior of the carriage. Cinderella whipped around, but cringed back further into her seat. A stark imprint of Stepmama's hand was already forming on Esmeralda's bloodless cheek.

Cinderella bit the inside of her mouth to keep from gasping. Even Pricilla cowered deeper within the folds. Shock filled the enclosure. Never once, had Stepmama, in Cinderella's memory, raised her hand to either of her sisters.

" _Never_ speak those words aloud henceforth, Esmeralda." Stepmama's snarl would frightened a starving mongrel from its prey. Her eyes burned, a maniacal fierceness, raking over each occupant of the confined space that shrunk with each passing kilometer. She tugged a kerchief from her reticule. "Am I _quite_ clear?" She asked with a sudden calm.

Pricilla nodded. Then Cinderella. She dropped her eyes. One could remain unscathed if one remained invisible. 'Twas survival and the way of her life.

Cinderella stole a glance from the corner of her eye. Esmeralda's compressed lips jolted spurt of compassion through Cinderella. How could it not? But just as quickly she shoved away the sentiment. Her sisters spent years tormenting her, and that way lay only heartache.

A feral smile lit up Stepmama horrific features and Cinderella squeezed her upper arms into her sides, crossed her forearms over her midsection. Tried to make herself as small and unseen as possible.

"We seem to be slowing," Stepmama said.

Prince stood rooted in the Grand Hall awaiting the crunch of coach wheels that would propel his nightmare into broad daylight of reality.

In the past fortnight he'd suffered dreams of a ticking clock that pounded in deafening fervor. Streams of white satin whipping in violent gusts behind a vanishing specter he chased, following the trail of glittering jewels that stopped cold before a cracked and empty glass shoe. Velvet brown eyes squeezed the strings of his heart fluttered in a vehement frenzy, before mere seconds passed, and she fled for her life, a cyclone in her wake.

The dream was so brilliant and vivid. He'd startled to full awareness, heart pounding, body drenched in sweat. Each night he fought his way to an open window, gulping the cold night air.

Hopelessness weighed heavily. Night after night. _She was the wrong girl_. Prince longed to bellow to the heavens, the injustice of it all with promises to reap the consequences of his deal with his devil. A deal to set him free. To find _her_ , his midnight ghost.

Instead, he forced deep calming inhalations. Pulled his mind to the present. Papa stood in regal magnificence, hands clasped at his lower back, an absent expression on his worn and cheerful face. No need to wonder what he was thinking. The book he'd been so engrossed came to mind.

He flinched at his ungracious thoughts. This whole situation was a ridiculous dilemma of his own making, he admitted, not without disgust. No one but himself to blame. Still, it boded disaster for his future.

He shifted his gaze to Maman. Something about her expression—or rather, lack of one, was curious. "Where's Arnald?" He should not have to suffer this insanity alone.

Stately and noble. That was his mother. True, she _was_ the queen. Her stature required composure in any situation however awkward. And this one certainly qualified. He hid a grimace and studied her cool dignified poise.

"Hmm?" Unruffled and utterly calm.

Strange for a mother on the brink of meeting the future bride of her only son. His gaze dropped to the gently clasped hands in her lap. The son-to-mother discourse he'd strived for had never come to pass. For his every approach had met with some untimely crisis demanding her attention.

"Sir Arnald? Your nephew?" He leaned in eyes narrowing. Was that a fraction __ of tension about her mouth? Her composure was perfect, of course, shoulders relaxed.

Her eyes lifted to pierce him, unwavering. He tossed out an uncaring smirk. The one he'd used as a lad of no more than four and ten. A handy little thing that had kept him out of myriad scrapes. A faint blush tinged her cheeks. Without fail, something was amiss. She'd not been able to fool him for years now.

Clipped footsteps coincided with the sound of reining hooves. Arnald appeared just beyond Papa's shoulder.

Prince tried inhaling but it stuck in his throat, almost strangling him.

Maman rose and smoothed graceful hands down her rich cerulean blue silken skirts. There would be no help from those quarters. Her expression, while mild, held an undercurrent of smugness. Most puzzling.

He attempted another deep, careful breath. Dropped his head from side to side, squared his shoulders, raised his chin raised. A footman tugged back the keep and he set out to meet his uncertain future.

The sun shone in an overly bright sky though the wind speed increased upon the footman's release of the carriage door.

Commotion seemed to ensue as to whom should step forward first.

Curling, copper tresses reflected the sun's beams, absolving the mystery, but for the saints Prince could not grasp the color of the girl's eyes. Their rapid flurry made that fete impossible. _His future bride_.

It happened in an instant.

Fatigue and the lack of appetite the past sennight were taking their toll. The unstoppable fiasco of 'the shoe fitting someone other than his intended,' the constant analyses and scrutiny in dissecting this egregious scenario...well, was it any wonder he felt such an irregular tingle in the air? A clutch in his chest? A weakness in his knees?

The officious wind, the blinding sun, the horror of an impending marriage he'd inflicted upon himself— _for the rest of his life_ —had him grasping for air. Odd, when great gusting gales surged about him.

But the shimmering atmosphere took on a quality of that to wavering heat waves rising over an open flame. And, without warning the perfect delaying tactic rose up to meet him in a scandalous surrender to the flagstones.

In a dead faint.

# Chapter 6

The interminable minutes that dragged by before the carriage drew to its final, agonizing stop were enough to render a girl mad, even one accustomed to long bouts of silence. 'Twas not the moaning wheels or anything else so undignified that unnerved Cinderella. Just the long and tedious drive entrapped with a maniacal stepmother and two stepsisters' subjections towards cruelty.

The carriage rocked softly at shift of weight from the driver's descent. Skirts rustling, excited murmurs, and other indistinguishable noises outside, created nervous flutters deep within Cinderella's abdomen. Steps scraped stone and the door finally swung open, flooding the inside with sudden light. Cinderella squinted in the brightness and plucked her foot from harm's way in Stepmama's haste to alight.

An eerie clairvoyance swept through Cinderella. What if she remained behind? How long would her absence would go unnoticed? Hours? Days? Alas, she was much too much of a coward to carry off such a daring scheme, and forced herself to follow Stepmama's bulky form.

A collective gasp sounded upon her descent. Not for an inkling did she believe the group cheered her stepmother.

However, a slow building hum resembling something towards alarm filled the air. And, truly, if the crowd was alarmed by Stepmama's presence, she must give credit for the intelligence of the population. She swallowed a nervous giggle.

Her stepsisters' cruel humor must be rubbing off. Cinderella leaned to one side, peering around Stepmama. A cloistered group hovered around someone lying on the ground.

Trepidation mounted low in her belly as she descended the step to the ground. The cold flagstones seeped through the thin soles of her shoes and stockings.

Her gaze locked on black shiny boots, reflecting the sun in their high polish. Something was horribly wrong. Her gaze followed the line of the massive form, the line of the dark breeches stretched over strong muscled limbs, arms flung out on each side. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering a convulsive choke. _He was dead?_

Despite the white gloves hiding his broad hands, she knew. Those hands had enveloped her in a grasp that defied gravity. Guided her about a crowded ballroom, throngs parting with their presence. Had her floating on air when he'd murmured his "How do you do?" When she never believed she'd come down to earth again.

Snatches of rumbling conversations poked her with the pricks of a thousand needles.

"...was too much..."

"...dropped like an anchor in the sea..."

"...the poor dear..."

"...has not been the same since..."

"...a shame..."

"...such weak constitution..."

_A weak constitution?_ More __ inappropriate giggles threatened. The imbeciles! They _could_ not be speaking of her prince. Cinderella dropped to her knees. She shut out the sharp gasps, the outraged squawks of her stepsisters and Stepmama.

With tentative fingers she clutched his hand. Warmth seeped through as his fingers curled about hers. She couldn't see his face, the curve of his lips, or shock of dark hair. But there was no mistaking the awareness crackling over her skin.

The prick of cupid's arrow had already pierced her heart as stark as a bolt of lightning streaking across a blackened sky. _Prince_.

"Cinderella!" Stepmama snapped. Had she said his name aloud?

"Prince, Prince, please wake, my darling," she prayed under her breath.

"Stop that incessant muttering!" Pain wrenched through her jerked arm as she was hauled from her knees. Cold infused her ungloved hand without his warming touch. She resisted the urge to struggle, knowing the futility of such resistance.

"Give the man some air," someone called out.

Tears blurred vision as she was jostled aside. Farther and farther, shoved outside the ensuing circle that surrounded her love's lifeless body.

Prince could only imagine how he appeared, sprawled on the flagstones like a bird shot from the sky. Horrified at what could _not_ have possibly happened, yet what, indeed, _must_ have happened. Not a muscle flinched by sheer power of will, daring only to breathe the shallowest intakes of the mid-autumn air.

A gentle breeze stirred the drifting leaves, and his coat unable to keep out the cold of the stones at his back. The chaos of shocked voices stayed him. There would be no facing Maman after this disastrous debacle. She'd won the round, hands down, whatever her odd game.

A strange, appealing warmth caressed his fingers with a touch of familiarity. Every cell in his body ached to grasp that hold, secure it and run as far away and as fast a possible. It was a touch full of comfort, a whispering that he'd found where he belonged. Even flat on his back in full view of the servants, his parents, his betrothe's—a small, tiny, minute even, groan made it out.

The crass, brittle sound of his betrothed's mother skittered away the last of the warmth—a sound he'd heartily wished to eradicate by this time.

"Cinderella," she snapped.

Prince peeked through a barely raised lid of one eye. The sun still shined through fluffy white clouds. Yet, a gusting wind mocked him. It was a perfectly wretched situation.

How could a man of nineteen years succumb to such a state? He was surely living some dreadful dream. His mother barked an order to Arnald in a low commanding tone that could have raised France from the depths of despair over the years. Prince clamped his eyes shut, and allowed the indignity of his cousin hoisting him over one shoulder like a sack of turnips.

Divine intervention flashed through him, searing him with pain of a dull knife carving his heart from his chest. He should never have set about Chalmers to find a woman whose foot fit a blasted slipper. He could see that now. He just wished someone had mentioned the fact.

His mysterious princess _must_ have been a dream. It was clear now he'd imagined the entire episode. Or, mayhap he'd fallen under the wood nymphs and faeries spells. He let out a sigh. Still, that night had seemed so real. Her silken skirts billowing out with each turn as he'd guided her through the lighted ballroom. Candlelight enhancing the auburn highlights in her upswept, mahogany hair.

_Oui_ , he decided, it was too _unreal_. He'd been brainwashed. Age did not slow with time, the pressure of duty to marry, the guilt from Maman had hurled him into a fevered imagination. Besotted and helpless held by dreams that had taken over his sanity. He'd reached for the skies and... _what a fool_.

'Twas official, then. He was bound for Bedlam. Even ported over his cousin's shoulder everything made perfect sense.

Well, except for her exceptional beauty, the breath of her laughter, the softness of her cheek, her fit in his arms. And...what of the slipper he'd found abandoned on the stair?

_Mon Dieu_. 'Twas not possible. She couldn't possibly be a figment of his imagination. _The slipper was real_. 'Twas in his possession, _oui_? So why hadn't he found _her_?

"Mayhap I should marry Lady Egberta and be done with the entire business, Arnald? Do my duty. Please, Maman. Hadn't that been the sole purpose of that silly ball?"

"What are you mumbling on about, Cousin?"

"The wood nymphs cast their spell on me. 'Tis the only answer." Though no sound emanated from his cousin, the vibration of laughter was unmistakable.

Never had Prince's chambers seemed so far and away. Yet, he would suffer through the humiliation being hauled over Arnald's shoulder. If anything, 'twould keep the servants entertained.

Moments later, Arnald dumped him on his bed with unceremonious hilarity. Not aloud, Prince observed, at least not yet. Such restraint had to be admired.

Prince began a mental count to ten. Arnald's laughter burst through the room. The count reached four. There weren't many who could get away with laughing at the future king. But for their close age and kinship, well, Arnald was the closest thing to a brother he had. If Prince decided not to kill him first.

Prince lay back on his massive bed like a frozen corpse, appalled by the turn of events. Perhaps he was dazed by a lump on his head. He placed fingertips to his temples, spread his fingers through his hair, over his scalp. No lump. _Oui_ , 'twas the wood nymphs. He would have them imprisoned.

Familiar surroundings with doses of deep even breaths soothed him. He'd heard tales of midwives using similar techniques for childbearing. He bit back the bark of hysteria, too absurd for words. There _must_ be a lump on his head—pressing in—if he recalled talk of not only childbearing, but midwives. Nineteen! He should have no inkling what a midwife was.

He rose slowly, testing the back of his head as he surveyed his posh chamber. Starting with the heavy armoire, moving to the comfortable sitting area, the dressing table that held his grooming tools, his shaving apparatus.

A manly chamber.

A chamber he would never swoon in.

A chamber that exuded viral masculinity...save for the portrait of his parents. Prince rested his gaze on that painting. The one residing proudly over the bed. _His_ bed.

The artist's skill managed to capture Maman's soft knowing smile slighted to Papa, Papa's oblivion, even then. They sat in a field surrounded by vivid purple, orange, and yellow perennials. A knowing quirk in Maman's eye penned Prince where he stood.

He should rethink the painting over the bed.

Disgusted, he glanced at Arnald. His cousin's smirk was remarkably similar to Maman's. With his arms folded across his chest, Arnald held __ the haughty down-the-nose stare to an art.

"Would you care to explain?" Arnald asked.

Prince's temper snapped. "Go ahead, bellow to your heart's content. You know you wish to, but at least bar the door beforehand." His temper faded just as quickly as it had appeared. The abhorrence of the fiasco settling over him, leaving him queasy. He groaned. "How unfavorable, would you say?"

Arnald shook his head, restraining more laughter. He'd better. One did not laugh at the prince, he though glumly.

"The future king just fainted. How unfavorable would _you_ say?"

# Chapter 7

Thomasine moved forward to welcome her new houseguests with all the grace a queen summons after her strong winsome son dropped like a pile of rocks to the ground in a dead faint, before God and country. Of course, she'd hidden an inclination to do the same. What a brilliant escape. There was hope for him yet.

Rather than stalking away, which was her next tempting option, she assessed the two young women before her. They were lovely with their shiny hair and creamy complexions. The sullen expressions, however, detracted from their true beauty. Their mother, Lady Hildegard Roche's awe seemed genuine, yet watchful.

A many-times-mended-over kerchief in a drab faded brown covered the long dark, dull locks of hair that hung down the back of the exceptionally pretty servant girl. Her apron had seen better days. Thomasine's eyes narrowed. Was it her imagination or had something in the girl's pocket just moved? _Non,_ impossible _._ With a self-conscious move, the child slid her chapped hand into that pocket. __

Lovely brown eyes looked lost in a face dotted with... ash? on her pale cheeks?

Thomasine wished she could reassure the child. At first glance, her son's choice was questionable but in this matter she had long ago vowed her prince would select his own princess.

Cleaned up, the chit would be breathtaking. There was a kindness about her the other girls lacked. _Oui_ , the dark haired beauty would make a fine princess.

_If_ this __ stratagem did not somehow manage to go awry. With a bit of luck, she and Faustine might succeed in guiding Prince's efforts toward maturity.

Resisting an urge to close her eyes, Thomasine silently chanted Faustine's words. "Trust, my dear, trust." There was no choice at this juncture, besides.

With practiced cordiality, Thomasine clucked, "You must be weary from your travels. A long ride, _non_?" No one answered, but she had not expected them to.

Amusement touched her as they gawked. Lady Hilda nodded, sending her triple chin into a horrifying jiggle. It seemed the woman could find nothing coherent to say. Thomasine had seen this before, of course. Royalty could be unnerving to the Lessors.

"Beatrix, please conduct our guests to their quarters so they may freshen for supper," the queen murmured. In a regal sweep she addressed Lady Hilda. Thank the heavens Royalty had their practiced finesse, as it would take that and more to pull off this mad plot of they'd devised. "We dine at eight, my dear. We shall gather in the family parlor for a pre-dinner sherry beforehand. A servant will avail themselves to you for your direction." Thomasine inclined her head, as refinement and culture demanded. And, as expected, the four women bestowed deep curtsies.

Thomasine spared no haste making her way to the meeting chamber she and Faustine had designated for their outrageous machinations. Diabolical yet subtle. She would be lucky if her son did not launch a campaign for her incarceration when he stepped up to the throne.

She let out a sigh. Ah, well, a mother had a duty to her child. She pressed her lips together. Especially an only child.

A few seconds edged by before the outbreak of sparkles appeared, thus lauding Faustine into full view.

"What think you? Impossible?" Thomasine asked, brows furrowed.

"It's possible," Faustine responded, tapping her chin in contemplation. Her tiny wand slipped to the floor, rolled precariously toward the door.

"Odd how the one young lady's eyes blink so rapidly, is it not?" Thomasine promptly dismissed the thought, adding, "Well, never mind, 'tis time to see our plan through. Too late for naught else, I fear."

" _Oui._ "

"You best hang on to that silly contraption, Faustine. We can ill afford for it to fall in the wrong hands."

"Pray, quit calling me that." Faustine scowled.

"Whyever not, _ma chére_? 'Tis your name, _non_?" Thomasine darted for the door. "We shall speak later. _Adieu_."

# Chapter 8

Cinderella had watched tormented as Prince's large masculine form was hauled over his manservant's shoulder and whisked away. Her fixed-stare had followed the retreating figures up a flight of stone steps to disappear behind the castle's elaborate entrance.

One blink brought her attention to the monstrosity of the structure in the brilliant light of the late afternoon. Much different than crashing the Royal Ball in the throes of a dark, moonlit night.

A lovely night, she sighed. A finer night she'd never see again in this lifetime.

Rich green ivy grew along the stones on both sides of the entrance. Windows in mortared stacks of four reached an endless sky, and rounded columns towered above a flat roof. Cinderella swallowed past an obstruction blocking her throat.

Perhaps it would not be such a trial to see Esmeralda married to Prince. But the vision of his slumped form slung over his servant's shoulder tugged at her heart. She was the one who should be there when he opened his eyes. The one to kiss away the hurt, shower him with love, affection, children.

Stubborn resolve took possession of her sense. _Non_. In no way could she allow Esmeralda to marry Prince. But how to prevent it? Her eyes fell to her patched frock and her despair catapulted to the clouds, seeing what everyone else saw. Stepmama had everyone believing her a servant.

" _Mademoiselle_?" A shy voice broke through her careening thoughts.

Her head shot up. " _Oui_?"

"This way, _Mademoiselle_."

Cinderella peered about. No one seemed to hear the timid maid but her. She wore a flouncing white mob cap and starched white apron. Her elf-like features, whimsical eyes, and pert nose, sparkled with mischievousness. A sense of déjà vu trickled through her. Fairy Godmother?

Impossible.

Cinderella shook her head but the opportunity to escape her ill-gotten family was not one she was prepared to miss. Stepmama could hardly call her out before the queen, could she.

With a small giggle, Cinderella followed her. They made haste in quick short steps that lead straight away from Stepmama, Pricilla, and Esmeralda. This, in and of itself, was like a waking a dream...but...

The girl led to her the side of the castle. Alarm prickled over her. As they rounded the corner, Cinderella glanced over her shoulder. Pricilla's smirk and piercing eyes had followed. Cinderella flinched at the venom reeling from her, even from this distance it was evident. She squared her shoulders. Nothing could dampen her life any more than the situation had thus far.

She hustled after the darting servant through a hidden wood door.

The instant she stepped inside, a wretched sense of dread hit her. She'd followed the blasted girl through to the servants' entrance?

Visions of hopeless abandon played in her overactive imagination. "You had a serving girl, my sweet? How is it, I never noticed?"

Esmeralda's eyes fluttered, only stirring the curtains, her laughter a trilled quaver. "Why, she disappeared the day we moved into the castle. I guess you didn't notice, due to your weakened constitution. Remember, darling? You fainted...."

Lost. In the bowels of the palace, never to be seen or heard from again.

Cinderella dashed burning tears from her cheeks and scurried after the maid before she truly did lose sight of the girl. Curiosity mingled with fear as they twisted through a maze of darkened hallways and winding staircases. Never seeing another soul in their pursuit of...of what?

Surely, a good ten minutes had passed before they burst out into a wide corridor. No other souls graced the hall. She followed the maid to a spacious and richly furnished bedchamber.

"Oh, my," Cinderella breathed, spinning slowly. A much-too-large bed with humongous four-posters and canopy of sheer gauze occupied a good portion of the space in shades of green and cream that reminded her of a brilliant spring day. Waking in such luxury would feel as if she'd dosed in a field of grass surrounded by wild flowers. A barrage of pillows in a multitude of shapes and sizes would serve a brilliant hiding place too. Her voice cracked in a stunned laugh as though rusty and hoarse from lack of use.

A sideboard sported a pitcher of fresh water and basin for washing. A vast armoire stood in one corner, and wood floors were waxed to a lustrous shine one could use as a looking glass. The sun beamed through sheer linings framed by green velvet drapes threaded with gold thread. Someone had left a warm and toasty fire burning in the grate.

That same someone had obviously ushered her to the wrong chamber. This was much too extravagant for the likes of her. Cinderella spun around, ready to apprise the maid of her fallacy, but said maid had vanished as whimsically as she'd appeared.

Cinderella perched onto the edge of a brocaded, gilded chair, mouth agape. She never dreamed such luxury existed. Mayhap getting lost in the bowels of the castle would not be such a horrific fate after all. Mayhap she would never happen across Prince or Esmeralda. She pulled her hand from her pocket where Marcel beamed her with a cheeky smile.

"Mayhap, I could hide here—forever," she choked out on a whispered laugh.

He nodded. He wouldn't mind, of course, if they had cheese.

"I don't suppose it's possible my mother will gain me leave of supper."

Arnald answered with a raised bushy brow and held out an open waistcoat. Prince shrugged into it, mumbling, "What good is a servant who has naught of substance to say?" He turned away from the man's too ready irritating smirk.

"No good, _Sire_." Arnald chuckled. "When said servant is also your _older_ cousin." Arnald's intonation of 'sire' was a sore point.

"Six months out of the year? I think not." Older, indeed. They were _both_ nineteen for at least another four months. Another thought occurred to him, and he pierced Arnald with a scathing glance. "You are not holding bets from the servants on the outcome of my upcoming nuptials, are you?"

Arnald lifted a nonchalant shoulder. Prince clenched a fist to resist planting it in his cousin's smug expression. But Maman would likely lock the both of them in the dungeon should either one appear at supper with a bloodied nose or blackened eye. She'd not show favoritism in any such instance.

Supper at Chalmers Castle was an immensely formal affair. On more occasions than not, foreign dignitaries or visiting prime ministers from other unions were found gracing the royal table. Tonight, however, there was only his future eye-batting bride, her angry sister, and their stout, overbearing maman for distraction.

An oppressive thought.

Prince felt as if he had not a single moment with his own maman since the night of the ball. In fact, he was quite certain it was so. With sudden insight usually reserved for witchcraft and womenfolk, he realized she'd been avoiding him...like the plague. Along the lines of the Black Death not seen since the early days of the fourteenth century. Impressive, actually.

The usual pre-dinner sherry party on most eves was found in the formal parlor. Tonight's affair, however, had been shifted to the family library. The last minute change was curious. Upon his entrance, a slight breeze ruffled his hair, prompting a quick glance in Lady Esperanza's direction. Such freakishly strong eyelids? _Oui_ , 'twas palpitating as steady as a rapid heartbeat to create such an indoors updraft. Phenomenal.

"Ah, here he is. Son!" Papa bellowed "You are here." Typically amused by father's booming voice, Prince hid an unusual annoyance that practically choked him.

He inclined his head. "Papa."

Papa cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Your maman, son, she has been asking after you," he blustered. "Your ordeal, you know." Prince had not realized how unnaturally loud Papa truly was until this moment. Heat crept up his neck.

"It is ten until eight on the clock, Papa." Prince informed him blandly, angling his head to the timepiece over the mantle. He turned toward his fugacious mother with a smile only she would recognize as deviant. Understandable, of course. He'd inherited it from her.

An undeniable blush tinged her cheeks. Ah, things were looking up. His dark mood lightened at once.

Her blush rescinded. "Darling, I trust you are feeling better after your mishap?" Her face showed concern, but her voice held unmistakable amusement.

" _Oui_." Prince cleared his throat. "I am unsure what ailment assailed me, but I appear to be quite sound now." An unexpected urge came over him to laugh, the tension in his chest suddenly abating. Quite enchanting, his Maman. She knew exactly what she was about.

Another slight cough interrupted their light banter, startling him momentarily. He swallowed a groan. How could he have forgotten?

With the calm resolve of nobility, he turned his attention to the woman he'd momentarily managed to put from his mind—Lady Ersilia's mother. A face worthy of nightmares. Her features could only be described as robust, topped with an undercurrent of a permanent dull flush. She used her broad body to intimidate. She was a bully.

Prince pulled himself to his full height of over six feet and bestowed his most congenial, _princely_ , smile.

" _Madame_ ," he murmured, lifting her clammy hand to his lips. He moved off swiftly to the two younger women. They were not near as frightening. But for the life of him, only Lady Elverdine's name sprang to mind. It was so unlike him.

His mother took pity on him. "You remember Pricilla, dear?"

The young woman before him had flaxen hair, almost white in its blond, piled high in elegant curls atop her head. Her evening gown, a pastel yellow billowed over full petticoats, was trimmed in white lace. Full and fashionable. Her manner appeared quite direct; gray eyes...almost... _accusatory_ , met his full on.

Her lips stretched into a thin smile, giving her a surly appearance. Once again, the word angry popped in his head.

"Ah, yes, of course. Lady Pricilla." He bowed over her outstretched hand. There was a reason he was called Prince Charming—and gave her the full, smile, drawing an audible gasp and deep blush to her cheeks. He was very happy the shoe had not fit _her_.

"And, Lady Esmeralda, darling."

"Ah, Lady Esmeralda," he whispered, committing the name to memory; and lowered his lips to a trembling hand. Her eyes bat so furiously he feared she would take off in flight. The current in the air _was_ amazing.

"Dinner is served."

Outrageous.

Cinderella stomped her foot in frustration. How _could_ Stepmama pass her off as a servant! Because she was the evil stepmother, and this was a blasted fairy tale, she fumed.

Her ugly brown skirt whipped around, vicious in its attack to any unlikely cobwebs as she maneuvered about her elaborate chamber. She wanted to scream. Despite the spaciousness, Cinderella felt as if the walls were closing in. She felt lost. In a jungle, all alone and unarmed. She spun, stubbing her toe through thinly made, and worn slippers, on the leg of an overstuffed chair.

In an unusual fit of violence, hopping on one foot, Cinderella flung the door back. It bounded against the wall behind. She winced, appalled by her lack of decorum. She strived for calm, breathing in through her nose, letting out the stream of air slowly through her mouth as she crept forward and peered out.

The hallway loomed large and airy. Daunting. Beeswax candles in precisely placed sconces were perched along both sides of the corridor, the soft pleasant scent of linseed oil teasing her senses.

She glanced towards the end of the hallway. A window, as large as it was tall showed dusk had fallen quickly. In another hour the moon would burn bright. To her right, the hallway wound into the depths of darkness, the silence, ominous.

She'd been forgotten. Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them away, forcing herself to remember solitude offered a reprieve from Stepmama, Pricilla, and Esmeralda. How often had she wished for that very thing? Most times she could count on being summoned by way of a screech or slap. No matter the hour of the day.

She shook away the gloom and smiled at Marcel. "Leastways, I can always depend on you, _oui,_ my friend?" He peeped his undying loyalty. "Come, we must explore." The opportunity was too great to pass up. She raised her chin and stepped from the safety of her chamber, treading softly towards the large window.

This unfettered freedom felt too much like a thief stealing in the night. She glanced over her shoulder and prayed the guards would hold their fire should they spot her.

Her slippers sunk into a deep rug that did not quite stretch the width of the hall. She couldn't detect a speck of dust. Marcel's squeak in the eerie hush reverberated. She shushed him.

The tall window turned out to be door, and with another glance over her shoulder, making certain no one had snuck up on her, she grabbed her courage and tested it. It opened with nary a sound. Cool night air brushed teased the hair on her forehead. She quickly pulled it shut and settled for gazing out at a full moon.

"Oh, Papa," she whispered. "How different life would have been had you not succumbed to that dreadful infirmity all those years ago. Would that you have been home with us." But he had not. He'd traveled to South America for the King and never returned home.

There was a time she and her sisters were like sisters _._ The memories were so distant, she sometimes wondered if perhaps she was mistaken. Even Stepmama had seemed cordial enough at one time.

But Papa had remarried for love. She could recall fighting for her place on his lap, and his good natured laugh, telling all three girls, there was enough of him to go around.

"I've tried, Papa. I truly have."

What would __ become of her when Esmeralda married Prince? She swallowed a pained cry, vowed she would find a way. _She would_.

For one moment in time, fate had smiled upon her. Allowed her to dance a night away, allowed hope to swell her heart.

She would carry her secret to her dying day, she vowed. Leastways, no one could steal her memories. She was almost certain Esmeralda and Pricilla did not have a fairy godmother. She clung to the knowledge with satisfactory glee. Perhaps, she could reach Fairy Godmother.

Chewing her bottom lip, she glanced about for any sign of life, then gasped. What if Fairy Godmother came searching for her and couldn't find her? They'd left so suddenly. _Non, non._ She was a fairy godmother, she had powers. Who else could have turned a drab servant girl into a magnificent and mysterious princess?

Cinderella cleared her throat with a delicate cough. "Fairy Godmother?" she called, softly. "Please. _S'il vous plait_. I am in desperate need of your assistance, Ma'am." Cinderella waited, but only ominous silence loomed in the airy corridor.

Fairy Godmother must truly be angry. If Cinderella could find a way to reimburse her for the lost shoe... How much would a glass slipper cost? Cinderella frowned. More than she had, which was nothing.

Oh, how she _wished_ she were a strong heroine—a heroine who prevailed in the face of defeat. To rise above the ashes, smile as a saint. Be of a giving nature. Offer an evil stepsister her blessed union with the prince. Show him— _them_ —she was, above all, a _true_ princess.

Her shoulders slumped. How could she when _she_ loved Prince? She did not wish to be a saint. Her timid nature fell more in favor of survival tactics than heroic efforts. Too many years of Stepmama's methods of discipline of harsh words and heavy hands.

More tears stung. A recurring fault of late.

"Peep." Cinderella looked down. Marcel was perched on the toe of her shoe. She leaned down and offered him an open palm, smiling through a watery vision.

"Prince deserves someone strong and beautiful, you know," she told him. "A real princess." Marcel let out an annoyed squeak.

"Of course." The quick surge of anger fused through the tears. "He especially does not deserve someone as mean and spiteful as Esmeralda."

She pushed away the useless tears and surveyed the grounds outside the large glass. Bright moonlight provided a crystal clear view of perfect gardens. As immaculate as the hallway baseboards—leastways from the moonlit sky.

The last of her anger faded, a small grin filling her. It was a lovely palace. "Look." She pointed to the manicured lawns. Waves rippled across a small pond that glittered in the streaming moon's light. She squinted trying to make out what she thought might be a statue in its center. "It looks like one of the Greek gods," she said. The sight draped a blanket of melancholy over her. "If I am not mistaken, it's Eros, the god of love. He's guarding that small pond. See the stringed bow and arrow?" It had to be, she thought. His sinewy arms set him distinctly apart from other ancient mythological figures.

Nostalgia swept through her. All her readings of Eros portrayed his potent power. Granted, her imagination could soar with the legends, but Eros' role in the myths was brilliantly legendary. Magnificent, even in modern times, the masses still celebrated him as the darling of poets and artists. The centuries had been very kind to him. She giggled.

Marcel responded in kind. Happy she'd decided to revel in her new, most likely, short-lived independence.

Somehow this particular statue, at this particular moment seemed most apropos. Perhaps she would sneak out early on the morrow. Just for a quick and closer look. She shrugged. Who would miss her?

Something might inspire her imagination in snagging Prince's attention. Fairy tales had happy endings after all. In the meantime, she would bask in this unexpected gift of solitude while she could. Alone, spared her their anger, criticism, or violence.

A sense of silly giddiness stole over her. She spun around and skipped down the wide, long hall. 

# Chapter 9

Would dinner never end? The excellent meal of cold cucumber soup, herb-crusted lamb and roasted potatoes was wasted. The tension grew so intense Thomasine almost rescinding her rule of "family must attend" suppers. By the end of the fifth course she was questioning her sanity.

Small talk that included the royal gardens, architecture of the castle, previous royal occupants and visitors, flowed fairly well. She was undeniable in her skill. But with Osmond things became a bit more unpredictable.

Thankfully, Prince was as adept as she in guiding conversations toward more neutral topics. It seemed Lady Roche harbored those talents as well.

"The weather is simply fabulous this time of year, Your Majesty," Lady Roche said to Osmond swiftly. "Did you perchance order it yourself, Sir?"

Covered giggles erupted from the young ladies, Pricilla and Esmeralda. Their mother silenced them with a stern look and the outburst abruptly ceased. Thomasine hid a sigh behind her serviette. A shame really, as the young women's reactions lent them normalcy, an innocence, per se.

A quick glance at her son showed he'd thought the same—begging the need to remind him: _royalty did not wear open miens_.

An awkward silence hovered over the party. Osmond seemed perplexed by her question, slicing through Thomasine's heart with end of a bayonet. She leaned forward and laid her hand over his. "It was a witticism, dear."

"Ah!" Osmond laughed, loud and booming. The roar was out of place to all but him. " _Certainement_ , Madame. _I_ ordered it."

_Oui._ Supper would never end.

Osmond speared the two young women with a sharp gaze Thomasine had not seen in years. "Which of you did the shoe fit, eh?"

Lady Pricilla's jaw clenched. She shook her head.

The piercing look he shot Lady Esmeralda would have thrilled Thomasine under other circumstances nerves ruled the poor girl, evidenced by the fluttering table cloths. "Is there something wrong with your eyes, Girl?" The thundering voice she adored blared. He seemed to remember the fork in his hand and stabbed it through a piece of lamb, oblivious to sudden hostility in the air.

Silence stretched across the taut atmosphere. How Thomasine kept from groaning aloud and dropping her head in her hands was beyond her. _Royalty showed no emotion._

Which was not the case for their guests.

Lady Esmeralda's already pale face drained of color. She bound from her chair so quickly it toppled but for a quick footed servant.

Gasping for breath the girl bolted from the room. Lady Roche's murderous expression flushed purple. Thomasine wished she felt justified in ordering her to the dungeon on facial expression alone. Alas, she could not. The woman was right to be angry for her child.

In one fell swoop, Osmond had managed to bring the never-ending meal to its conclusion. "Shall we adjourn to the library?" She said.

Her husband rose from his chair and assisted her as was his usual custom, ignorant to the tenseness which rolled over the room like a thick fog. She truly loved him.

Prince donned his ingrained and impeccable manners by bowing and offering an arm to Lady Roche. "Madame, shall we?" he prompted, leaving an angry Lady Pricilla to follow.

There was no need to remind him of maintaining a blank façade, she thought proudly, leading the parade from the dining chamber.

# Chapter 10

Running footsteps echoed and skip shifted to a run. Terrified, she made for her chamber. She hadn't permission to leave. What if they put her in the dungeon? She reached the doo, hand on the handle, panting as Esmeralda emerged into the corridor. Tears streamed down her face, flushed and contorted with anger. Not an attractive sight by any means.

Cinderella peered past her red-headed sister, but it appeared she was alone. Perhaps it was time to set a few things straight. She drew herself up, squared her shoulders. Waited just until Esmeralda was one step away before crossing the threshold ready to shut the door in her face. She hesitated, and after a long hesitation, stood back allowing her to enter.

Cinderella assessed Esmeralda in a silent cool countenance, something she would never have braved in the past.

"What are you doing here?" Esmeralda snapped. Her haughty effect was ruined by an unfeminine sniff.

Cinderella realized Esmeralda must have gotten herself lost. "I live here."

For the slightest moment, she she took perverse pleasure in Esmeralda's flushed appearance. She'd never hold out for long and let out a tired sigh. "Why do you cry so?"

"What do you care? You should take thrill in my misery." Her distress was so absolute and out of character, Cinderella couldn't help feel pity, especially in light of Stepmama's recent lashing out.

She took Esmeralda by the shoulders, pushing her none too gently into the overstuffed chair. Cinderella even went so far as to dampen a cloth from the sideboard. With an unhurried stroll back, she handed it over. "Here, cool your face. Your suffering is quite obvious."

She complied without comment, breath ragged, eyes watchful. Cinderella perched on the end of the bed, and crossed one leg over the other, studied her with an unnatural boldness.

Her sister's heart-shaped face and straight nose turned up at the end weren't so unattractive, Cinderella decided. Even the full mouth appeared generous when not in its constant scowl. Her copper locks fell in disarray across her smooth complexion.

"You know, Essie, you are quite pretty when your manner is not so scornful."

Esmeralda's face puffed up as she flashed her eyes at Cinderella. "Scornful!"

Cinderella curled her fingers and pretended to study her chipped nails, though in reality, she dared not take her attention from Esmeralda. " _Mais oui._ Wicked. Unrestrained. Morally decrepit. Though, I speak in regards of human decency toward others."

"How dare—" Remarkably, Esmeralda's anger overrode her natural spastic blinking. The result presented spectacular and incredible eyes of emerald most would never see. Her temper deflated like a fallen soufflé.

Cinderella's matter of fact tone must have penetrated Esmeralda's wounded pride. Her shoulders caved and tears shimmered, firing a brilliant sheen. The effect quite took Cinderella by surprise and her heart softened.

Maintaining her relaxed posture, Cinderella leaned an elbow on her knee and propped her chin in an open palm, curious to see Esmeralda's reaction. Her leg dangled back and forth.

Her calm demeanor from too many years at her family's mercy disguised the long-honed fears. She hoped the hypnotic motion would help forestall scathing remarks. She was acutely aware of how isolated her chamber was—at least until someone realized their error and escorted her below stairs. A small tingle hovering in the air, lent her a foreign confidence.

Esmeralda dragged in a shaking breath, her gaze mirroring Cinderella's. "You realize Maman __ would be livid if she heard us speaking, _non_? In peaceful tones, no less." Her nose was read and running.

Cinderella shrugged, ignoring the unexpected acquiescence. Esmeralda was right, of course, and Cinderella had nothing to add. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and held it out. An olive branch of sorts. Something stirred in the vicinity of her heart.

Esmeralda snatched it from her, buried her nose, and gave a hearty unladylike blow. The unreality of the situation struck Cinderella and she giggled.

Then, the most surprising thing occurred. Esmeralda giggled too. But it was almost too small to discern.

The giggles gave way to loud guffaws. Until tears rolled down their cheeks. Cinderella couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. But suddenly she couldn't stop.

For the first time since they were young children after learning of Papa's death, the tension dissipated, leaving the two facing one another. Not as adversaries, but as young women, _sisters_. They were the same age after all, seventeen and marriageable.

Esmeralda's glance broke first and swept the room. She eyed the ridiculously large bed, patted the overstuffed chair and glanced at the sideboard.

Seeing it through Esmeralda's eyes heightened the room's lavishness. Her mattress in the past ten years consisted of a straw mattress, on a dirt floor, in the confinement of the basement.

"'Tis very nice," Esmeralda said.

"Of course it's nice. It's the Royal Palace," Cinderella said. Silence prevailed once more.

"I have to share a chamber with Cill," Esmeralda informed her. "She hates the dark, you know. And she snores."

"Oh." She had no idea what to say to that. " _Je suis désolée_. I'm sorry."

Esmeralda's gaze dropped. "I'm in a terrible mess, you know."

Those butterflies in Cinderella's stomach took flight. She donned her customary blank expression unsure where this line of conversation was leading. "What do you mean?"

She waved out a hand. "The prince; getting married; Maman." She shrugged. "The usual things."

"The usual things?" Her voice pitched an octave higher. "You mean you don't _wish_ to marry the prince?" Disbelief roiled through her. Her voice did not sound like her own. "How...how could you not want to marry Prince Charming? He's so handsome, dances divinely, smart." _Oh, no_.

Esmeralda asked, eyes narrowing, instantly glittering with distrust. "How would _you_ know he danced divinely?"

"Of course, I...I don't know...I...only just...suppose." Cinderella dropped her feet to the floor and she paced. "Well, I...I suppose you'd go into the ballroom. You know? Where the room itself is floating in the air." Cinderella sighed, her dreams carrying her away. She spun in a circle, reliving the prince's arms about her. "Then, uh, you might suddenly be confronted by his Highness. You freeze," she whispered, "and, well, you know? Like a...a statue on the stair."

" _Oui_ ," Esmeralda whispered. "'Tis exactly how it was. Oh, not for me. But I imagine that was exactly how his mysterious princess felt."

She stopped and meandered back to her spot on the bed. "Was she pretty?" Cinderella asked softly.

"Beautiful." She breathed. Her brows drew together in sudden irritation, and she cackled much like Stepmama, Cinderella was forced to admit. "But, I would not call _him_ so smart."

"In that we agree," Cinderella snapped under her breath. It stung that Prince dared to offer her slipper to every maiden in the land. Save _her_!

Esmeralda hadn't seemed to have heard her. "Truly? The man goes through a kingdom of marriageable young maidens with the idea that a glass shoe would one girl?"

" _Oui_ ," Cinderella agreed frowning. 'Twas not smart at all.

"He doesn't love me, you know. All I do when he is about, is blink. 'Tis a nervous habit," she said. "Besides, I made him _swoon_!"

"He did swoon." The room stretched into silence but it wasn't mean or awkward or unkind. "What will you do?"

She slumped forward. "Marry him, I suppose. Maman would otherwise kill me."

Cinderella mulled that over. The both knew the futility of denying Stepmama's reaction. " _Oui_ , I suppose she would."

Cinderella sighed, lost in her own defeated thoughts. "You'd best return before they realize you've gone missing."

Esmeralda nodded. She dragged herself from the chair and tugged the door open. She paused for a second before meeting Cinderella's eyes. Again, their emerald brilliance stunned her.

" _Merci._ Thank you." Esmeralda's voice was soft—and something else. Forgiving? Regretful?

Did it matter?

Morning sunshine streaked through a crease in the heavy brocade drapes, interrupting Cinderella's luxurious slumber. Long after Esmeralda's departure the night before, Cinderella had waited on the edge of the chair her sister had vacated, Marcel in her pocket, prepared for someone to escort her to her rightful sleeping quarters. Eventually, the lure of the large bed had grown too great.

Marcel's nattering penetrated her fogged brain, and with a luxurious stretch, she angled her eyes from the direct light, glancing over at him.

"Sheer heaven, this is. Do you not agree?" Heaven, she realized, to which one could easily become accustomed.

The dormouse scampered down just as an aroma of freshly baked bread tantalized her nostrils. She squinted into the shadows but it was too dark too see with the draped closed.

Her stomach rumbled soundly and she stumbled from the bed to a freshly laid sidebar. Steam rose from the fresh bread. A tray of cheese and fruit were also made available with a pot of tea.

"Are you hungry, my little friend?" She tore off a chunk of cheese and handed it over.

She could hardly believe her good fortune. Someone had definitely mistaken her chamber for Stepmama's. At the very least, Esmeralda's and Pricilla's.

How had she not wakened? Did the _servants_ have servants in the Royal Palace? This _could_ become a habit, she thought cheerfully, popping a blackberry in her mouth.

She broke off a portion of the bread, unable to resist the crusty shell and warm middle, set aside a piece for Marcel. Guilt at such comfort was difficult to avoid after years of Stepmama's cultivated discipline. Surely, someone would realize they'd brought the tray to the wrong chamber.

She swallowed her berry and shoved a large piece of bread in her mouth and chewing soundly nudged the door ajar. Cinderella poked her head out, looking left then right. Still deserted.

The quiet was unnerving. While such solitude was a luxury from the constant demands of her family, it was almost too quiet.

She pushed the door to and wandered back to the windows in her room, and shoved the heavy drapes aside. The only light in her basement was from the fire kept in the grate.

The sun edged up from the horizon in a ball of orange fire, shooting the sky with brilliant shades of pink and purple. La! The statue. Cinderella threw off her tattered night rail and donned her one serviceable brown frock. Washed her face in basin of warm water and slipped on her thin sole-shoes.

No one would miss her if she snuck out for a short walk. Well, Stepmama perhaps, but she was not here, was she. She reached the door before remembering the fresh fruit. Such decadence beckoned her. They'd _have_ to feed her, she deemed. Or not, she thought, dashing over and snatching a handful of plump berries. Once Stepmama started demanding her attendance, there would likely be no other opportunities to see if that statue she'd spied the night before was indeed Eros.

She tapped Marcel's tiny pink nose affectionately. "I shall return shortly. Help yourself to more food, but don't get caught." He nodded.

She donned her aged pelisse, wincing at how shabby it looked in her new chamber. She sighed. Besides what choice had she? 'Twas not like Fairy Godmother left her with an array of gowns to choose from.

With a brisk walk to the large glass door she'd discovered the evening before, she contemplated her situation. No one seemed to remember her at all.

Esmeralda had stumbled upon her in error. How oppressive. Did the prince even wonder about her? Perhaps he just believed her a figment of his imagination.

Surely not, she reasoned. And, despite how ridiculous his idea of finding her, he'd tried. That action, in and of itself, implied his regard.

Excitement heated her blood. She was to see a real statue when all she'd managed to date were in Papa's books Stepmama hadn't managed to sell. She believed most books were pure nonsense.

Surprisingly, Esmeralda and Pricilla had rebelled against Stepmama in that regard, and stashed a mountain's worth in their closets. Something the three of them in common. Papa's influence of course.

The glass door opened with a whisper. Cinderella crossed the threshold, blessing these royal persons and their order of well-oiled hinges.

The air was crisp and fresh and early morning dew dampened the ground. Sneaking from the castle was both exhilarating and terrifying. She breathed in deep, choosing exhilaration over terror. She shaded her brows with one hand. Eros stood in the middle of a large pond. She ran over with abandoned glee letting the memories assault her, grinning until her cheeks hurt and tears stung her eyes.

Upon each return, she would sit upon Papa's lap, her head on his shoulder. The resonant timbre of his voice would vibrate through her as he rattled off tale after tale. He turned stories of the Greek gods' antics into their own fairytales.

Hours later, though he was tired, he would tease her incessantly, tossing her to the sky, catching her with his marked strength, then sit by her bedside until she slept.

Cinderella veered off the well-marked path, steps growing faster until she could define the details of Eros winged sculpted figure. She pulled up before him, short of tumbling into the pond, awed.

His figure was perfection; sculpted just as she'd imagined. His long, wavy hair, the slender fingers, caressing his infamous bow and arrow left her breathless.

Unbidden, Papa's gravelly voice reciting Eros as the most eligible bachelor in the universe, rippled through her.

His laughter boomed.

"What's so funny?" Cinderella demanded.

"Well." Papa tapped her nose with his forefinger. "Eros found himself married to the goddess, Pysche after pricking himself with one of his own arrows. It was an accident, of course."

"Oh." But she didn't understand.

He gently closed the book, shaking his head. "The silly man never had a chance." A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "I'm sure your blessed _maman_ did quite the same to me."

Both tears and soft laughter escaped. How she longed to run her fingers over the molded figure. She leaned over to see if she could tell just how deep the pond was.

Instead, she dashed away the tears. Rarely had she allowed the memories to pour over her. But for once she indulged in their warmth and comfort.

"His arrows came in two types you know—"

Startled, she spun around, lost her footing, sailed backwards.

Prince caught her by the arm and gently set her upright. His eyes crinkled with amusement. "One arrow gold, adorned with dove feathers." His hold fell away, his gaze moved to Eros. "That arrow aroused love."

Face flaming, she increased the space between them and focused her own gaze on the statue.

"The other arrow was of lead and had owl feathers. It instilled indifference." His deep voice was as strong and deep as a bass instrument, just as she'd remembered.

She watched him from the corner of her eye, shame filling her. For him to see her dressed as she was, a lowly servant. She could hardly bare to breathe as the very air shimmered around them in his presence.

Her heart pounded. Did he recognize her in this ugly gown? Perhaps he was just being kind.

" _Oui_. He was described as 'bittersweet' and 'cruel' to his victims." Her voice was but a whisper, carried away by the morning breeze.

"Of course, he was. But he was also known as unscrupulous, mischievous."

She cleared her throat. "...er...and, best of all, charismatic."

They stood there quietly, the words washing through her. With her dramatic sigh, she broke the silence. Mayhap, her stepsisters were not the only consummate actresses.

Prince had sauntered from his hidden shelter in the trees, fascinated by the odd duckling whose gaze appeared thunderstruck by a statue. He'd always thought Eros somewhat silly. After all, how had a god erringly stabbed himself with an arrow?

But he couldn't deny his curiosity of the chit oblivious to her surroundings but for the frivolous statue. She seemed quite taken with it.

Matching her drama and merriment of the moment kept him from dwelling on his unfortunate predicament. " _Oui, oui_. He was the personification of love in all its manifestations. Blah. Blah. blah."

Her eyes narrowed on him.

"It included physical passion at its strongest, of course." Her cheeks turned the most engaging pink. There was no stopping now. She widened the distance between them, but his steps were bigger. He clasped his hands at his lower back and whispered. "Tender, romantic love. Playful, sportive love."

Despite the pink cheeks, soft laughter erupted. To his delight, however, she continued in the spirit of the moment though her voice raised not much above a whisper. "His is believed one the oldest of the gods. Born from Chaos, he represented creative power and harmony."

Laughter rumbled from Prince. Before he could stop himself he set his hands on slender shoulders and spun this dust-covered gem around. "What is this? Tears, my fair lady?" He cupped her jaw and touched the dampness with a thumb. She stilled like a frightened rabbit. He stepped back slipped his hand down, clasped her hands. He bowed. "I believe I have not had the pleasure." He should let go of her hand, but found himself quite unable. She would bolt, and he was not quite ready to let her go.

Something akin to irritation flared in her eyes. She blinked and it was gone. "Cinderella, you're majesty." Her voice, all velvet softness, husky and low, prickled over his skin.

She dipped a nervous curtsy, stepped back. She couldn't go far, he still held her hand captive.

Her name...it struck a chord of familiarity. He took her hand and paused—rough. A servant them. He lowered his lips.

She tried snatching her hand from his, her shame palpable, but he held fast. "Cinderella? I've heard your name spoken before, have I not?" A shift in the air tingled, setting his teeth set on edge. He would not faint again, he vowed.

The warmth of her hand surprised him. He drew in a breath but realized he was not quite ready to let go. She wielded some strange power over him. Held him enthralled; 'Twas both disturbing and compelling. Instinct took over, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers, appalled at his behavior. 'Twas just a whisper of a kiss, really. A sense of an unfulfilled promise.

Slender fingers trembled beneath his, and he stood back to look at her. Relief touched her eyes.

"My lord," she whispered. "I—"

A shout rent the morning air and Cinderella reared back. Her head whipped around, the same time attempting to tug her hand from his, his own instinctively tightening. His gaze followed hers and a groan slipped through as the batting-eyed Edwina raced toward them in a breathless, definitely unladylike pace. A confrontation at this hour was last thing he wanted. Retreat was his only option.

With a resigned sigh and short squeeze of her fingers, he loosened his hold. "Until later." 'Twas a promise, he vowed, melting into the trees to observe the unlikely pair.

The adorable servant wore a tattered gray cloak that hardly covered her patched, drab brown skirts, and did nothing to detract from her appeal. Waist-length hair fell down her back in rich mahogany tresses. So what if it were partially hidden by the frayed scarf fastened at her nape and unfashionably straight. She had a lovely profile.

And Edwina had horrid timing.

Those haunted large, dark eyes, spawned a protectiveness urging him to shelter her from hurt. Her silvery laughter had sounded rusty and unused. Held him transfixed with the longing to hear more. Her knowledge of Eros spoke of intelligence, but it was her warmth that whorled through him, stirred the sudden ache find his mysterious princess. Groaning, his head fell back against the hard trunk of the oak. He must be desperate, indeed, if his emotions were swayed by a servant.

Which, of course, called to mind the looming disaster he faced. He raised his head, rubbing the small knot already forming and narrowed his eyes on Elvina.

Her muslin day gown of muted green was full and fashionable by all accounts. He was too far away to determine the color of her eyes. A mystery not likely solved due to the nervous flapping that possessed her whenever he drew near.

He was male enough to admit her attractiveness. The soft copper curls topping her head and her rounded figure would suit someone someday. If not for her eyes "stirring the soil" as her mother so ungraciously pointed out—in an understated sort of way, of course—she might be considered almost lovely. Nothing like his lost princess.

He strained to hear what they said, but his position from the trees made it impossible. That the two knew each other was clear.

There was concern on Ester's face enhanced with her animating hands. After a moment, her arms dropped to her sides, and the two there stood staring at one another.

Most curious. A second later the conspirators dashed toward the castle without so much as a fleeting glance in his direction. He grinned at their retreat. It was not often Prince Charming found himself forgotten.

He leaned one shoulder against the tree, ankles crossed, fingering a blade of grass. Cinderella certainly resembled the servant he thought her. The surprise was Endina's concern. She and her family didn't strike him as particularly selfless. Certainly not to someone so far beneath her own rank.

He frowned as his thoughts centered on his future mother-in-law. She was enough to scare away any potential suitor. A shudder touched his spine along with a dose of sympathy for her and her sister, Pricilla. Not to mention the poor servant. What a beastly woman.

The rising sun glinted off the glass door, closing behind the two mysterious young women. He glanced at the statue and smiled.

Cinderella had displayed an interesting base of knowledge regarding Eros. But would she know as much about Eros' mother, Aphrodite, the _goddess_ of love? Something odd filled him with of the possibility of such a conversation, bringing an awareness to light. His lips throbbing with the thought of a deeper, more satisfying kiss.

_Truly? With a servant_? Disgusted with the direction of his thoughts, he dropped the blade of grass, mounted his horse kicked his horse a little harder than necessary. The beast reared nearly tossing him to the ground and sprinted for the open countryside.

# Chapter 11

Her customary high-backed, chair, conjured from an abandoned chamber pot, was nicely-padded. Faustine, aka Fairy Godmother, sat quietly observing her sister, whose lips were pressed in a tight line.

"You know," Thomasine bit out. "Lady Roche is quite ambitious for Esmeralda and Pricilla." She drummed her fingers on the serviceable wood table, in an annoying steady beat. "It's appalling how she treats her stepdaughter. The girl's father was a baron, for the sake of heaven. It's sinful. And, and egregious. Out and out heinous."

"I agree completely. We shall have to keep a vigilant eye on the woman. She is most untrustworthy."

A companionable lull fell between them.

Thomasine's mouth relaxed a second later, her words soft. "She is attractive, _non_? Beneath those horrid rags she is forced to don. My son has excellent taste. Is it terrible how to admit how relieved I am?"

"Perhaps, a mite. But you'll be glad to hear I caught a quick glimpse of the two of them in the gardens this morning. He did not recognize her." Faustine shot her sister a smug grin. "My little atmosphere enhancing spells are working admirably."

"My goodness," Thomasine gasped, startled. "This morning? You don't mean to say that—"

"Oh, for sake of heaven, Thomasine. There was nothing clandestine or scandalous. But, I must say, with a little help—"

Thomasine's palm flew up. "I don't want to hear it."

Faustine chuckled. "Of course you do. Ironically, they stood in front of that ridiculous statue of Eros discussing..." She dropped into a dramatic mimicry of Prince, "...the personification of love in all its manifestations' or some such dribble."

Thomasine's mouth twitched. "It occurs to me," she murmured, "our efforts are veering in the right direction. All we need now is to somehow maneuver the situation where 'our mysterious princess' is included in these farcical activities.

"It must be handled in a way that does not give away our scheme to the ambitious Lady Roche," Faustine said.

"Not to mention the poor child who is expecting to actually _marry_ my son."

"That does appear to be a dilemma," she conceded.

# Chapter 12

Breathless, and acutely aware that young ladies did not go dashing about the countryside in such an unladylike manner, Cinderella pulled up beside Esmeralda and tugged on her sleeve, slowing them to a fast walk.

Esmeralda stopped suddenly and faced her. "I believe the prince may have a tendre for you, Cinderella," she blurted.

"W-what?" Cinderella waited for her stepsister to pinch her arm, berate her in fury, or gouge out her eyes.

"Was that not a kiss he touched upon your lips?" She asked, softly.

It was time to confess. Time to brave the consequences of her omissions. " _Oui._ " She closed her eyes, braced for the sting upon her cheek.

"Was it so very nice?"

Cinderella blinked. Studied her carefully. She was stunned by what she saw: genuine curiosity. " _Oui."_ she whispered.

Her gaze fell to the ground. "I have to tell someone." Her voice shook.

Cinderella clasped her hand. "What? What is it? Did something happen?"

I'm somewhat terrified of the circumstance in which I find myself." Esmeralda seemed truly stricken.

Guilt strangled her, she dropped her face in her palms. " _Je suis désolée,_ Esmeralda. I took liberties—"

Esmeralda's fingers wrapped her wrists and tugged her hands away, brilliant emerald eyes meeting hers. "—you took no liberties that _I_ witnessed. _He_ kissed _you_." Esmeralda squeezed her hands. "Come. We must hurry." They slipped into the castle by way of Cinderella's previous escape route.

The door closed quietly behind and they lifted their skirts for a quick dash to Cinderella's chamber—and froze.

Stepmama moved into the hallway, clearly having just come from Cinderella's bedchamber, followed by her miniature replica. Pricilla.

The same scowls marred their mouths. Lips pressed, brows drawn, silver eyes flashing. It was quite remarkable. Comical, in fact. Had Cinderella not been at the mercy of their wrath for so many years, she might have laughed at the picture.

She wanted to draw herself up in bold defiance, shout to the world, the prince kissed her, and if Esmeralda hadn't interrupted them, he'd already know exactly who she was. But she dared not take the chance now, Stepmama was cruel. Most times her cruelty were just words. But, Cinderella had quickly learned Stepmama wouldn't hesitate in driving her point home with physical action. Warranted or not.

Fear rooted her into place.

Esmeralda's glance fed Cinderella courage. She took a deep breath and stepped forward with determined resolve. "Stepmama, you were looking for me?" She squeezed her hands into fists to hid their trembling, her voice, however, shook like Vesuvius's fury before scalding Pompeii. A gust whooshed through the hall. She was not the only one terrified as Esmeralda's eyes flurried with the force of squall.

Tension emanated throughout the wide corridor.

" _Oui_ , _oui_ , _ma chère_ ," Stepmama said.

Her pleasant tone was belied by the malice in her expression. She advanced like a large cat preparing for attack. She was here to thrash Cinderella, but good. The 'why' would not matter.

She needed to back away, but her feet were adhered to the floor. Eyes shut, she braced herself for the assault. The bruise from the day the prince had approached their cottage had only just faded.

Her heart throbbed so loudly in her ears she almost missed the rustling skirts making coming in their direction. Cinderella's knees buckled almost felling her to the floor but for Esmeralda's grab of her arm.

Stepmama and her clone whipped about sharply, dropping into deep curtsies as Queen Thomasine made her way toward their them. Cinderella and Esmeralda quickly followed suit.

With a wave of her hand, Queen Thomasine said, "Rise, rise, _s'il vous plait_." To Stepmama, "My dear, Lady Roche, it has occurred to me you and your daughters might enjoy an informal tour of the Royal Portrait Gallery. It has been some time since I myself have toured that wing of the castle, and would very much enjoy conducting you through the gallery, as you will become family soon enough."

Cinderella tried holding back her gasp, and failed completely.

The queen was offering to tour Stepmama and her stepsisters, _personally_. The sight of Esmeralda's open mouth had Cinderella snapping hers shut. She shrank back. This would not include her, of course. The flames in the sconces flickered wildly.

Stepmama drew herself up to an unprecedented height, the skin beneath her chin wriggling like a small animal. "That...that would be lovely, Your Majesty. Pricilla? Esmeralda?" Stepmama's gaze swept to each.

They both nodded, eyes wide, no words spilling forth. Stepmama's gaze raked over Cinderella in acute displeasure. An expression Cinderella knew the queen could not see from her vantage point. Cinderella flinched at the silent assault.

The awkwardness grew palpable. An infraction she would pay for later. An infraction inferred by her very presence.

While Stepmama had never actually admitted that Cinderella was her stepdaughter, 'twould be scandalous should the queen learn Stepmama had blatantly slighted one under her own care.

Esmeralda stood slowly and stepped forward. Her chin tilted slightly... defiantly almost. An intense charge simmered in the air, fingers tingling as a twirl of stars seemed to swim above her head. Dear heaven's she was going to swoon.

"This is our o-other..." Esmeralda cleared her throat. "This is our other... s-sister, Cinderella," she said to the queen.

Oh _non_. _Non. non. non_. Cinderella's head swiveled back and forth, she took quick short steps. She would never remain invisible with that statement, and now, neither would Esmeralda. It was brave. So brave. But not so brilliant. Stepmama _would_ kill her. Kill them.

"Our st-st-stepsister," Esmeralda corrected at Stepmama's direct and searing gaze.

"Ah, how excellent." The Queen Thomasine responded unsurprised. She turned a genial smile on Esmeralda.

Cinderella gained a bit of courage watching Queen Thomasine closely, the small curl of her lips. Her eyes dancing with satisfaction. The queen's piercing gaze shifted to Cinderella.

"You shall join us as well, my dear. 'Tis only as it should be."

The queen took in her patched and worn clothing and Cinderella almost perished from shame. "I am certain you wish to change from your vigorous walk in the gardens."

Surely, Cinderella's gulp was heard clear to Avignon. How could the queen have known about _that_? Had she seen her son _kiss_ her? Oh, saints! Her son was the prince, and he _kissed_ her.

Reality gripped her insides with rising panic. She had no clothes to change in to.

But Queen Thomasine had already shifted her attention to Stepmama, smiling benignly. "Shall we meet in the Grand Hall, _Madame_? Twenty minutes, mm?" She did not wait for an answer. Just made her magnificent exit with a sweep of her full skirts. The swirl of stars seemed to linger.

As the queen disappeared from view and earshot, Stepmama spun on Esmeralda. Venom spewed, accented with sprayed spittle played like dust moats in a ray of light. For one horrifying moment, Cinderella feared for Esmeralda's life.

"Ple...please, Stepmama," she stammered. "Es...Es...Esmeralda, she...she meant no...no...harm..." Her voice trailed in a begged whisper.

"Enough. Cinderella," she hissed, her furious gaze still on Esmeralda. "There shall be plenty of time to deal with you later. At the moment, we've no choice." Her voice took on the familiar cold and vicious tone. Hands fisted at her sides, her body was rigid marble—as if the slightest movement would dissolve what little control she possessed. "And what do you propose she do for clothes, my daughter?" She demanded of Esmeralda.

"I'I shall find her something, Maman..." her voice faltered under her mother's utter and complete rancor.

" _Certainement_ , darling," she snarled. " _You_ shall be the one sharing _your_ wardrobe, since _you_ are the one who arranged this idiocy!" She spun on her heel and stormed away, muttering. "'Tis not enough I must contend to your other afflictions? Now this?" Her tirade ended on a shriek.

Cinderella met Esmeralda's fast blinking eyes. Something important and quite remarkable had just occurred between them.

Pricilla raked a gaze over each of them. "Just what the devil was that?"

Esmeralda's fluttering eyes slowed but didn't quite stop. "I...I did it for Maman, Cill."

Pricilla's foot tapped against the carpet, waiting.

Cinderella waited too. It had to be good.

"How does Maman look, dressing our maid so shabbily..."

"Ah, but you told the queen she was our sister."

"I was flustered," she said. She snatched Cinderella's hand and led a wide birth around a suspicious Pricilla whose eyes had narrowed with loathing.

They were careful not to run.

Awed, Cinderella gazed about as Queen Thomasine guided their small group down a corridor considerably wider than the one her bedchamber was. Luxurious Persian rugs of deep rich reds and greens topped shiny waxed wood floors. Velvet draperies lined large beveled windows that arched to ceilings that reached the sky.

"The Royal Portrait Gallery is located at the most eastern portion of the castle," she told them, as they left the Grand Hall behind.

Twice, she had to run to keep up as brilliant landscapes fed a fantasy of leaping into more than one painting. Still-life works portrayed food so detailed, it begged one to lift a fork for a healthy bite. The paintings lined the hall on both sides between symmetrically spaced windows. Angelic cherubs hovering over tall trees, or floating atop waterfalls. Her fingers itch to don a brush. She didn't possess the slightest talent for sketching.

They entered a vast circular room filled with life-sized portraits lit only by natural light. The windows bore no coverings, and of course, not a speck of dust.

The queen entertained them with spectacular tales of the King's rise to power in their tiny kingdom of Chalmers. Papa use to share such stories. How they came to be in hidden in the depths of the Pyrenees Mountains. But to hear the pride ringing through her melodic voice, speaking of her own heritage.

She listened, spellbound, as the queen regaled His Majesty's tragedy. "He was in line for a small dominion within the Portuguese borders."

Cinderella forgot herself and whispered, "What happened?"

"It is a sad tale, indeed," she said softly.

"Cinderella," Stepmama snapped. "How dare you address the queen with such impertinence."

"'Tis quite alright, Lady Roche." She turned her stark blue eyes on Cinderella. Eyes that reflected long ago pain. "War had broken out, and the Spaniards seized his empire."

All three girls gasped.

The queen cleared her throat delicately. "We prevailed, of course. His Majesty was but a young child at the time." She shook her head. "He was hidden by family friends in Austria from the age of two."

"Two!" The story was so enthralling, no one rent their maliciousness Cinderella's way. She was a bit stunned by both the story and the sense of belonging.

" _Oui_. It wasn't until his sixth year that his _Grand-mère_ was safely able to reclaim him. Sadly, his parents had perished in the Siege."

How perfectly horrible. Cinderella could not imagine his fear, stripped from the bosom of his family, too young to understand the dynamics and politics surrounding him.

The story hit a little close to home. Her own father had died when she was eight. She, Pricilla and Esmeralda, while not the best of friends at the time, squabbled like normal sisters until something happened. Cinderella wasn't sure exactly what happened to set the course of events. One moment, she and Essie were their stomachs looking at a book, and the next, she'd been ordered to the basement and deemed the "help." She dashed a tear from her cheek.

Stepmama's piercing scowl leveled on her and Cinderella fell back a step. She pasted her blank mask in place.

"It was at that time our marriage was contracted."

"Contracted?" Esmeralda said weakly.

" _Oui._ A condition not so uncommon." She smiled. "As you can see, it has not been an unhappy life. Ours was the family who sequestered the young king, you see."

Despite Stepmama's impending presence, Cinderella found herself captivated by Queen Thomasine's rendition of the poignant past. She moved on, describing each portrait in depth. Who was whom and how each member was related to the royal family tree.

Cinderella skirted a wide birth around Esmeralda. Stepmama was already suspicious of their newfound, albeit tentative, relationship.

Cinderella was encouraged, however, by their mutually managed occasional eye contact, down to catching an occasional amused twitch of Esmeralda's lips now and again, her eyes never fluttering once.

Stepmama glared in Esmeralda's direction. Having included Cinderella as a sister did not fit with Stepmama's grand schemes. Esmeralda would pay for her efforts on Cinderella's behalf. Just how and to what length, were the terrifying questions.

She paused before one last portrait. Prince must have been in the vicinity of his fourteenth year. The artist cleverly captured the mischievous glint about his mouth and eyes. Not unlike what she'd witnessed that morning. His unruly black hair hung over his brow in its current familiar fashion.

Unlike other portraits in the gallery where the subjects were featured in straight-backed chairs and dark backgrounds, his painting presented him outdoors with a dog dutiful hound at his feet. His grace and nobility were evident, even at that age.

Smiling, her hand drifted over her chest. She felt he could see right into her heart. A silence cloaked the room before she registered Esmeralda's puzzled gaze from the corner of her eye. She snapped her gaze Stepmama's. The calculating glint coiled knots deep in her abdomen. Cinderella's hand dropped abruptly, she forced herself to meander among the other portraits, the burn of Pricilla's ice cold ire prickled her skin.

There would be no sleeping tonight.

Queen Thomasine talked on seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents choking the room. She smiled fondly at her son's portrait. "Once Prince Edric Osmond Thorn VII marries, a new portrait shall be commissioned, of course, to hang in this gallery." Her gaze fell on Esmeralda, whose eyes began their wild flicker. "And one of his new bride." The small updraft in the high-ceilinged chamber was unmistakable. Poor Esmeralda.

The queen shifted her attention to Cinderella. "I am overjoyed to see you feeling better, my dear. You shall join us for supper tonight then." It was not a request.

The gallery was suffused by Stepmama's anger. 'Twas a wonder the mythical gods didn't erupt in a violent blast of red heat fueled by the brisk gust of Esmeralda's eyes. "If you are certain you are amiable, _Darling_?" Menace poured from her.

Cinderella opened her mouth to reply but the queen stepped forward forestalling her response, as if she could have choke anything coherent out.

"Of course you are, dear." She patted Cinderella's shoulder. "I refuse to hear another word about it. My dinners are a _family_ requirement as you shall learn."

Cinderella closed her mouth feeling oddly protected by Queen Thomasine's manner. She'd never be able to repay her kindness.

No matter what the future held.

# Chapter 13

Merciful heavens, Thomasine had no idea what had possessed her to invite Lady Roche to her private sitting room after luncheon. What else was she to do after the woman's deplorable behavior she thought no one could see through. The sacrifices one made for one's children.

Through lowered lashes she observed Lady Roche wallowing in the opulence. Her fingers ran over the plush velvet of the settee. How she must itch to take her supposed place in the household. Once her dreams of Lady Esmeralda marriage came to fruition. _Not bloody likely_.

But Thomasine sat quietly, sipping her tea, smiling politely in the appropriate places. Lady Roche spoke of Esmeralda's lovely red locks and Pricilla's milk white skin. Did the woman ever take a breath?

" _Oui, Madame_ , they are beautiful young women," Thomasine agreed. Lady Esmeralda was lovely. Perhaps all Lady Pricilla required was a slight attitude adjustment. If Prince had not fallen so hard for his mysterious princess, Thomasine might be pressed to admit a fondness for fluttering-eyed copper-headed young woman. 'Twas an unfortunate affliction she bore.

"My daughters have many, accomplishments, Your Majesty. Pricilla is a supreme embroiderer, has the most melodic voice. Why, she can play the pianoforte at the same time. And, Esmeralda...well, Esmeralda is...just as..., accomplished..."

" _Oui,_ Esmeralda?" Thomasine prompted.

"Well, she...she's to marry a prince," Lady Roche finished weakly.

Thomasine couldn't decide whether to revel in Lady Roche's discomfort or embrace her aggravation. She did neither, she was queen. She settled for, "They both seem intelligent young women."

Lady Roche coughed and her face turned a blotchy red.

Intriguing.

Thomasine was sensitive on the matter of society's failings regarding a woman's aptitude. The ridiculous notion that women should not have the brain of a pea. She managed to not shake her head, disgusted.

It appeared Lady Roche persisted in that medieval thought process. Thomasine took pity on Lady Roche and let her off the hook. "What of their father?"

"He was a beast," Lady Roche said darkly.

"I seem to remember the king blessing the union with Lord Roche. His loss was felt throughout. His daughter must have devastated."

"Of... course...we all miss him greatly—" A dull red stained her cheeks. For a moment, something oddly human crossed Lady Roche's expression. Unreadable. "Alas, Lord Roche, Olivier, adored the children," she said softly. "He was kind to my...my girls." A second later the harsh lines returned. "My daughters' father, expired just beyond Esmeralda's third year. I-I remarried straight away." She stopped.

The change in her startled Thomasine. It quickly dissipated and Lady Roche picked up her tirade with determination. "Kind, yes. But a most irresponsible man."

"Irresponsible?"

Lady Roche's mouth clamped shut in a tight grimace, red spots high on her cheeks. She was embarrassed.

How curious. "If you will excuse me, Your Majesty. I do not feel so well."

"Of course, my dear." Thomasine leaned forward but Lady Roche flinched. The woman had an aversion to kindness it seemed.

Lady Roche stood and gave an unsteady curtsey. Thomasine's gaze followed her until she disappeared through the door, uneasiness filling her. "See that Lady Roche makes it to her chambers," she said to a nearby lady in waiting.

Sparkles glimmered from the corner of her eye and Thomasine resisted the urge to smile. A clear sign the carriage ride Thomasine had insisted the girls take was going well.

Thomasine held back a sigh. Her task to occupy Lady Roche was proving extremely tedious. Someday she would be holding this over her son's noble head.

The thought lightened her mood.

# Chapter 14

"Your visit went well with the wicked woman?" Faustine inquired.

"It was... enlightening."

"Whatever do you mean, darling?"

Thomasine paced. There was much on her mind. "She is a troubled woman."

Faustine snorted. "That is not news, Thomasine. Please sit. You are making me as jittery as a pot of crabs readied for their drop into the boiling pot."

Thomasine dropped into a wooden chair sending a puffed cloud of dust airborne at the sudden onslaught.

"What is it, _ma chère_?"

Thomasine shook off her uneasiness. 'Twas the young women who needed protecting from the volatile Lady Roche. "Nothing. Nothing."

"Has the Conte arrived?"

"He and his sons should arrive tonight."

"Ah, very good. What have you planned for tomorrow?"

"We shall begin with a luncheon picnic." Thomasine stalked the room again, nerves fraying. "This had better work, Faustine. So help me..."

"Of course it will work," she snapped. "And quit calling me that infernal name."

"I am deeply concerned for Cinderella. Did you see Lady Roche's reaction when I mentioned the Conte's son? Keep your eye on her, Faustine. I mean it. She has nefarious plans for her stepdaughter, I can feel it."

Faustine glared at her sister. It was a rare occasion when the two sisters were at odds. And they were not at odds now, not really. How could Thomasine doubt they were on the same side? It made things all the more frustrating. "Or you will what, may I ask?"

"I...I will speak to...to...Chevalier Joseph Pinetti," Thomasine stuttered.

"You _would_ not!" Faustine lifted her hand, waving her wand in a more than precarious manner.

Thomasine stopped, one hand planted on her hip, one finger perilously close her sister's nose. "Do not attempt to threaten me, Faustine. We both know your lively theatrics do not work on me. Chevalier Pinetti saw to that, I wager."

Faustine plopped down in her conjured-up chair and dropped her wand on the table. Thomasine was right, blast her. When Joseph had selected her for his Fairy Godmother experiment he'd also limited her powers for just such a tantrum.

The silver baton rolled to the edge of the table and clattered to the floor. "We are on the same side, Thomasine. Pray, remember that." She leaned down, snatched up her wand and whisked herself away in a fit of temper. 

# Chapter 15

Cinderella could not believe how desperately she'd craved another's company. She and Esmeralda's tenuous relationship were blossoming daily. Beyond her wildest imagination. It triggered memories of their early childhood before Papa died.

True, they were careful when others were about. And, Prince Charming's fleeting kiss tarnished her complete joy. But still, she never dreamed she and Esmeralda could find that sisterhood ground out by Stepmama all those years ago.

A light breeze teased the loose tendrils about her face as she gazed about. Just as she knew they would be, the grounds were immaculate, the carriage ride perfect. With Pricilla in tow, Cinderella and Esmeralda, _Essie_ , as she was coming to think of her once more, were compelled to keep their relationship quiet for the time being. Her heart swelled finding she even could make small jests that weren't ridiculed at every turn. Leastways, where Essie was concerned. But for Pricilla's constant antagonistic commentary, the day was more than she could have hoped.

Two perfectly-matched whites hooked to the open cabriolet guided by a quiet driver. The horses very nearly resembled the ones Fairy Godmother had conjured up out of two fat rats. She narrowed her gaze. Impossible.

She studied the groom. He did not appear familiar but then again, her attention was elsewhere that odd night.

"Who are you?" Cinderella asked.

"Why, I am your fairy godmother, child."

"Fairy Godmother," Cinderella scoffed. "Impossible."

"Bah, nothing is impossible. I am made of all your hopes and dreams and wishes." This vision in the frothiest pink stood there spouting the silliest nonsense. If only she could believe...

"I've only one wish tonight," she whispered.

"You've only to ask, my dear."

"There's a ball..." her voice trailed off. _'_ Twas an impossible wish, as was the apparition standing before her. For it would all disappear were she to blink—such was the way with dreams...

A rut in the road jarred Cinderella to the warm sun on an unnaturally bright fall day. Excitement tingled in the atmosphere. She scanned the manicured trees, sheared in perfect uniformity. Not a single branch or leaf protruded from its designated position. Occasionally, she even managed to tune out Pricilla. 'Twas a most exhilarating day indeed.

The groom steered them through the magnificent squared and colorful gardens. Oh to wander paths on foot, see some of the other ponds and their mythological statues. A quick glance at Pricilla—well, asking such a thing would end in disaster. The conversation between her stepsisters was deteriorating with rapid vigor.

From the moment Cinderella's slipper slid onto Esmeralda's dainty foot, Pricilla's scowl seemed to etch permanently her pinched expression. She didn't even bother to restrain her anger which was currently aimed at Essie. Not being the object of her scorn was an unusual sensation.

Cinderella could not help admitting, Pricilla's vicious tongue was a relief, but letting her berate Essie was untenable. Cinderella had been the object of too many of those horrendous jabs in the past. With each passing moment Pricilla's tone grew more contemptuous.

"Why, the man is doomed to a life of windburn."

Cinderella clapped a hand over her mouth.

Essie whipped about, eyes flashing. "Really, Cill, you go too far! What exactly is the nature of the problem? It's not as if I could help that blasted shoe fitting me. You have been nothing short of monstrous since our arrival. _I_ suggest if you have nothing nice to say then you say nothing at all!"

Cinderella bit the inside of her mouth as A violent flush crept up Pricilla's neck. Pricilla's hand flew towards but for a swift and strong gust of wind. Cinderella's eyes darted to Essie. They were slotted on Pricilla with not a single blink registered.

A speck of dirt drove through the air and Pricilla let out a hysterical shriek. She covered her tearing eye with a gloved hand.

Frankly, Cinderella was surprised dirt could levitate and stir without proper consent. She tugged a lace handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her skirt and pressed it into Pricilla's hand. It was much nicer than the dingy gray to which Cinderella was normally accustomed.

"Oh, this is all so unfair," Pricilla wailed. Her voice was muffled by the lace hankie.

Essie sighed. "What do you find so unfair, Cill?"

"Everything," Pricilla cried. " _You_ have dainty feet. _You_ are engaged to Prince Charming. Even Cinderella's chamber is bloody nicer than ours—"

Cinderella gasped at her profanity.

"—and now my eyes will swell. They are probably turning red as we speak."

"My chamber? Good heavens. What can possibly bother you regarding my chamber?" Cinderella's calm façade snapped in an unprecedented instant. "'Tis the Royal Palace, for heaven's sake. Of course, it is nice."

"Quit being so dramatic, Cill. I do not even wish to marry the prince. I've certainly had no choice in the matter."

" _What_!"

"I thought I did..." she said, softly. "But—"

"What do you mean you do not _wish_ to marry the prince?" Pricilla interrupted. She turned to Cinderella. "Would _you_ marry the prince?"

Shocked by the question, Cinderella stuttered an answer. "Of...of course. He...he is the prince, is he not?" Her cheeks flamed.

Pricilla spun back to Essie. "Even Cinderella would marry him."

_Even? If they only knew._ There was nothing to say to that statement, she thought, swallowing a groan.

"I'm a blast of nerves." Self-disgust seemed to rival her anger. "The instant the prince is anywhere nearby you'd think a storm had blown in off the Mediterranean. My eyes bat so furiously, I can practically feel my body leave the ground...I stutter. It's horrifying." She turned her moist gaze, out towards the mountains in the distance. Cinderella had a feeling she wasn't seeing anything but her own shortcomings. "Can you imagine a union where your husband wondered if the crops blew away simply because he walked up and asked you some mundane, perfectly ordinary question? Like 'how was your day, dear'?" The throb in Essie's neck was testament to her torment.

Pricilla stared at her sister astonished. "B-but you have dainty feet!"

A strained laughter erupted from Cinderella, drawing Pricilla's attention. "What are you snickering at?"

She shrugged. " _I_ have dainty feet, too."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Pricilla's patience had worn through and her temper flashed.

She fought an urge to shrink away. That was the _old_ Cinderella.

"Think about it, Cill," Essie snapped out. "How many maidens in all of Chalmers must have dainty feet? I cannot be the only one as the shoe clearly did not belong to me. His Highness did not quite think that one out, _non_?"

Cinderella's laughter burst forth. Soon Essie's unfettered chuckled followed.

Pricilla stared at the both of them as if they actually held their laughing heads in their hands. Her eyes narrowed on them. "I fail to understand the hilarity of the matter."

Cinderella patted tears from her eyes with the back of her gloved hand, met Essie's. She lifted her chin. "Esmeralda and I have come to a truce of sorts."

Pricilla looked at her sister then back to Cinderella, her disbelief clear.

Essie's eyes never broke with her own, nodding. She clasped Cinderella's hand and faced Pricilla. "We have, Cill. 'Tis much more pleasant than being mean all the time." Her full mouth softened into a wide smile. Cinderella thought she'd never looked more beautiful.

Cinderella spared Pricilla a glance. Pricilla's flabbergasted surprise, her gaping, opening then closing like a fish spouting bubbles. "But...but Maman __ will be furious," she stuttered.

For a moment, Cinderella studied her stepsisters and they her, contemplating this new tribulation, each daring a glance at one another.

It was true. Stepmama hated Cinderella with an unnatural passion. She shuddered at what punishment would be wrought at Stepmama's hand. But it was joy filling her, not fear of her evolving friendship with Essie. She blew a stray hair through twitching lips just as cracked laughter spilled from Pricilla, and a giggle from Essie.

Was it possible to become friends, true sisters, like they were before Papa died? Hope spiked—But, what would happen if they learned the truth. That she was the mysterious princess? She peered into Essie's brilliant green eyes, Pricilla's stormy gray ones as the circumstances swayed her in a direction Cinderella would never have believed possible. Worse, the prince might even prefer this new Essie...

The dilemma subdued her joy to a weak smile.

Prince guided his large gray towards the stables, Arnald fast on his heels. The morning had been a long but fruitful one of guiding repairs on a crumbling wall along the western perimeter of the castle grounds. Flocks of sheep grazed nearby undisturbed.

Prince loved working alongside men who labored the land to feed their families to keep Chalmers Kingdom safe. There was no greater purpose in life than these people. He felt humbled and honored by their service to his family, to this land.

His unpretentious and proud people had educated and protected him as a small child through all the years he'd ridden the land beside his father. Now as an adult, his duty remained unequivocally dedicated to keeping his people.

His muscles ached and all he could envisioned was a long hot soak. Arnald pulled up beside him just as delighted laughter rent the air. Not the shrilly, artificial sort females were wont towards in the presence of an eligible male or their overly ambitious mothers. But genuine, humorous bursts one believed no one would hear. They slowed their horses.

Prince shielded his eyes from the bright afternoon sun and spotted the open carriage on the path to Demeter's pond. He wondered if Lady Cinderella would know Demeter was the natural goddess of the harvest. More than likely, he'd guess. Colorful parasols curtailed his view but their uninhibited amusement was just too curious to pass by.

Prince met Arnald's eyes with raised brows. Testament to the friends they were—or mayhap their shared blood—they turned simultaneously without speaking.

By the time Prince they'd reached the rear of the carriage the laughter had dissolved into fits of girlish giggles. Their arrival had indeed gone unnoticed. To Prince's surprise, it was all three ladies, Espelina, Pricilla, _and_ Cinderella. Such unrestraint touched him. He hesitated to interrupt, knowing the carefree moment would shift once his presence was revealed.

But alas, an honorable gentleman did not eavesdrop. With great reluctance he cleared his throat. "A lovely afternoon, ladies."

Silence erupted. Bodies stilled, hands flew to mouths, eyes widened. Whatever the trio found so humorous must have been exceptionally so. Their efforts to constrain their grins failed miserably.

"Your Highness." This from Lady Eptelinda.

His gaze moved from her, to Lady Pricilla, to Lady Cinderella, resting back on Lady Epetlinda. Prince narrowed his gaze. Something was different.

Pricilla and Cinderella inclined their heads politely, amusement clearly lighting their faces.

"You are enjoying your ride with your..."

"Sisters? Immensely, _merci_ ," Lady Erstella said. She faced him with an unflinching, almost defiant gaze where brilliant eyes bore into him as sharp as cut emeralds.

The sensation jolting through him was similar to that of a leveled a punch in his midsection. The air about was a natural breeze of the lightest wisps, and for some reason, his betrothed did not appear unnerved in the least. Her eyes were not batting with uncontrollable flurry. He was struck by their exotic tilt, framed by thick dark lashes. She was quite beautiful, in fact.

The thought disturbed and...well...annoyed him. He felt as if he'd lost power. A blessing of his royal nature ran too deep, however, to appear less than self-assurance.

"The grounds are breathtaking." A boldness glittered through Lady Pricilla. He'd previously believed her eyes a plain and unremarkable gray. He was wrong. Her confidence had shining a striking silver. The change was astonishing.

But when his gaze moved to Lady Cinderella, the soft familiar warmth from their early morning encounter whispered through him. With her hair drawn up, the lack of natural curl was less noticeable. There was a quiet elegance that calmed him.

An unusual iridescence shimmered in the air, knocking him off balance. Surely, he was not so fickle to be falling for the _almost_ servant girl. "Sister, you say?"

Her lips tipped in a shy smile and he had to will back heat creeping up his neck.

The glow-like sparkles dangling in the atmosphere hovered just out of reach. Her eyes fell to the fingers clasped in her lap. He wanted to take her by the shoulders, tell her to hold her head high. She was no less than the two in which she kept company.

The cheerful, honey-colored frock brought out the roses in her cheeks. The air bristled with mischievousness. Either that, or he was about to faint again. _Not faint_. Real men did not faint. _Royalty_ did not faint.

Prince glanced at Arnald, his oldest and dearest friend in the world. His cousin. His one close blood relation whose demeanor remained relaxed and poised, incognizant of the vortex whirling within Prince. He sat atop his horse pulling off maturity with ease. That odd tingle sent a ripple over his skin, and a small awkward silence ensued.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we shall be on our way then. Ladies, enjoy the remainder of your afternoon." He tipped a short bow in the direction of the trio and signaled to Arnald. They set the horses in a canter toward the stables. Uncontained giggles burst out from their mutual silence.

"What do you suppose that was about, Arnald?"

Arnald shook his head. "Women are extremely pleasurable to look upon, but cease asking me to explain them. Most especially, the fair one." Then, with a sly look, he added, "Your Highness."

"You are not above the dungeons," he muttered.

"Essie, I don't know how you think to pull this jest with no one the wiser." Cinderella's nerves pressed her tone to unnaturally shrill. The last time she spoke this curtly was when Stepmama banished her to the cellar at the age of eight, just after learning of Papa's death.

"Of course it will work. Queen Thomasine has already included you. We are just ensuring no one forgets. That is all."

"Mayhap I would not mind so much if they forgot," she muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous. Cill is already coming around. Lift your hair so I can manage these tiny buttons."

Cinderella complied.

"Manette should be here any moment to dress your hair. 'Tis a shame you have no natural curl. It's straight as a sword. But a lovely color, nonetheless. I vow there are streaks of auburn throughout."

" _Merci_."

"Esmeralda, are you ready—" Pricilla's head appeared around the corner. "What on earth are you about, Essie?" she hissed.

"Is Manette finished with your hair, Cill? Send her in." Essie's ability in ignoring danger was impressive. Cinderella marveled at her composure.

"Maman __ will perish of an apoplexy. We shall be orphans—" Pricilla paused. "One moment, I'll retrieve her." She disappeared behind the door.

Esmeralda guided Cinderella to a chair before the vanity. Put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her down, none too gently. Stepmama would murder the three of them, even if Pricilla was an unwilling participant.

Cinderella swallowed past the apple-sized lump, met her gaze in the looking glass. Her eyes were much too large in her face, her mouth too wide, her fear evident.

A young maid appeared behind her.

" _Mademoiselle_? _Vos cheveux sont beaux._

" _Merci_." Cinderella squeaked.

"See? Manette thinks your hair is beautiful too," Essie said.

" _Comment devrions-nous la coiffer_?"

Cinderella had no answer on how to dress her hair. It had never been a matter before today. Essie put a finger to her bottom lip, contemplating the dilemma for her. Pricilla poked her head around the door. "Tis, Maman. She is coming."

"Do something, Cill," Essie bit out.

"Essie—" Cinderella rose up, horrified; they were as good as dead.

"Children, children? Are you ready? Do not dally so." Stepmama sounded dangerously close. Cinderella gripped the edge of the vanity, panic choking her, glancing around for someplace to hide.

The wardrobe. No room __ with Essie's and Pricilla's gowns. Beneath the bed.

"Very nearly, Maman," Pricilla slipped from the room. The door latched. "Is that what you are wearing, Maman? The green frock is so much more becoming..." Pricilla's voice faded from beyond.

The tension in the chamber lingered until Essie's fingers dug into Cinderella's shoulder. With a light tap, Cinderella's knees gave way and she plopped back onto the chair. Everything around her sharpened into pinpointed focus. Essie's dark green eyes, meeting hers in the glass; Essie's pent up breath slowly releasing; Manette's trembling fingers tugging on her hair.

"See? 'Twas nothing." While Essie's confidence was astounding, she couldn't quite conceal her alarm. "But we must hurry," she said. She turned to Manette, " _Nous devons nous dépêcher_."

" _Oui_ , _mademoiselle,_ " Manette responded, snatching the brush off the table.

Supper remained the same formal affair with its full five courses. The wine, thankfully, flowed freely. Prince hid his surprise as the poorer Lady Cinderella entered the fray of the family library prior to dinner. An interesting turn of events. He had not thought Lady Ersalia's maman that generous.

He studied Cinderella's attire from a peripheral view. Her understated beauty was difficult to deny. The soft lilac frock suited her olive skin tone, dark hair, and striking eyes. Her hair, simply dressed, compared admirably to Ladies Egrecia's and Pricilla's elaborate twists and draping curls.

Her quiet demeanor teased him for answers. More so, when he would swear a portion of the bread she'd been nibbling on disappeared beneath the table. He bit the inside of his cheek lest his grin spilled out into a laugh.

Perhaps he could entice her to the gardens for another crisp morning walk.

Maman muttered something beneath her breath, drawing his attention. The air came alive.

"What is that, my dear?" Papa said. "Dimmer, say you?"

Two red spots appeared high on Maman's cheeks. She cleared her throat delicately. " _Non_ , my dear," she murmured.

Prince detected her crafty glint. She was a master at directing conversation. Renowned for her aplomb, tactfulness, diplomacy, and grace. The blush disappeared, leaving no trace, yet her excitement had him wondering what more she could have up her little magician-istic sleeve.

She tapped her wine glass with a spoon. _Ah, here we are._ Each delicate tinkle on the delicate flute to obtain everyone's attention was a torture device pricking his spine. After all, he'd known her the whole of his life.

"I am thrilled my son," —she tipped her head in his direction— "Edric Osmond Thorn VII after much searching found his mysterious princess—" she tipped her head to Lady Esperneli and the window hangings bowed and swung. Maman didn't appear to notice— "I believe, 'tis time to host the betrothal ball. It shall be our grandest fete to date." Her bright gaze swept the dining hall, and Prince's gut into twining vipers coiled to strike.

The swift breeze rippled that over him, stopped. He cut his eyes to his betrothed surprised to find her head bowed and eyes squeezed tight.

She was not happy. Her discomfort set him aback. He registered surprising responses from the each of others. Lady Roche's effort to constrain her joy. Lady Cinderella's pale countenance and the odd glimpse between her and Lady Pricilla.

Smiling, Maman picked up her fork and took a small bite appearing satisfied.

She was definitely up to no good. It was time to discern her plans, Prince decided. In no possible way could he concede marriage to Lady Elphaba. He shook his head and looked at her again...not when she was so distraught.

A strange thought stirred. Perhaps if he confessed the truth. Then the two of them could come up with a plan. He glanced up. Lady Roche's beaming smile was so bright, the heat crept up his neck. _Or not_.

That peculiar tingle shimmered in the air again, and he prayed for the umpteenth time he would not subject to keeling over from the...stress. Though who could blame him? _Non_. This matter needed dealing with posthaste. Else, he could end up tied to the chit for all of eternity, and then where would he be?

An indulgent smile grazed Papa's lips to Maman's. " _Oui, oui_. A splendid notion, my dear."

Prince groaned. Papa hadn't any inkling of this impromptu betrothal ball. Prince would bet his last gold piece on it.

Maman returned Papa's smile and something tightened in his chest. Whatever Maman's devious intension, Papa was her true love. She would do nothing to hurt him. A week past, Prince would have believed she felt the same towards him, now he was not so certain.

Her hand rested on Papa's. "Our new princess will have much to learn of her duties. There is not time to waste," she said softly.

Prince exhaled slowly. She was concerned for Papa's health.

"How does a fortnight sound?"

"Two weeks?"

Her voice was a choked whisper. Prince hoped she wouldn't faint.

Maman turned an innocent gaze on him with an indulgent smile he'd not seen since in years. "It's time Chalmers met your intended. Do you not agree, _mon cher_?"

Prince masked his panic. He could play this game, match wits with the master. He was almost twenty, after all. He shot Lady Elderinda a grin so full of devilish amusement he thought she _would_ take flight.

His gaze swung back to his mother. "Of course, Maman," he agreed. He added a measure of eager enthusiasm, careful not to overdo it.

Surprise flickered in her eyes and lifted his own fork and forced down the rest of his tasteless food. He would best the best at her own game.

The match was on.

# Chapter 16

Hilda thought her heart would burst from her chest, it pounded so violently. _Her_ daughter. Dear, _dear_ Esmeralda, soon to be introduced to all of Chalmers as the future queen. Why, she could hardly maintain her seat.

And now, a ball in her honor. _Esmeralda's_ honor, of course. It was a dream come true. Soon, Hilda—would be mother of a princess, a future queen.

Hilda cast a covert glance to Pricilla. With her lovely blond locks she presented breathtaking sight in her soft rose gown and drawn up curls. She'd inherited her gray eyes from Hilda. La, the prince was young. He would have come way better with Pricilla.

One would think Royalty had much better vision. Ah, but it had not been vision, had it? But the size of a foot. Asinine, one could say. But one did not call the prince an ass, did one? Hilda hid a frown behind her wine. To marry Pricilla off advantageously could not be ignored, so Esmeralda would be the future queen.

With only one pressing issue left with which to deal with, Hilda sipped her wine slowly, conscious of the fragile glass, heart thumping wildly.

She set a thoughtful gaze on Cinderella, hiding her disgust at the light purple dress. Why, that color would appear better on one of her vermin field mouse friends than her stepdaughter. And where had it come from, pray tell?

It appeared time for one of their heart-to-heart assemblies. Discreetly, of course. The queen seemed to have taken an unnatural interest in her wayward stepchild. No need to worry, however. Opportunities would present themselves in droves. She inhaled the fragrance of the dark red wine. They always had before.

With half an ear, Hilda listened to the hum of conversation, letting her mind drift back to Her Majesty's sitting room. Tea service trimmed in genuine gold. Bold ornate furniture, spacious chambers. She wanted to hug herself with her glee. The luxury and comfort of the palace left her lightheaded. Soon she would have a suite of her own. Possibly a _wing_ of her own. Surely, 'twas natural as the mother of the future queen.

"...tour throughout the gardens?" the queen asked.

Deep shades of green and gold velvet covered armchairs of carved, gilded wood. Shimmering draperies hung to the floor in swathes of silk. Hilda smiled. She had an eye for these things.

"It was lovely. I am especially fond of stories surrounding the Greek gods..." Cinderella's soft voice snapped Hilda's attention back with a vengeance. But she took special care in suppressing her disgust.

"Those things cost a fortune to maintain." The king spoke around a large portion of venison. Still in his mouth.

"The girls did seem to enjoy themselves immensely." The prince spoke smoothly, but Hilda caught the queen's grateful flash.

"That's wonderful," Hilda murmured, wondering what spell her daughters had suddenly fallen under. She'd always leaned toward the possibility of Cinderella as some sort of white witch. Evidenced by her propensity in keeping company with vermin.

She'd heard the girl talking and snuck into the basement of their previous dwelling and seen the little dormouse dancing at her whim, and the wretched girl coming away with nary a bite.

Hilda held back a frustrated sigh. One small case of rat-bite fever—was that too much to ask? _Oui_ , 'twas clearly past time for a little rendezvous.

She took another sip of her wine and smiled.

# Chapter 17

A terrible premonition rocked Cinderella. Escaping to her room, however, did not prove to be an option. The queen's invitation for the women's adjournment to the library did little to dispel the impending doom.

With no other choice, Cinderella followed the others as the men lingered behind doing whatever it was men did when women were not in attendance.

Something to do with port, whatever that symbolized. She shrunk behind Pricilla and Essie, but Queen Thomasine tugged Cinderella's arm through hers with a benevolent smile.

"Come along, Cinderella, _ma chère_."

One did not ignore the queen. She followed awestruck despite her fear.

"And, how many fountains did you manage to see today?"

"We counted four, Your Majesty."

"Ah, then you shall have to see more in the next few days. Weather permitting, of course. Tell me, dear, which of the four did you like best?"

"Apollo was spectacular," Cinderella said softly. The queen's warmth and sincerity, dispelled Stepmama from her thoughts.

She reveled in the touch of an absent mother she'd never known. The silence drew out and her cheeks heated. She wondered if the queen could read her private thoughts. "Um, the, uh, depiction with his golden lyre is breathtaking."

"But?" Queen Thomasine's genuine interest slackened Cinderella's guard.

"And Zeus is so strong and fierce. I wonder at the artist's ability to carve such vivid thunderbolts about him..." She shook her head still awed by the intricate detail she witnessed. "But I suppose of the four, I was most singularly impressed by Poseidon. How _did_ they create all those elaborate sea creatures encircling him?"

Queen Thomasine's laugh erupted, drawing Stepmama's sudden attention. Venom oozed from in large silent waves.

Cinderella flinched.

"He happens to be one of my favorites, as well. I am pleased you like him, my dear. You shall see more tomorrow."

_Not if she was dead._ The queen glided forward. Cinderella chose the outset of the circle, well beyond Stepmama's reach.

Small talk from Pricilla and Esmeralda and their view of the gardens and grounds filled the chamber until the king, the prince and the prince's manservant joined them a short time later. The only time Cinderella had not seen him was that morning at the Eros pone. The man seemed to be everywhere.

"Ah, Arnald. How delightful for you to join us, _mon cher_." There was a twist to the queen's lips that Cinderella might have described as acerbic. It did not comport with her earlier demeanor. "This is my nephew. Sir Arnald."

Introductions were made. When Sir Arnald bowed over Pricilla's outstretched hand, Cinderella was shocked to see the heightened color in her face.

From there it was all torture. Sheer torture.

Cinderella felt like a bug under a grand magnifier. Not just by Stepmama. Several covert glances came from Prince. He could not know who she was, could he? Why not, she argued back. She was not dressed in her usual rags. How disheartening, she thought, shoulders slumping.

Worried perusals flew from Essie.

"It was the strangest thing, 'twas like a chunk, er, piece flew straight through the air like... like magic." Pricilla demurred with a soft laugh, reveling in the sudden attention.

Cinderella listened to her less-than-animated version of the afternoon's wind; The smug glance Pricilla shot Essie, however, was not at all nice. Pricilla clearly laid the wind's mishap on Essie.

Aggravated, Cinderella's lips pressed together tightly, doubting her ability to embrace Pricilla as a friend. Despite the progress of the afternoon.

_The wrath of Athena_. Well, it took time for some things to change.

"I'm sorry, dear?" Queen Thomasine inquired.

Oh, no. She'd said it aloud? Fire burned her cheeks. All eyes bored down on her.

"Who's Athena?" Essie asked quickly, plainly grateful for Cinderella's untimely words.

Pricilla gnashed her teeth.

"The Greek goddess of wisdom, Lady Esmeralda," the queen said, and the awkward moment passed. "You'll find her pond on the most southern portion of the gardens. Another of my preferences."

"One of Zeus's favorite daughters," Cinderella squeaked.

"Ah, _certainement_. The embodiment of strategy and justice." Prince glanced her way and grinned. Heavens. He was reliving their moment at Eros.

His words, however, drew the attention from Essie.

Pricilla shook her head, her light blond curls brushing her cheek. It gave off a decided feminine delicacy any man in his right mind would be hard-pressed to resist. A slight smile touched Pricilla.

Cinderella stifled a groan. She didn't _want_ Pricilla to be pretty, too. How would she ever stand a chance with Prince up against both stepsisters?

Still, Pricilla recounted how the air shimmered with sparkles. Her sharp wit sunk would do it. Win him over for sure. The more Pricilla talked, the lower Cinderella fell.

Fortunately, no one enlightened the queen or Stepmama of their uncontrollable, giggling.

"And you, Son? How did you and Arnald spend your day?" The king's voice was a presence all its own. The library was just not large enough for such a sound such. Apparently, he knew only one volume.

From the corner of her eye, both Essie and Pricilla were struggling to contain sudden grins. Oh, dear, to burst into another fit of giggles now.

"Arnald and I supervised repairs on the western perimeter wall," Prince said.

After a moment, it dawned on Cinderella, Prince and Sir Arnald were struggling to hide grins too. But Cinderella fought to remain still. Any untoward behavior would fall on her shoulders. _If it hadn't already._

"I have an announcement, children."

Prince's brows lifted. "Children, Maman? Truly."

She ignored him. "Tomorrow, we are holding a picnic on the northern reaches of the estate. 'Tis a small lake. A lovely area. You shall love it, Prince darling, you shall accompany the entourage. Our guests from Torino, Italy, arrived this afternoon. The Conte de Marco Lecce and his sons, Alessandro and Niccòlo will also be joining the outing."

"Conte de Lecce is here? In Chalmers?" Prince's tone turned sharp.

"I regret they were unable to attend supper. But their journey was quite lengthy. Suffice to say, they should be as good as new on the morrow."

The queen smiled.

Cinderella detected a slight tightening about the prince's mouth, though he managed his signature smile.

Stepmama practically twittered in her seat at the mention of an Italian Conte. Now that Essie was betrothed to the prince, Stepmama would be hoping for a fine match for Pricilla.

Stepmama rose gracefully. "Well," she said. "With such a vigorous activity planned, I believe these young women need their beauty sleep."

Prickles chilled Cinderella's skin.

"If you'll excuse us, Your Majesties?"

All three gentlemen rose and bowed. The first party had ended.

"Come along girls. Do not dawdle so, Cinderella." The sweetness of Stepmama's tone might have well been poison.

Her stomach dropped.

With no recourse, Cinderella followed. What else was she to do? But a palace such as this had eyes everywhere. She squared her shoulders. Stepmama would not dare beat her when someone might see. It was far too risky. _Surely._

She lagged behind Essie and Pricilla as they made their way where the corridors intersected. Only the sounds of rustling skirts echoed in the silent hall, and Stepmama's purposeful stride. Cinderella's quick, shallow breaths and self-assurances that they would separate at the fork left her lightheaded. Her fear, a living, breathing entity stealing her identity. Only a few steps more to safety. She strode with her head down, doing all in her power to disappear. The most insignificant sound would draw attention.

It mattered not as they rounded the corner, Stepmama spun, fury writhing from her. Gray eyes so similar to Pricilla's, glittered with condemnation.

Cinderella froze as surely as looking into Medusa's evil eyes. She'd turned to stone. The path between them parted. How were legs holding her up? If she collapsed, all was lost. Stepmama would stomp her into oblivion. She must keep her head.

Thoughts of most glorious day in her life filled her mind. Possibly her last. Her heart pounded furiously, pulse throbbed in her ears. She needed to look away but couldn't.

She strolled towards Cinderella, closing the distance, but with each step Cinderella met her gaze boldly, lifted her chin. Let Stepmama turn her beautiful day into a waking nightmare. She could not steal what was in Cinderella's heart.

"Maman," Pricilla stepped between them. "We forgot to tell you how the prince happened by our carriage this afternoon. It was quite exciting." She gushed and Pricilla did not gush.

Stepmama's head reared back. Cinderella felt as if Pricilla had snapped her mother from an evil trance. Surprise etched deeply in her features.

Cinderella imagined her own expression matched.

"It was?" Confusion tinted her voice.

Pricilla encircled Stepmama's arm, sashaying her expertly down the great hall. Black edges blurred Cinderella's vision. She was too terrified to move. She was cold on one side.

Essie nudged her into motion. "Breathe, Cinde. Breathe."

She licked dry lips. If she was not mistaken, Pricilla had just saved her a violent, life-saving thrashing.

Prince followed the foursome through the door with narrowed eyes. His future mother-in-law struck him as a ruthless monster. 'Twas obvious she cared naught for Cinderella. He glanced over his shoulder to his mother, a worried frown drawn crossed her brow.

"Maman, Papa. If you will excuse me for the evening?"

"Of course, _mon cher_ ," she whispered, shoulders falling forward.

"He nodded to a bowing servant who beat him to the door. He slipped through, Arnald right behind.

"Do you foresee a problem?"

"I hope not." Prince stopped hallway and angled his head. To his left, soft murmurings.

Respite flooded him as Lady Pricilla entwined her arm with her mother, recounting he and Arnald's visit earlier that afternoon. A wary glance passed between them, their steps slower, Lady Eutilla whispering the while.

An onslaught of shimmers hung in the air but Prince couldn't take his gaze from the two turning down the corridor. One opposite than Lady Roche.

The restriction in his chest loosened. He prayed someday he and Lady Esmeralda could be friends. His feelings regarding their upcoming nuptials remained unchanged, but he'd never appreciated a streak of kindness more.

Blast. Were there not enough problems with this impending marriage? And now, a betrothal ball to introduce Lady Eutullie to all of Chalmers? A picnic that included the annoying Alessandro de Lecce?

He smelled a rat. A very clever royal rat.

How was one to shift a snowball gaining momentum from atop _Aneto_? He needed a strategy impeded that momentum, if not a complete turnabout. Too bad all his feeble mind could draw was a resounding blank.

# Chapter 18 ****

"Where did all of these people come from?" Essie whispered.

Essie's question bested Cinderella's same as she, Essie and Pricilla approached a stone terrace. Below, some twenty carriages were lined up, holding young women dressed in a rainbow of pastel hues and gentlemen in their finest coats.

Pricilla's quick tongue must have been stuck to the top of her mouth. Cinderella almost smiled.

The prince spotted them and strolled over as they reached the bottom stair. A black ribbon held his dark hair in a queue at the back of his neck, his firm lips curved in a tight smile.

Cinderella hung back. She was not yet accustomed to her new found place, let alone what particular function she served.

He was so regal and noble. "Ladies, an excellent afternoon, _non_?"

She squared her shoulders, vowing to enjoy the moment. It surely wouldn't last.

"May I present the Signore Alessandro de Lecce, Conte de Lecce's eldest? His family arrived from Torino just last night."

" _Il piacere é tutti miniera_. The pleasure, it is all mine." The heels of his boots clicked smartly and coincided with his gallant bow.

He was younger than Prince, though not by much she guessed. Signore de Lecce had not bothered with a queue, his black silken hair hung loose, touching his collar. The signore's grace was courtly. When his lips grazed Essie's hand, there was a scary windy moment but Essie's head lowered and she her eyes clamped shut. She sketched a curtsy, murmuring, "Sir."

In contrary, Pricilla met the signore's gaze boldly, her smile wide and her curtsy deep.

By the time he stepped before Cinderella, the heat had flooded her cheeks. She would never become used to such attention. He was most dashing.

"How lovely you are, _Signorina_." Her heart fluttered at such flattery—the deep, resonant tone didn't hurt either. His hand tightened on hers and she tried to tug it away.

"Merci." Her voice was a stuttering mess. Frightfully embarrassed someone had heard, she glanced around.

The prince's eyes were fastened to the signore's hand on hers, his frown fierce.

Panicked, she looked about for an escape, but none presented itself. Not with any sort of grace. A tightening about Pricilla's mouth worried her, but much of that might have been attributed to Prince placing Essie's hand on his arm.

Cinderella lifted her face. An unmistakable shift in the air gusted. She met Pricilla's eyes. Then, shockingly, a profound camaraderie manifested in a twitch of Pricilla's lips. Cinderella was trapped, however, with no other option but to accept Signore de Lecce's guide into the open carriage. Pricilla looped an arm through hers.

_Pricilla, her champion_?

Biting back an oath, Prince offered his arm to Lady Erzsebet...Es.mer.al.da and escorted her to the carriage. What choice had he when Alessandro jumped to stake his claim on Lady Cinderella? A band of iron constricted his lungs. He wanted n _o one touching her_. Why the devil had Maman invited the de Lecce's anyway? There was no need. Between Prince and Arnald...oh, all right. So it evened things out with the young ladies, but he didn't have to like it. Not one bit.

He handed Lady Elethia into the carriage, then turned to assist Lady Pricilla. See? He could handle both. And where the hell was Arnald?

Alessandro's too-teethy smile set his own teeth on edge. Prince pulled rank, and stood his ground, forcing de Lecce to move back. Small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Prince took Lady Cinderella's gloved hand and a warmth seeped through to him. A soothing balm to his frustration. What would be so terrible of falling into the depths of her dark eyes? _Everything would find its way_. The thought whispered over him. Shimmering particles seemed to fill the air, ready to burst into luminous sparks. The world beyond his peripheral vision ceased to exist. Only he and she.

"...how we shall all fit..." Lady Edlynne's tremulous crashed through his semi-consciousness. Her eyes blinked in series of expeditious flutters and Prince realized he still gripped Lady Cinderella's fingers. He snatched his hand back.

"Ah, Alessandro and I shall accompany the party on horseback," he said gruffly, glancing around. No one seemed to have noticed his _faux pas_.

_Mon Dieu_. The urge to grab her hand and never let go overwhelmed him. He squeezed his hand into a fist so as not to tug his collar from his neck, no matter how tight or hot it seemed, it felt like a tightening noose.

He sketched a brief bow to Alessandro. "If that meets with your approval, _Signore_?" The question was rhetorical, Alessandro had no choice but to agree.

Prince led Alessandro north in a piqued fit. Envy did not sit well with him, but he couldn't seem to help these immature tendencies laced with nothing but jealousy. How was one to compete with de Lecce's sultry foreign tongue?

The trail carried them through fields of open rolling hills. He spotted the large striped tents in the distance and kicked his horse into a run towards the lake. 

# Chapter 19

Fury roared through Hilda. How dare Cinderella steal that young Italian from beneath Pricilla's nose?

Hilda whirled on her heel determined to set things right. She flailed forward, tripping over hundreds of baskets lining the path. But for a nearby servant she would have landed on her face.

She jerked her arm from him. "Unhand me," she snapped, straightening her skirts. No servant would _ever_ get the better of her. Soon she would have hundreds of her own. She gave the servant a small turn of her lips. "Where did these baskets appear from? They were not here a moment ago."

"They are for the picnic, milady."

"Of course, they are for the picnic, you insolent fool. That was not the question. What are they obscuring the path?" Hilda peered around him in time to see the girls' carriage already in motion. The prince and the Conte's son alighted their horses and cantered ahead.

Hilda narrowed her eyes at the scene. Odd, she had yet to spend a single moment with her children since arriving at the castle. Something she intended to remedy very soon.

"Lady Roche? Is something amiss?"

Hilda started. She plastered on a gracious smile before turning to the queen.

"All is well, Your Majesty. I was hoping for an audience with my daughters before the outing. No matter, however. I shall speak with them later."

"Come. You shall ride with me. Our carriage awaits."

With little choice, Hilda followed. She would have her talk with Cinderella.

# Chapter 20

"Conte de Lecce's son, Alessandro, he is quite attractive." Essie murmured to Cinderella.

Cinderella glanced over her shoulder. He and Pricilla were looking at an odd flower stalk with white petals opened hanging upside down shape of a "V." She turned back to Essie. Her jaw was tense; her eyes were narrowed on Pricilla. "You're not jealous, are you?" Cinderella said. "You've certainly no reason."

"Because Conte de Lecco's son is...is flirting with _Pricilla_?" She huffed. "I should say not. Five minutes in her company and he'll run screaming. She hates botany. And dirt!"

That was true enough. She'd cleaned up after Pricilla for years. Her own gaze strayed to Prince. He hovered nearby, grinning at something two younger girls were saying. She frowned. Did he not remember professing his undying admiration for her as their feet flew through the air hardly touching the floor, their heads in the clouds? Mayhap it was just _her_ head in the clouds.

"What's bothering you, Cinde?" Essie asked.

Cinderella turned her back on the prince and studied Essie's earnest expression. She should confess—tell Essie the mysterious princess's true identity. A more perfect opportunity would not present itself. But her stomach flipped. Truly, it was the only honorable way. She straightened her spine, grabbed Essie's hand. "I have—that is, there's something I—"

" _Non_. You mustn't worry, Cinde. I'll keep you safe from Maman." Essie's eyes darted back to Pricilla and the Conte's son.

Her words touched Cinderella. Still, she had to confess before she lost her courage "It's not that," she said softly. "Please, we must talk."

Her words finally reached Essie and Essie turned to her. "Cinde, I promise. Nothing is so dire as—"

"Cinde, Essie," Pricilla called out urgently.

Essie jolted, spinning to Pricilla, and the moment whisked away like dust in the wind.

"You go, Cinde. I'd like nothing more than to revel in the quiet for a moment."

"But, Essie..."

" _Non_." Essie squeezed her hand. " _Allez._ Go."

With a small smile Cinderella hugged her, relieved and appalled at her cowardice. What possible good would come from confessing now besides? Essie would marry Prince, and Pricilla would secure an advantageous match...and Cinderella? La! She'd likely end up in the depths of the dungeons. Stepmama would love nothing more than guiding Cinderella there personally, preferably leaving her to a life of emptying chamber pots for the duration.

Choking out a laugh, she hurried down the path towards Pricilla. A path lined with flowers of every imaginable hue, their fragrances heady and indistinguishable. Every pebbled bump pressed her soles through her thin slippers. She did her best to keep her gaze from Prince. Truly, she did.

His piercing stare left her feeling as if her frock had come untied. Her face flamed, yet her heart fluttered. Cinderella met his gaze, her steps slowing, finally coming to a stop. She couldn't tear her gaze away. Fathomless, deep blue eyes pulled her in, followed by his honor, his soul. The world dimmed around her.

"Devil take it!" Pricilla hissed.

Cinderella jerked, and just managed to move in time to avoid being run through. Her gaze followed Pricilla's fleeing form. Stepmama _,_ looking none too pleased, bee lined straight for Essie.

"Oh, no," she whispered, and darted after Pricilla.

# Chapter 21

"Good lord, in merciful heavens," Faustine let loose. "That woman will be the very death of all our carefully laid plans." She waved her silver baton, sending a crash of thunder bellowing over the meadow. It did nothing to deter the hell-bent Lady Roche. The woman's uncanny knack for creating havoc between those girls must be curbed. But short of murder, what was a fairy godmother to do?

Faustine hesitated to send up a blast of wind. Rain was absolutely out of the question. The servants had worked too hard to prepare the event. But if that blasted woman succeeded in ruining everything, Faustine would personally lock her away. What she needed was inspiration, and soon. Lady Roche's robust body barreled down the path towards Esmeralda, sitting peacefully on the corner of a large blanket. The poor child hadn't even caught sight her mother yet.

A slight diversion would suffice, but what? Ye gads. The other two girls were bent on a path of their own—recue. A confrontation of this magnitude would have every tongue in the kingdom wagging, and those particular fireworks were better left for another time.

"Ah, I see just the thing." Faustine smiled and flicked her wrist.

" _Signora_? _Qual_ è _la vostra fretta_ —how do you say—why do you hurry so?"

Startled, Lady Roche stopped. "Ah, _Signore_ de Lecce. How pleasant to see you."

Faustine snickered under her breath. The beastly woman would have a hard time snubbing _him_.

"Perhaps you would care to take a turn about the lake, no?"

'Twas difficult to turn down such an eloquent request. Faustine congratulated herself. "Thomasine had better appreciate this interference," she grumbled, watching Conte de Lecce sketch a perfect bow. He grasped Lady Roche's meaty arm and routed her expertly in the opposite direction.

# Chapter 22

_Blast._ Lady Roche would reach Lady Edwerdina in seconds, oblivious to the drama hurtling in her direction. __ Her muslin skirts spread about her in a pool of orange spice that should have clashed with her red hair like a violent storm. Prince wasn't certain he could head her mother off in time to avert disaster, and lunged in her direction. But help stepped in from an unlikely source.

The Conte de Lecce's body, straight as a lance, angled toward Lady Roche, blocking her ambush. Prince slowed and waited. Then, chuckled. The Conte was either daft or a saint. No one with any sense would willingly place themselves in the woman's path.

But Prince was not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth and swung his gaze to Ladies Cinderella and Pricilla. Their pace could certainly not be defined as dignified, in fact it bordered on scandal. They'd not yet realized the Conte had thwarted their mother's plans. Prince bit the inside of his cheek and ambled towards them.

"You shouldn't run," Lady Evangeline chastised. "You'll secrete unsightly moisture."

The dynamics between the sisters and Lady Cinderella begged his curiosity. One moment Lady Pricilla's dour features boasted good natured humor, and the next anger had shifted her storm gray eyes to narrowed chips of glacial ice, her lips pressed. In this instant, however, they rolled skyward. "Secrete unsightly moisture, Essie? You could not say _sweat_?"

Lady Cinderella clapped a hand over her mouth, cutting off a burst of laughter. Prince hung back, grinning. How enlightening these three were when they believed no one about.

Alessandro strolled over and assisted Lady Cinderella to the ground next to Lady Eglantine, effectively snuffing out his amusement. _I am not jealous_. Perhaps if he told himself enough, he might believe it.

The cur shifted the picnic basket to the center of the palate, his ruse clear. He wanted closer to Lady Cinderella. The violent jar in Prince's chest startled him.

High color singed Lady Cinderella's cheeks and Prince bolted to the group. " _Pardonnez-moi_ ," he said, squeezing between de Lecce and Lady Cinderella. The move forced de Lecce closer to Lady Ellaralda, who also, curiously, sported two high spots of red. Prince had a feeling Lady Erwanda could handle herself that it was Lady Cinderella who required one's protection. Lady Erlyse managed to disguise her discomfort and began pulling contents from the basket.

Minutes later a plate was thrust into his hands loaded down with a leg of chicken, cheese, and bits of fruit. Prince ate slowly, glancing around the circle at these three young maidens needing protection from an over-zealous Italian in line for a title. He clearly thought himself the king of seduction.

Perhaps teaching the girls a few defense tactics was in order. One never knew when such a weapon would be required. It was a forward thinking idea, and Papa would likely have balked at such a notion were he in his right mine.

But with his duties, Prince knew he could not be with them every moment. He glanced at Lady Cinderella. _A shame where she's concerned._

She needed him more than most, he decided, blowing out a sharp breath.

"Are you well, Sire?" Lady Cinderella asked. She looked lovely in the bright yellow day gown. With her olive complexion and dark locks... he could almost imagine... _non_!

A sliver of cheese went down wrong, begetting a coughing fit. Heat crawled up his neck and the lady held out a glass. He snatched it from her fingers and downed the contents while another pounded his back. He turned his head and met the mischievous gaze of Lady Pricilla.

Could not the ground just swallow him up?

"Do not pound so hard, Pricilla," Lady Cinderella snapped.

Surprise lit the features of the other girls.

These odd feelings around Lady Cinderella were uncomfortable—riddled with _guilt_. Finding his mysterious princess was dire. Maman would then be forced to cease her infernal wedding plans.

How appalling to realize he'd given up on his search since the invasion of their guests. He felt almost dizzy with the simplicity of it all. The air around suddenly vibrated with scintillating sparkles.

He gathered his control. "I'm...I'm fine," he assured them. He armed himself with his most charming smile, squelching the sudden urge to jump on his horse and dash away. He knew now what he had to do, and was most anxious to proceed. 

# Chapter 23

One Week Later

"How do I find her, Arnald? Was she just a dream? Just one lovely night in the moonlight?" Prince stood at the Eros pond, drawn by an inexplicable pull. How was it that a piece of marble could issue such a smug and irritating smirk?

For the week past, he'd trod dusty roads, endured the freezing rain, the brisk winds as late fall made its turn into early winter. He'd traveled the countryside led by the strings of his heart, only to come up short and frustrated. Where did one navigate from here?

Once he'd found himself at the cottage where the slipper had slid so effortlessly onto Lady Efterpi's foot, he admitted defeat. 'Twas time to head home. He had nothing. No one could tell him a thing. It was if she'd never existed.

"Mayhap she's hidden right beneath your nose, cousin."

Of course, _that_ made no sense. He shot Arnald a disgusted look. "Perhaps," Prince said slowly, "we should find _you_ a bride."

"Ah, no thank you," he shot back, palms out, backing away. "I require no such effort."

Arnald's panic and alarmed expression drew a quick smile, but faded quickly. "Leave me be, Arnald. I will meet you in time to change for supper."

"As you wish." Arnald almost tripped in his haste to get away. As if unmarried a surge of unmarried debutants were fast on his heels.

Prince pushed his fingers through his hair and studied Eros. Had only a week passed since he'd stood in this very spot spouting nonsense on the "personification of love" nonsense?

Most troubling was that fact that it was Cinderella's haunting brown eyes he kept seeing, not those of his mysterious princess. The whole situation with Lady Ermaline and their fast-approaching wedding...it all played havoc with his sense of normality. He lifted his face to the puffy white clouds filling the sky, letting the nippy breeze cool his heated skin.

He strolled over to the stone garden bench and sat heavily.

He had not yet seen Maman, Papa, Lady Eve...Est... Devil take it. He would never remember her name. He doubted he'd even been missed all week. The impending doom pressed hard against his chest.

Prince leaned forward, elbows on thighs and dropped his face in his hands. What was it _she'd_ quoted that day? That Eros was described as "bittersweet" and "cruel" to his victims. _Oui_. The irony cut deep.

_Also known as unscrupulous_... Her voice echoed in his head. He let out a groan. Now, he was a victim? Or, worse, unscrupulous.

Could anything be worse?

"Your Highness?"

Ah, well...apparently, it could. The serene calm of Lady Cinderella's voice seeped through to his weary bones. And, after a week's disappointing journey how could he help but cling to her sweetness.

A strong updraft seared the air.

And, then there was the other matter. Swallowing his sigh, he stood.

"Your Highness? Might we assist you?" The sight of the poor man's bedraggled appearance, and Cinderella was ready to abandon all sense of propriety, smother him with loving care. Or perhaps, tear off screaming in the opposite direction.

His hair was in desperate need of a comb, his stubbled chin, a shave. "Are you ill, Sir?" She marveled at how calm she sounded.

"Ill?" he choked out.

"Essie, my arm," Cinderella whispered, attempting to pry Essie's whitened knuckles from their vice-like grip. But Essie held tight.

Cinde glanced at her. Essie's confused, then surprised expression teetered on seeing the very thing she desperately wanted to hide.

It took a moment for Essie's batting lashes to slow to a normal pace, and once they did, Cinde had no illusions that her love for Prince was exactly what her sister would see.

She turned back to Prince, stilled the tremor in her voice. "You...look..." The words stuck in her throat, appalled by her forthrightness. " _Je suis désolée._ I'm so sorry."

"Ill? Fatigued? Frustrated?" he muttered.

He was jesting, of course, though, he looked all those things. Not at all princely. The edge to his voice was raspy, bleak... _hopeless_. Her heart ached for him.

"Cinde! We must go," Essie hissed in her ear.

She ignored her, never taking her eyes from him.

"Do not worry for me, ladies." He bowed. "Shall I see you at supper then?"

" _Oui, oui_ ," Essie stammered, dipping into a quick, not at all respectful curtsey, tightening her grip.

The only opportunity in furthering her acquaintance the prince was slipping quickly away. He'd mounted his horse before she could utter another word.

They watched him set off in a cantor.

"Are you _mad_?" Essie demanded.

"Obviously," she said under her breath.

Preparations for the betrothal ball were in full bloom, forcing Prince to maneuver carefully to his chamber. Rolled up rugs had been carried outside, beaten and now rolled back into place. He couldn't traipse anywhere without running into some frenzy of readying.

Mayhap he should consult a physician for the ailments plaguing him. This near fainting was not natural for a man of his healthy aptitude. He should be bled.

On the one hand, if he perished 'twould save him a life sentence of his own horrific making. All because of a glass shoe. Trying it on every maiden in the kingdom had been a terrible idea. There must be some way to find her. He needed to speak with Maman, urgently. Beg her to reconsider this mad plan of a betrothal ball. In his heart, however, he knew. Things had progressed too far for a gentleman to withdraw. He would soon have a new bride.

He lifted his eyes, and who should appear but the object of his thoughts? Maman. Striding in another direction. Her skirts swished with her brisk stride.

Prince hurried after her, determined to have his say. When she angled toward an abandoned passage, he fell back, the fine hairs along his skin raising with alarm. A queen—the Queen—had no business in an uninhabited portion of the castle. And, should something be required, there were servants to carry out such tasks.

The longer he followed the more confused he grew. This wing had been deserted years ago. Eyes adjusting to the dimness, he followed her trail by the disturbed dust. She marched with such confidence, he realized this wasn't her first venture down this corridor.

Her steps seemed almost fervent. In the quiet, a scattering of tiny vermin sounded.

He waited at a hard turn in the empty hall, a moment later the scrape of a door creaked. He hastened ahead. He rounded another corner, and reared back as a wooden door stood slightly ajar, flickering candle sent shadows dancing wildly.

Maman's voice rang clear. "—ended where?"

What the devil?

"The cottage. Poor thing is quite beside himself." The other voice laughed.

_Cottage?_ Were they speaking of Lady Roche's home?

"I hate admitting it, Faustine, but you are a genius. This little plan of yours seems to be working, gloriously."

Outrage roared through him. The picture wasn't entirely clear, but there was no question he was at the butt of a cruel jest.

" _Oui_ , quite clever, _non_? Of course, I had no desire to ruin the picnic after all that effort and work..." She clucked her tongue then chuckled. "He stepped in quite nicely, too."

Who stepped in? Ruining the picnic? What was Maman up to? And... this Faustine— _Aunt_ Faustine, Maman's __ dead sister? He tamped back the temptation to announce himself and demand answers, but patience would serve him better, he decided.

"What have you next for the social agenda, dear?" The _genius_ Faustine asked.

"There is still the matter of the remaining ponds and statues, of course," Maman said. "Tedious, but it affords us time and opportunities. Alas, we've only ten days, you know."

Ten days. For his farce of a wedding. He snorted with disgust.

"Did you hear something, Faustine?"

Prince clenched his jaw. Oh, how he'd love nothing more than to expose the two connivers' little scheme. First, he needed to learn what it was. He should call off this entire wedding debacle.

Such an act would put Maman in her place, right where she belonged. Let _her_ explain why his nuptials fell through. Let _her_ explain to that harridan, Lady Roche.

The instant the thought formed he knew he could not place Lady Egeria in a situation as such. Had they even considered feelings in the matter?

_Non._ There had to be another way. And what of Lady Cinderella's good graces. For her to see him turn into such a rakehell rotter? There was just something about her that drew him. She, no doubt, would be the one who paid for such a folly

_Non_ , he needed a scheme of his own.

"— _oui_ , well the weather should not concern our—"

Prince did not wait to hear more. He had his own designs to administer, and time appeared more critical than he'd anticipated.

"Is there not _something_ I can do to slow this stampede of wild horses threatening to trounce my very living breath?" Essie's moan was most theatrical. Cinde wanted to grin, but couldn't quite manage it, for the fact her own happiness was too entwined in the outcome.

All three girls had managed to avoid Stepmama by hiding in Cinderella's out-of-the-way chamber. 'Twas not completely secure, but Maman had no reason to suspect Essie and Pricilla's forged friendship with Cinde. She sat cross-legged on the bed while Essie lay stretched on her stomach, chin resting on her fists. The sense of déjà vu inundated her.

Pricilla, primly situated in the overstuffed chair, tapped a thoughtful finger against her cheek. The chair was strategically set before the door in the event someone, and by someone, meaning Stepmama, barged in unannounced. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it would allow enough time to react. Just a precautionary measure that made her feel better.

"We just need a contingent strategy," Cill said.

"'Twill to be too late." Essie's wail filled the chamber.

Cinde's head spun between the two with their constant banter. Another hazard of the sister-ship, she decided as sudden elation soared through her.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Essie. Your constant whining does not facilitate the progress of pre-planning."

Cinde silently agreed. Her relationship with her sisters felt too fragile to risk blurting things out as they did.

"But what if it goes too far and I actually end up married to him?" Essie was in full whining mode.

Dejection seeped all the way through to Cinde's bones. "The plans are in full preparation," she said glumly. "Just yesterday I saw footmen dispatching satchels burdened with invitations."

"Burdened is an interesting choice of words, Cinde," Pricilla's eyes bore into her. "What have you against Essie marrying the prince?"

Cinde peeked at Essie. She'd flipped to her back and was staring at the celling of the bed's canopy.

"Oh, why should she care?" Essie cried. "I just know I'm not ready for marriage. I know we are considered of marriageable age, but I do not want...uh... anyone. I don't wish to be queen. I don't wish to live in a gilded cage." She gave a delicate shudder. "I prefer the study of meteorology."

Cill smirked. "Of course you do. And, it is surely an appropriate subject matter for your natural curiosity and affliction."

Essie leveled her a lethal glance.

"And, I can certainly understand your sentiment on marriage," she said under her breath.

That was odd, Cinde thought, considering Cill's reaction to her shoe fitting Essie.

"What medieval marauder decided women should be attached before their twentieth year, pray tell?" Essie demanded.

"Hah, sister dear, we should count ourselves blessed. We could have been sold off at the age of three and ten."

Cinde considered that little tidbit. Now would be a good time to confide in the two of them. She summoned up her courage. "I have some—"

The door bounded against the back of the Cill's chair, startling the three of them.

Cill jumped up, held the chair in place. "Quick, Cinderella! Under the bed."

" _Vite!_ " Essie snapped.

She dropped to her knees and scooted. Wait, 'twas the Royal Palace, dirt was not allowed. Funny how they'd been at the palace for such a short time and already she'd grown accustomed to such luxury. Already distanced from her old life and so quickly. The door thrashed against the chair repeatedly. She flinched.

"Open this door." Stepmama shrilled.

"One minute, Maman," Cill called out. "Essie, help me with the chair." Among their rustling skirts, Cinderella could hear then grunting with their efforts. The chair's shadow edged closer to the bed. More rustling, then light footsteps as they dashed across the floor.

The chamber door slammed against the wall.

"What is the meaning of this!" Stepmama's fury filled the chamber.

The door to the armoire creaked open. That was Essie's part—Cinde held her breath.

Cill's skirts gave away her location near the door, then her dramatic gasp. Mayhap the three of them should consider an affixation to an acting troupe once they were banished from the castle grounds.

"Maman! What are you doing here? You will have us caught." Cill's whispered was not so soft. Light seeped beneath the bed as she moved. The door closed softly.

"What the devil are the two of you up to?" Stepmama demanded.

"Maman, your language! Keep your voice down." Cinde grinned at Essie's superb inflection of conspiracy.

"Where is Cinderella, I...I need her to press my...my gloves." Her accusatory tone lowered, sounded less sure. She was buying into their dramatics. Now, if they could just keep her from peering beneath the bed.

"She is in the gardens—we believe. She is enamored by those silly statues."

Cinde frowned. _Silly_?

"This is what comes from too much unhealthy exposure to books, my lovelies. Mind what I say. Intelligence in a woman is an undesirable trait." Heavy steps shuffled by.

" _Oui,_ Maman. I was just admiring her shoes," Essie said. "Look. Why can't I have ones like these..." She stomped her foot. "Why should _she_ have so many?"

"Just take those," Stepmama snapped. "The girl has no need for slippers threaded with gold."

"Truly? Should I?"

Cinde stifled a giggle, picturing Cill's eyes rolling.

"Something odd is going on," Stepmama said. She sounded reasonable enough.

"What do you mean, Maman?" Cill was as good an actress as Essie. Cinde covered her mouth. Laughing would ruin everything.

"Why does the queen insist on including Cinderella, do you suppose? She has taken an unusual interest in her." Bitterness bounded from the walls followed by an uncomfortable silence.

Alarm tingled over Cinderella.

"My dear, Esmeralda, we cannot forget that it was you Prince Charming chose, my darling..."

"Shush." Cill interrupted her with a melodramatic beat. "We must leave. If you are correct in your assumptions regarding the queen..." she trailed off.

" _Oui. Oui_ , of course," Stepmama said quickly. "I shall take care of _her_ later. Right now we've a betrothal ball to prepare for."

Their voices faded from the chamber and the air rushed from Cinderella's body. She hesitated a few moments more, then crawled from beneath the bed.

An effervescent glow winked from the room and slowly dissipated. She had the strangest feeling... "Fairy Godmother?" Nothing.

The door stood slightly ajar. Cinde shook out her skirts, willed her pounding heart to a normal rhythm, though she doubted she'd ever feel normal again.

She spun slowly, concerned that each day she failed to confess would grow more difficult. Once again she'd allowed an opportunity to pass. What a coward she was. Tears blurred her vision.

Her secret would devastate their new found relationships. Essie and Pricilla would forever hate her.

# Chapter 24

"Hurry, Cinde," Essie prodded. "The carriage is waiting."

"I'm trying, but all my slippers have vanished."

" _What_! What did you do with your shoes?"

Essie's exasperation was as annoying as the fact that all of her shoes had, in fact, disappeared. Weren't the three of them just the day before using her shoes as a diversion for Stepmama? "Truly? You have to ask?"

She backed out from deep inside of the armoire. Essie stalked to the far side of the bed then disappeared. Cill stood in the doorframe, arms folded across her chest, leather shod-foot tapping impatiently. Neither struck her as the guilty party.

Cinde fisted her hands at her hips. "Well, I...I cannot go without my slippers." Panic surged through her, each word trilling higher. "My slippers are gone. All of them."

"'Tis not the end of the world. You can borrow a pair of mine," the ever-practical Cill said.

Oh, that was rich. Cinde swallowed her shout. Her words. Pricilla's foot was too large the glass slipper, but raising that little fact might land her with a knot on her head.

"Have forgotten how large your feet are, Cill?" Essie demanded.

Sparks lit Pricilla's eyes.

Oh, dear. Cinde edged back as past recollections threatened the present.

" _Merci_ , Cill. I certainly can't go about in stocking feet." Cinde's voice squeaked but she had to say something. anything to dispel the sudden tension.

Cill turned on her heel and stalked off. Cinde hurried after her, mindful of her unladylike dash, leaving Essie to her own devices.

Praying they encountered no one, she glanced over her shoulder. Essie had less care for decorum, racing to catch them.

"You cannot possibly wear her shoes, Cinde. They will too large for you," she hissed.

"Perhaps, but it was quite ungracious for you to point out the fact in that manner," Cinderella retorted. "Now she is furious and one of us will surely pay."

"Don't be ridiculous, I shall handle the matter."

She snorted. "Like you just did? We've come so far, Essie and I will do _nothing_ to upset that. So if I must flop around in shoes too large, I shall do so." She took a deep breath.

Essie tugged her to a stop, her expression sympathetic. "Oh, _ma chère._ You must learn to trust us." She turned to Cill. "Hold up, Cill. Where is Maman? We mustn't let her discover the three of us talking so."

Cill pulled up so abruptly, Cinderella plowed into her. Cill didn't seem to notice. "That's true."

"What should we do now?" Essie said.

Odd, how she and Essie looked to Cill's practical manner. Her natural tendency to lead was infinitely clear.

"One of us go ahead, make certain she isn't there," Pricilla said, her voice low.

"I shall go," Essie said. "Wait here." She shot forward, disappearing quickly, Cinde alone with Cill.

A sense of foreboding snaked down Cinderella's spine. She waited, wary and watchful as Cill turned her contemplated her.

"You said something interesting a few days ago. It was just in passing."

"I did?" Cinderella clutched her skirts. "What was that?"

Cill tapped her chin with the tip of her forefinger. "That you had dainty feet, too."

Heat flooded Cinderella. She managed a nervous swallow and waited.

"What, pray tell, should foster such a statement? I believe the comment soared straight over Essie's good senses." Pricilla seemed to say this more to herself.

She swallowed another lump, not quite sure how to say what she definitely needed to say.

Cill had never been one for patience. But there she stood, waiting

"Well, um, when Papa married Stepmama and....and you and Essie...came to live with us..." She took a deep breath. "When Papa passed on...she...Stepmama took all of my...my shoes..." Her voice trailed off, eyes closed. She braced for the crack of Pricilla's hand across her cheek. Instead, a long silence stretched between them. She opened her eyes and Pricilla was just staring at her.

" _Oui_ , that is so. We were quite young. I vow, it makes no sense." Under Cill's shrewdness Cinderella opened her mouth to confess, but Essie rounded the corner.

"Come quickly," she panted. "Maman was summoned by the queen. There's not much time."

Unladylike dashing ensued.

Another lost moment, or a granted reprieve? The guilt would kill her, but she would feel better after clearing her conscience? At least until her sisters took it upon themselves to end her misery. If they didn't, there was always Stepmama. She drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves.

They made it to Essie and Cill's chamber without incident. Pricilla brought out a pair of leather half boots.

Cinde blinked at their size, but slipped them over her stocking feet without a word. They were huge.

She met Essie's eyes, begging her silently, to let it go, but Essie's compressed spoke otherwise. "Cill, we could float the Mediterranean in those things. You cannot possibly expect Cinde to wear them. Why, she might as well join the court jesters for our evening entertainment."

Pricilla gasped.

Cinderella winced.

"Essie—" Could Essie stop there? _Non_. She had to grab Cinde's foot and lift it in the air to further her point. And, without a single thought for Cinderella's lack of acrobatic flexibility.

Essie pressed in at the toe. Her face must resemble a fireball, she thought when Essie's whole palm flattened it by the length of her fist.

"Cill," Essie said gently, dropping her hold. Cinderella's foot clapped to the floor. "Let her try mine, Cill."

The play of emotions crossing each of her sisters' faces, squeezed her chest. But while it was her foot, there was something else at stake here. Cinde chose not to intrude.

Cill nodded slowly and Essie rushed to the wardrobe. Cinde gave Pricilla a weak smile, leaving Cill's unnerving focus on her. 'Twas as blatant as a comet searing across a clear night sky.

"Buongiorno, _Signorinas._ "

Never in the world of all saints would Prince have believed himself jealous. Yet, there was his fist, clenched at his side, desperate to keep from smashing it into de Lecce's regal and perfect nose. Cinderella's gloved hand on the bounder's arm, though she'd already been seated in the open conveyance. Even Lady Estella's lips had twisted into a fierce scowl. He eyed her, thoughtfully. Was it possible she felt the same as he?

'Twould be too lucky. He pasted on a bland smile and stepped forward. "Good morning, Lady Pricilla." He offered his arm. Rather than blushing as he'd expected, an air of something more insightful covered her expression. Something sagacious.

"Sire," she murmured. Her tone was respectful. It was the guarded perception that unnerved him.

Apparently, he'd lost all ability to charm. Frustrated, he struggled not to throw up his arms. _He was Prince Charming,_ for the sake of heaven _._ Surely someone still considered his charms preeminent? His gift to enthrall? His capacity to captivate?

Twinkling sparkles flurried about. He glanced up quickly, his gaze snagged and locked with Lady Cinderella's. The voices around him faded. If he never found his mysterious princess...

His head jerked back, breaking the odd connection. He had to find her. Lady Emeranda's glance was fastened on de Lecce and Lady Cinderella. Mayhap the sparks kindling the air were from _her_ eyes?

Yet, __ no strong updrafts rent the air. It felt more a wave of heat. And unseasonable.

A slow smile tilted his lips. Perhaps, Lady Euthralla was the key.

Though gray clouds threatened overhead, the weather was almost balmy for early winter. Cinde and her sisters were in the lead carriage set on a northeast trek for more garden tours. The driver steered them down a slightly rocky path where the grass was less manicured and sheltered by trees that weren't trimmed in the uniform precision of those closer to the castle.

Periodic stops allowed the visitors to disembark and wander the many trails. Prince and Signore de Lecce had been waylaid by other guests.

For once, Cinde relished the reprieve. She'd spied them on their horses midway back of the queue.

She, Essie and Cill had decided to walk for a bit. The bright varied foliage of hibiscus, crocus, sage, and edelweiss filled the air with an indescribable fragrance. She breathed in deep, excited, as this particular path hosted the largest pond she'd yet seen.

Hestia, the Virgin Goddess, was molded in fine detail of chiseled wraps.

"What has you so fascinated by this figure, Cinde?" Essie asked. "Not just this one, I suppose, but they all seem to capture your attention." She waved out a hand.

She smiled. Essie was speaking of two smaller ponds they'd already visited. Demeter, the natural goddess of the Harvest; and Hermes, the cunning god of the Trade.

"Well," she said slowly. "I suppose it's not what I see, but what I feel. Don't you remember when we'd sit in Papa's lap and the stories he regaled? I suppose once my bed was relegated to—" She stopped, mortified by her words. "—I just love th-their mythical nature," she finished weakly.

"I remember a little." Essie snatched her hand and squeezed. "His chest would vibrate when he laughed."

Pricilla frowned. "I don't remember that." She sounded angry. "Who is this? And why does she hold a tree in her hand?"

Cinde angled her head toward Pricilla. Her gaze was riveted on Hestia. Cinde moved her gaze back to statue. "Hestia," she said. "She's the goddess, Hestia. She was the eldest daughter of Cronus and Rhea." She grinned at Cill's blank expression. "Well, that's neither here nor there. Basically, Hestia personified the 'fire hat.' It burned in the hearth of every home. The hearth fire was only allowed to be extinguished by ritual."

The statue appeared golden, even with the gray clouds hovering. "Hestia was worshiped in every temple," she said. "She loved due to her kind, forgiving soul."

"How apropos," Cill whispered softly.

Cinde couldn't detect even a smidge of sarcasm. " _Oui_. Hestia didn't participate in a single war or dispute."

Cill spun, reaching out.

Cinde flinched, but she only grasped Cinde's hand. "I-I hope you will someday find it in your heart to forgive us... _me_ ..." She glanced at Essie. "I've been a frightful sister." She turned back to Cinde. "Truly, frightful, and I'm profoundly sorry."

Shock left her speechless and tears gathering. She shook her head. "You've no need to apologize, Cill. This past fortnight has more than made up for our differences." Her gaze fell to their clasped hands. "Someday, you may find it is I who shall be asking your forgiveness."

"How silly you are, Cinde. You are by far the Hestia of the three of us," Essie scolded.

"Oh, _oui_. Bashful and always portrayed as sitting. The perfect portrait," Cinderella breathed, disgusted with herself.

"What god do you suppose I might represent?" Cill's question surprised her, as did her arm slipping through her own.

"Well," she hedged. "At the risk of offending your delicate sensibilities, I think you remind me of Zeus. He was ruler of all mankind. A true leader. You are calm and sensible in tenable situations."

"Ah, _oui_. I believe I may count that as a compliment." Cill smiled, her eyes still on Hestia.

"Of the highest kind, I assure you." She meant it too.

"Enough of this somber moodiness," Essie said brightly, darting to the open carriage. "Let us be on our way. I believe there is an archery event scheduled to begin within the hour, and I have every intention of placing a wager on Cill. She is a crack shot. We must hurry, the other carriages are moving out."

At the perimeter of the west lawn, Prince observed the afternoon's entertainments. He had yet to locate his betrothed and her sisters. He'd grown accustomed to searching them out. Their carriage had yet to return from the garden outing as he, Arnald, and Alessandro made their way back long before the others.

He'd included de Lecce for reasons he was not so proud of. How else was he to limit the man's attentions to Lady Cinderella?

The servants were busy arranging targets for the upcoming archery bout and guests were meandering in that direction. de Lecce emerged from the west doors, and on his heels was his younger brother, Niccòlo.

The resemblance between the two was striking. Niccòlo's tall frame, dark hair, and eyes would give Alessandro firm competition in the not so distant future.

Prince was thrilled the boy was only ten and seven. He pushed away thoughts of de Lecce posing a threat to the Prince of Chalmers. It was an absurd notion.

Another ten minutes crept past before he spotted missing conveyance. He set off down the path to meet the sisters, a quick smile twisting through him. A slice in the gray skies teased him with a sliver of blue sky.

Lady Cinderella was a vision in a frock of soft cream. The shimmering trim of bronze ribbons set off her smooth skin and streaks of auburn in her dark tresses. If she were his bride she'd never wear brown again. No matter how rich the hue. She deserved rainbows, along with the pot of gold at its base. Her presence struck a subtle, yet elusive, chord that had his heart thumping wildly against his chest. Her lips tilted at the sight of him. _She would not be such a hardship to marry._

Prince hauled himself up on the path stunned by his inappropriate thoughts.

These were dangerous, traitorous even, but by God, they brandished him inside out. He spun around, unable to suddenly face their innocent faces. Truly, an act of cowardice. But his attempt to withdraw fell short. He was too close to the carriage to for a graceful retreat.

"Sire." Lady Pricilla startled him out of his reverie.

"Ah, I thought I might be of assistance." Prince held out his arm. "Lady Esper—." He hid a grimace, bowing low.

"Did you mean __ me? _"_ Lady Es...Lady Es. She narrowed her gaze on him.

Heat surged up his neck. "Lady Cinderella." His voice dropped a fraction. The air came alive with an unexplained brilliance. His fingers tingled with sensations he had difficulty identifying.

He turned quickly to Lady Pricilla, clearing his throat. "I trust your outing was pleasant."

Clasping his hands at his lower back, he escorted the trio to the west lawn. From the corner of his eye he spied de Lecce's determined gait bearing down on them, Niccòlo fast on his heels. Prince suppressed a grin at the picture of a not-so-far-in-the-future mature Niccòlo giving de Lecce a legitimate run when it came to paying attendance to the ladies.

"We did indeed," Lady Pricilla answered. She glanced over at the others. "It was most enlightening."

There was a subtle change between the three, a secret they seemed to share. 'Twas different from the unrestrained laughter he and Arnald happened upon previously. Like an affable affection. No trace of the hostility he'd sensed upon their arrival. Prince found himself charmed by their unexpected amiability. "How do you ladies fare at archery?"

"Fair, sir," Lady Pricilla said. Her tone was almost warm.

A snort resonated from the direction the others. And since he was almost certain Lady Cinderella would never resort to such inarticulate sonority, the sound had to have bounded from Lady Esmeralda.

He pulled himself up. Took a moment to savor the thrill in getting her name right, even if 'twas only in his thoughts.

" _Buon pomeriggio, onorevoli._ May I present my _fratello_ , Niccòlo?" de Lecce's head was tilted and he was slightly out of breath.

Prince bit back his mirth as Niccòlo clicked his heels together loudly, bowed. Oh, the very young.

"Charmed." Lady Esperalda beamed him a bright smile and short curtsy.

_Please_ , Prince wanted to shout but managed to restrain. Nor did he roll his eyes.

Ladies Cinderella and Pricilla curtsied as well, and much to his aggravation, de Lecce grasped Lady Cinderella's hand and placed it on his arm. Niccòlo followed suit with Lady Pricilla leaving Prince with Lady Emalia. A less than gentle breeze kicked up the air.

Perfect.

# Chapter 25

"Faustine, what the devil are you about?" Thomasine hissed. "I do not remember an agreement to stirring up the wind."

"Such language, dear," she sniffed. "And the wind is not _my_ doing."

Thomasine glanced about for curious ears. She sat in a chair elevated on a platform, observing the festivities before swinging her gaze back to Faustine. "Of course, it is. Who else could it be?"

Faustine was postured through a break in the trees tapping an impatient foot. One hand was fisted at her hip, the other waving, setting her position precarious. Her expression gave Thomasine pause. "Well, then...who...?" Thomasine's question trailed, her eyes landing on the source, light dawning. "Ah, my apologies. I see Signore de Lecce has commandeered Lady Cinderella person yet again. It's clear our Lady Esmeralda is harboring a longing for the Conte's elder son."

Faustine's grunt sounded through the branches. "Where is the hag, dear?"

Thomasine surveyed the grounds, locating Lady Roche cornered by the Conte near the refreshment tent. "Being nicely detained at the moment. Your handiwork?"

"Well, I had my doubts it would work a second time, _ma chère_. I can only offer the suggestion by way of—" She waggled her hand. "—love. I cannot force love. Hmmm. I've somehow misplaced by wand."

"A shame that. Sweeping her from Chalmers—" A rousing cheer roared through the crowd.

"What is it, Thomasine?"

Thomasine cocked her head toward the archery targets. "It seems Lady Esmeralda just scored a bull's-eye on the archery target."

"Esmeralda?" Faustine asked, clearly stunned. "I thought Lady Pricilla was the expert with a deadly weapon."

# Chapter 26 ****

The next morning

Pressure bore down on Prince's chest that equaled that of an African elephant crushing his breast bone. The betrothal ball was but a mere sennight off and he was no closer to a solution than he was the moment the glass slipper fit the wrong girl.

He stood at the open window in his chamber, and ran a palm over his face. Frustration miring panic. What if he truly couldn't find a way out and wound up married to a human advection motion detector? He stared out at a brilliant sun rising over the horizon for what promised to be a cold and beautiful day, his breakfast tray, cold and untouched.

A day of mending walls and tending tenant matters might clear his head. But devising a strategy on how to divert an impending wedding doomed for disaster without hurting an innocent young woman was difficult. The usual solution in these matters was the female crying off. And Prince was not fool enough to believe Lady Roche would allow either of her daughters any such thing. And, what of the lovely Lady Cinderella?

He let out a sigh. _Non_ , Lady Roche's consuming hatred of Lady Cinderella stifled any union of that sort. And, short of sudden death he foresaw no graceful way from the situation.

Two hours later, Prince pounded his vexation on a fencing post and making great strides in his effort. "What am I to do about this betrothal ball?" Prince asked Arnald. He slammed the hammer on the post sending it deeper into the ground, each whack sealing the debacle in which he found himself. He could feel moisture glistening off his body, his muscles rippling with each swing.

"You could stage your own siege," Arnald suggested. He hammered away at another post several feet over.

"'Tis obvious she's not my princess." A lifetime with Lady Earline would suffocate him.

"—or your own kidnapping."

"She is not _so_ bad, I suppose. And, her blinking has seemed to have lost some of its velocity." _But to marry her when I love another?_ How would he manage such a fete? Each passing hour pushed his dreams further from reach.

His lips tingled, and an image of Lady Cinderella floated before him. The unbidden thought was so unexpected he missed the post altogether with his next propulsion. Stumbled like a clumsy ox. He swiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm.

"That is because you do not make her nervous any longer," Arnald pointed out ruthlessly. "What of fainting again? That appeared to work well."

Prince glanced over his shoulder to his cousin. "Did you say something?"

The hours moved swiftly into days. Cinde was amazed at the natural sisterhood developing with Cill and Essie. To her astonishment, if her opinion differed from theirs, the only repercussions was an ensuing word battle that ended raucous laughter.

She couldn't completely absolve her meekness, it was too ingrained at the hands of abuse. But there were moments, joyous moments where she believed it might someday be a thing of the past.

Things were not perfect, of course. Cinde was the first to realize how much past needed to be forgiven, but for the first time since Papa's death she and her sisters were connected, as if they were truly becoming sisters. Papa would be so proud. Of more import, she did not appear destined to the isolated existence prevalent just days before. At least until Essie and Cill learned her true identity. She grimaced.

And what of Prince? Would he resent her, as well? Her sisters were not the only ones she was deceiving. The queen...she swallowed her tears. Blubbering like a fool helped no one.

Arm linked in Essie's, Cinde dragged Essie down the path to the Eros pond. Silly or not, Cinde found comfort in the statue's presence, and she couldn't traipse about alone. The ground crunched beneath her feet with the frosting morning. She was warm in her new pelisse and hand muff. They meandered along the path, awaiting Cill. "What's taking her so long?" she said.

"What on earth?" Essie's words sputtered over Cinde's. Cill's boots pounded down the path. "You sound like a herd of horses, Cill."

Pricilla's breath came in short stilted gasps as she pulled up, grabbing Essie's arm, and bent at the waist.

"You'd best take care. You'll cause Stepmama an apoplectic seizure. Or yourself. What is that contraption you're holding? And where in heaven's name did you find it?"

Cinde had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling.

"'Tis a stick, see?" She straightened slowly, and held out a nondescript silver, indeed, stick. She turning it at varying angles. "It's the strangest thing."

Her foreboding spread throughout her body like a disease. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"It sort of quivers when I tilt it just so." Cill demonstrated, grasping the slightly widened end.

"Mayhap it just looks like it quivers due to its shiny exterior." Essie scoffed.

But Cinde eyed it warily. Sure enough, a small, yet discernible tremor emanated from the skinny baton, jiggling in Pricilla's fingertips.

"Quivers!" Essie snatched it from Cill. "Oh, my," Essie breathed.

Her apprehension soared, her skin prickled with bumps. "Where...where did it come from?"

Cill shrugged. "It sort of just rolled in front of me." She shot a mischievous grin in their direction, and plucked the stick from Essie's light hold. "It feels almost... _alive_."

"Rolled in front of you? Where?" Essie demanded.

Her eyes rose skyward. "In the castle, silly." But Essie's gaze was a fierce scrutiny, and Cill huffed. It was a brilliant tactic. Cill hedged. "Fine. I may have wandered across it in a not so inhabited wing."

"Not inhabited?" Cinde's voice squeaked. She could feel the panic closing her throat.

"Cill, you know we're not supposed to explore that area!"

"Oh, please, Essie, who will know?" Cill's eyes narrowed on Essie. "Unless _you_ take it upon yourself to say something, that is."

Oh, no. They were on the edge of blows. "For the sake of heaven, _both_ of you!" Cinde snapped. "Do you hear yourselves? This constant bickering is...is embarrassing, and annoying." Two gaped expressions turned on her. Her face flamed and she squeezed her eyes tight, palms flying to her cheeks. "Oh...oh, I'm sorry."

Stunned silence rent the air. But Essie let out a sharp laugh and threw her arms about her. "Oh, Cinde. We truly are sisters, now."

Tears burned the back of Cinde's throat. She opened her eyes and caught Cill's sheepish grin.

" _Mais oui_." Pricilla said "When one takes comfort in raising one's voice to another, as you have, Cinde, it does appear the relationship has evolved." To Cinderella's utter astonishment, Cill reached over and hugged her too.

Cinde grunted. "Um, Pricilla, your new stick is poking me."

"Oh, _je suis désolée_ , sorry," she said, jumping back. "Interesting little thing, is it not?" She swished it through the air creating a soft whistle.

A second later, spring blooms sprouted in a rainbow of colors. From the tips of the tree limbs, throughout the fields and as far as the eye could see. The air fairly choked with the convergence of overbearing sickly fragrances. Spring fragrances. _Spring. It was winter._

That sick dread spread to a chill down her spine as she circled slowly, gaping. Essie collapsed in a heap on the stone bench facing Eros, hand over her open mouth.

Cinde glanced at Pricilla. Her mouth hung open too, but her gaze was stuck on the silver baton in her hand. "What the—"

"Cill!" Essie snapped, coming to her senses.

Cinde could quite grasp what had happened. Periwinkles, thistles, daisies, goldenrods, orange jewelweed. They sprouted everywhere with no end in sight. "Make it stop, Cill."

"I...I don't know how."

Cill never panicked—she was the practical one.

"Wave the blasted thing," Essie commanded.

"Oh, of course." She did. The flowers faded away, leaving the scented atmosphere behind. Cill stood immobile. She looked as stunned as Cinderella felt.

"What...what happened?" Cill's voice trembled.

Cinde couldn't answer. Her eyes were fastened to that silver baton. The thing positively shimmered with an effervescent glow.

"I do believe your stick is magic," Essie said, awed.

Cill dropped on the bench beside her. "I do believe you're right."

"How does it work?"

There would be no stopping her sisters now, Cinde realized as a certain terror gripped her.

"How the devil should I know?" Cill said softly. She was clearly in shock.

"Try something else." Essie's shock had blazed past, straight through to excitement.

"I have no idea what I did in the first place."

Someone needed to bring common sense to the table. "We need to take it back."

"Do be serious, Cinde. Surely, you are not averse to a little fun?" Essie's eyes were riveted on the skinny wand. The blasted thing held her mesmerized.

Dear heavens. This was a nightmare. What if the stick belonged to—

"What did you do that for?" Essie cried. "Ow! My shoe is getting too snug."

"Oh, Ess, I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I just had a fleeting thought that if your feet were the same size as mine, and pointed the stick...Oh, Essie—" Cill gasped.

Cinde almost felt sorry for Cill. Cleary, she hadn't intended to make Essie's bigger. _But, heavens, the size of her foot changed!_ That stick could only belong to one person, and they needed to return it. Without delay.

"Pricilla!" Cinde spoke sternly. "Come. Now." She spun on her heel and stomped up the path. Newly embraced or not, they had to return that stick.

"I will _not_ return it. Not yet," Cill called her. "If this thing can adjust the size of one's foot, just imagine the possibilities."

Cinde froze. She'd never be able to stand up to the both of them. She would just have to confiscate the thing return it herself. If Fairy Godmother ever got wind of this...well, it was bad enough Cinde lost her shoe, but to have stolen her magic stick? 'Twas inconceivable.

She could only hope reigning terror would not befall them as streaks of silver and gold glitter fell gracefully from the sky.

# Chapter 27

"What do you mean you've misplaced your wand? Faustine, if this is another one of your little practical jokes, I'll have you know, my sensibility level is knee-high, at best." Thomasine paced the dusty chamber.

"Good heavens, Thomasine. What on earth makes you believe I would jest about such a thing? Why, the very idea of my wand in the wrong hands..." She shuddered. "And, because the blasted thing has gone missing, I am stuck in this, rat-infested hole until we locate it."

"What a horrid thing to say. My castle is _not_ rat-infested." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "But that is neither here nor there. You are right. If that contraption lands in the hand of the wrong person...well, it doesn't bear thinking about. I best return, before someone wonders what has become of me. Give me a sign of some sort once you have located it."

Thomasine swept from the room. Disgust filled Faustine. What more could go wrong?

Muted screams reached her ears. "Well, that did not take long," she muttered, striding to the door. One should not tempt fate in the manner of such a question, she told herself, hastily quitting the chamber.

# Chapter 28

Cinderella snatched one arm and Essie the other, and they dragged Pricilla into the first unlocked chamber they could find. Thankfully for them, Cill's amusement was so great it lessened her resistance.

"What?" Cill laughed so hard she bent at the waist. "I'm just having a bit of fun." She swiped the tears from her eyes.

"You terrified that poor chambermaid out of her wits," Essie said.

"We shall never survive the consequences," Cinde muttered. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest. She had to get that stick away from Pricilla before she set the entire castle afire, or turned the staff into chirping crickets.

"So, where are we?"

"Some poor unfortunate's sitting room from the looks of it," Essie said.

"Well, poor they are not or unfortunate." Cinde cast a nervous glance around. Heavy brocaded drapes blocked out a good portion of the winter sun but for a parted sliver. Embers still smoldered in the hearth and an empty brandy glass sat on a nearby table.

Cill did not appear to harbor a single stint of remorse in filching that stick. Not that Cinde should be surprised. She'd never flinched once, snatching the bread from Cinde's plate. That couldn't compare to stealing a magic silver baton.

The two carried on as if Cill had not just whipped up enough butterflies with enough wind power to compete with Essie's batting eyes. Thousands of them: monarchs, tiger swallowtails, gossamers of every shape, size and color, all flitting about, covering every conceivable surface. Sending the servants into a horrific frenzy, and with the betrothal ball just days away. Well, perhaps Cinde didn't mind that part so much.

Truly, the situation would be comical, if she wasn't so worried for the penalties. She, apparently, was terrified enough for all three of them. "Don't touch a thing," she hissed as Essie picked up the empty glass and slipped from her fingers. Thankfully, the rug padded its landing and rolled to a stop.

Cinde stilled, her lungs constricted, pulse flailing wildly against the hand on her neck, her. Cill and Essie froze too, but not for long.

"Watch this," Cill whispered, grinning. She extended the silver bar towards the glass.

Cinde couldn't tear her gaze away as the glass levitated from the floor, teetering mid-air. Cill slowly guided the glass to the table—it was a spectacular sight... until the adjoining door to the chamber burst open.

Cinde groaned. Squeezed her eyes shut and held out her wrists. _Clap me in chains and throw away the key. I deserve it_.

After a second, suspense killing her, she peeked. Pricilla had tucked her hand at her back, though the glass crashed against the edge of the table. No graceful set down, hitting the floor and shattered into pieces.

"Ladies. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The prince smirked from the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest.

Once again, Cinde had looked into the eyes of Medusa, had turned to solid marble. Could not have moved had someone set her feet afire.

He strolled to the windows and whipped the drapes aside, flooding his features with late afternoon sun. The effect accentuated chiseled cheek bones, gave light to streaks of dirt on his shirt that was parted at the neck. His hair was plastered against his head in an unsightly, quite un-princely manner. He reeked of soil and fresh air.

Her breath caught. He was the most beautiful sight she'd ever laid eyes on.

"Please tell me you had nothing to do with the mayhem thundering the halls?" Amusement colored his tone.

Dear heavens, they were sunk.

Perhaps Pricilla could keep the silver baton hidden, saving them from a beheading.

Cinde's knees trembled violently. If she fell she would give way and beg for mercy. Before she could screech out a warning to the prince, her pragmatic sister had whipped the cursed stick out and it pointed it to his chest.

Cinde's life flashed before her eyes. Visions of damp dungeons, medieval torture devices—stretching rack, the wheel. All administered by an evil, mustached-man armed with a leather strap to snap across her barren flesh. Essie's cries bounding off the dank walls she was manacled to. Rodents and other vile critters later picking over their broken bones.

Riveted except for her furious blinking that had the drapes billowing in swift current, showed Essie suffered a similar vision.

Cill, the sensible on, was undeterred. Arm poised, vague smile on her lips, she whispered softly. "My apologies, Sire." Then flicked her wrist.

Prince—her wonderful, beloved, adorable Prince—slumped to the floor like a lump of coal. "You...you...killed him..." the words choked from Cinde. _Mon Dieu_ , they'd murdered the prince.

Cill motioned the silver baton upward...lifting the prince much like she did that glass. Slowly, she guided his leaden body over the settee, her arm shaking. He dropped in an unceremonious heap.

"Don't stand there gaping like fish," she hissed, startling Cinde.

She jerked forward and wrapped her arms about his broad shoulders. His deep steady breaths sent relief surging through her. She eased his back against a pillow, Essie, at the other end, hefting his booted legs over the arm rest.

Essie was wheezing. "You've done it this time, Cill."

Cinde barely registered her words as fresh earth and salty sea air, teased her nose. Her cheek brushed his, and the intimacy shook her to her core. A brilliant charge seared her skin at his heated breath grazing the lobe of her ear. The sensation left her lightheaded. Unable to stop herself, she brushed a lock from his brow.

"Do hurry, Cinde. We have no idea how long the effect of this blasted still will last."

She backed away.

"They are sure to hang us from the gallows." Essie said from the door. She turned the knob and peered through the crack.

" _Oui_." Cinderella couldn't have agreed more.

"There is the strangest current in the air," Cill said. "I vow I did not do a thing."

"Not much, you didn't," Essie muttered. "Quick, I believe he may be stirring."

A statement that sent them scrambling.

"I believe I have now seen it all."

Prince groaned before opening one eye.

Arnald was poised over him, hands at his hips. His smirk had Prince clenching a fist. "Is your hovering absolutely necessary?"

"Ha!" Arnald held out his palm. "Do not tell me. An attack of the vapors? Another swoon?"

Neither had occurred to Prince, and he stifled a surge of panic. "I should banish you to the dungeons. Feed you rations of molded bread and tepid water for the rest of your natural life."

Arnald shot him a quick grin. He moved away giving Prince a moment to inhale. "You know your sweet maman would never allow anything of the sort for her sister's only child."

That much was true. Arnald was difficult enough without encouragement from that quarter.

Prince pulled himself to sitting. "I don't remember much of anything." Well, nothing he was prepared to say aloud. Startling three attractive young women in his private chamber would be disastrous. What he couldn't figure, was how they'd gotten him on the settee? He was too heavy. Mayhap there was help from Lady Ernalda's freakishly strong lashes.

"If I may be so bold—"

"—as if you are ever anything else—"

"—did you perhaps imbibe one too many, Cousin."

"Imbibe?" Prince was ready to throttle him. " _Imbibe_?"

Arnald knelt down. "Your brandy snifter—" He held out his palm with three large pieces of glass. "Broken."

Prince paused. His head wasn't pounding. The last liquor he remembered having was the small bit just before bed the night before. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "There is something odd going on." He needed answers. He narrowed his eyes on his cousin. "I wonder about your mother."

Arnald's head disappeared in the wardrobe. "Should we not be strategizing your kidnapping? The betrothal ball is but a few days, hence."

"Or mayhap a lynching," he muttered.

# Chapter 29

"But we must return it," Cinde insisted. "Someone is bound to have discovered its disappearance by now."

"I don't _want_ to return it. Not yet." Pricilla stomped her foot like an errant child. The shiny stick was ensconced tightly within her fingers.

After the near murder of Prince Charming, they'd hurried to Cinderella's chamber with, and as far she could tell, no one was the wiser. Their luck would surely give way soon.

"Well, I want my turn with it," Essie said.

Oh, dear. At this rate, Fairy Godmother would never get her silver stick back.

"Someone is coming," Pricilla hissed. She thrust the stick in Cinderella's hand just as the door to the chamber slammed back.

Cinde dropped her arms to her side and managed to disguise the baton within the folds of her skirts.

"Ah, there you are, children." Stepmama strode in, ignoring Cinderella. "I have begged an audience with Conte de Lecce and his son. We shall meet him within the hour."

Cill scowled while two high spots of red dotted Essie's cheeks.

Stepmama's narrowed eyes on Essie held a dangerous glint. "What is this, Esmeralda?"

"No...nothing, Maman," she stammered.

"I did not think so." Her smile, more a sneer, sent prickling tingles over Cinde's arm.

Her gaze swept the chamber, landing on Cinderella with such malevolence, she flinched. How was she to escape such hatred? This was the woman Papa had entrusted her care to. What had Cinderella done that dismayed her so? If she could but fix it, she would. She blinked back sudden tears.

"I suppose we've no choice but to include _you_." Stepmama turned to Cill. "You must look your best." She threw her arms wide. "I have grand plans for you, my darling."

" _Oui,_ Maman." Cill's contriteness was in complete contrast to the mischief in her eyes.

"Come along, then. You too, Esmeralda. The prince will be in attendance as well. We have much work to do." She swung on her heel and bounded from the room like a large hound.

Cinde's sympathies followed Cill and Essie from the chamber as they had no choice but to trot after Stepmama like pedigreed puppies, leaving the door ajar in their wake.

She unclutched her skirts and glanced down. All sympathy flew out the window realizing she still held the baton. Mayhap her luck _had_ changed.

The silver stick pulsated with life. This was her only chance to return it. Nervous exhilaration pounded her veins. She may not be the free spirit of the trio, whether too prim and proper or timid like a mouse, she thought—not without disgust—but this was one task she vowed to follow through on, however dangerous the undertaking. She rushed to the door and peeked down the hall.

Clear.

Now, if she only knew where to find the deserted wing. She contemplated the baton in her hand for a moment then wrapped both hands tightly about the base, closed her eyes and held it out.

Nothing.

A second later, her slippered feet darted out almost leaving her body behind. 'Twas a strange sensation when one's mind was not in sync with one's feet.

The little baton guided her through winding turns of cold dark passageways, lit only by the glowing tip of the magic stick. Short, oblong windows lined outer walls, perfectly spaced apart. These candled sconces had no coverings to protect the flames from the dank walls. A cool breeze gusted through the corridor, creating an eerie whistle that sent chills up her spine, and cobwebs dancing. Eerie little ghosts in the dimness.

Her feet showed no signs of slowing. Dust stirred from her swishing skirts teased her nostrils with a sneeze. Several long moments later, the dancing shadows of a flickering taper sent relief pouring through her.

Deep voices froze her in her tracks.

"I must protest this leg of your investigation." Arnald said.

"If you are frightened, by all means, I shall meet up with you later." Prince was vastly amused by Arnald's discomfort, and he took great delight in letting him see so.

"I am not afraid," he growled.

But Arnald hesitated at the door of the same chamber Maman had visited a few days past. He sauntered in and lit two of the four sconces with his taper. "Much better." He glanced around. The chamber was not large by any means. One chair in worn fabric, beside it a heavy square table. There were no candles or other objects to identify the recent occupants, just the unsettled grime. And the damning evidence of Maman's words in his head.

Waves crashed, but the windows were too high to peer from.

"What are you looking for, Cousin?" Arnald's barely concealed sarcasm rebounded.

"Ah, I see you recovered from your weak constitution," he said dryly, walking the perimeter of the chamber.

" _Weak_ constitution."

He let out a crack of laughter. "Such indignation? Tsk, tsk."

Arnald's eyes focused on something behind Prince and the hair at his nape stood on end. " _Bonjour_."

Prince turned quickly.

"Oh, dear," she muttered softly.

"Maman?"

She cleared her throat with a delicate cough. "It appears Thomasine failed to mention a twin, I see."

" _Twin_?" he choked out. "But—" Of course, she was a twin. At first glance, they looked exactly the same __ but for the elaborately fashioned hair built high on his aunt's stately head. They had the same dark eyes, upturned noses and slight builds. The only discernible difference, upon closer examination, was a tiny mole. "Aunt Faustine, I presume."

Maman would not have been caught dead in such a frilly, pink nonsense of a frock. He leaned in. "Are those diamonds, threaded throughout your gown?"

"Ahem..." She inclined her identical-to-Maman little head. " _Mais oui_ , _mon cher_." she said. "We are quite proud of you, you know."

He'd always had such an easy going temperament, unfortunately, 'twas about to rupture. " _Proud_?"

"Are you unwell, dear?" She furrowed her brows. "You keep repeating me. It could be a sickness of the mind, you know."

Prince could hardly comprehend the thread of conversation at the sight of an aunt long thought dead. It was no secret Arnald was his cousin, but how could Maman keep a _twin_ sister a secret. And _why_? Oh, they were past time for a chat.

"Maman, I believe you have left my cousin thoroughly speechless." Arnald's humor fully restored. "That is a remarkable feat, actually."

Prince pulled himself together, narrowing his eyes on the tiny woman before him. "Does my maman know you are about, _Tante_?"

"Oh, _oui_." Her delicate hand flitted out. "We are quite close, you know."

_Close_? He strived for a measured breath. "What are you and my darling, _conniving_ , Maman up to?"

"Oh, dear. I do believe you are angry, _oui_?"

"Angry, _tante_? _Angry?_ " He was enraged.

"Now, my dear, it was all for a good cause."

"Good cause." He was definitely repeating her. Perhaps he was mad. He flexed and unflexed his fists. He was a long way from reaching his composure.

She paced about the small chamber. Uncaring. Unrepentant. "That is neither here nor there, Nephew."

"Do not taunt me, Madame. I am the future king."

She stalked right up to him, crooked her finger.

He leaned down until his nose met hers. "I am your elder, young man, and you shall address me with respect." She actually poked him in the chest.

He was so stunned, he gaped.

She, without a care that she'd just insulted the future leader of this kingdom, resumed her march, hands at her lower back. She stopped and pierced him with an unnerving sternness, so like Maman's. "You must let your confidence guide you."

"I truly must speak with my mother," he muttered.

" _Oui, oui_." She plopped down in the one chair, planted her elbow on the table, chin in her palm. "That is so."

Arnald went before her, on bended knee. He clasped her small hand in his. "What is it, Maman? You are distressed, _non_?"

"You are such a good boy." Her gaze met Prince's. "And, clever. So very clever." She straightened and pulled her hand away. "Be gone. And, use that congenital intellect we instilled."

Prince was tempted to slap Arnald's grin right off his smug face but 'twas unneeded. Aunt Faustine had things in hand.

"Both of you," she said as they careened into the darkened corridor.

Cinderella hid in the shadows, praying her light colored frock would not draw the attention of the prince and his cousin. Alas, luck was not with her. Prince strode from the chamber with Sir Arnald close behind.

His eyes met hers. Surprised, of course.

She groaned.

His lips tipped in a slow smile that ignited a pulsating fire through her veins. The stick vibrated with a thrumming intensity. Its power reverberated up her arm until her body trembled with a potent energy.

But she was unused to such forceful fervor, and panicked. Did the only thing possible when two powerful men were striding toward her like starved cats, and she, only a tiny defenseless bird. She pointed the palpitating wand straight at them—

Oh, dear. Now it looked as if they'd faced Medusa, she'd rendered them quite immobile.

She looked at the stick, dumbfounded. Horrified and shocked. What had she done? And, _why_? She glanced back at the prince. Could she make him forget he'd seen her?

She raked a hungry gaze over him, and a positively evil thought took hold. Non. She couldn't do it. _Shouldn't_ , she chastised silently. But... she checked the hall in both directions. She was alone, there would be no one to see if she just _tested_ her theory. Would it hurt to just touch him? Only once. Before his and Essie's nuptials. Worse, what if he remembered?

Hadn't she and her sisters stacked enough bad deeds against them? _Oui_! Enough to have them drawn and quartered several times over. In that moment though, she could not seem to care.

Was that so terrible? Was _she_ so terrible?

_Oh, oui_. The prim, practical, timid voice in her head screamed, even as she took a tentative step.

But one kiss. Who would know besides she?

Roaring silence filled the passageway. Still, her feet seemed to have a mind of their own as another step put her in touching distance.

The earthy fragrance from before was still there, but now included a spicy soap. There was no turning back now. Cinde closed her eyes, tipped up on her toes—touched the corner of his lips with hers.

Floating on air had nothing on such a daring adventure. Her heart pounded furiously, bruising her ribs, her fingers to her mouth. How curious, and contrasting. One could not tell just by looking how another's firmness felt like the most rare and exquisite velvet.

Time held her prisoner. She'd never acted so indecently. Was he Eros, come to life? Yet, he remained still as the statue, itself.

"Nicely handled, my dear."

Startled, Cinde jumped back, the stick, clattering to the floor.

"Ah, there it is. I wondered where I'd misplaced it."

Shamed burned through her. First, her shoe, now this. Her deplorable behavior fastened her in place.

"Oh, Fairy Godmother. I-I am, I—" She backed away, shaking her head.

A distinct crack echoed against the ancient stone walls.

She froze, registering the bump beneath the thin soles of her slippers.

Oh, _no_. _No, no, no_. Her gaze fell to her feet. They didn't feel so dainty now, not with each end of the shiny baton pointing in different directions. This could not be happening. Her hands flew to her flamed cheeks.

Any moment now, the prince would snap out of his frozen reverie and denounce her very life. But not so much as a flicker of his eyelash fluttered. She dared not move. "Oh, no. I...I..." Nothing coherent could choke through the horror. Just her body set in flight mode as she continued her backward trek.

Fairy Godmother's dainty palm came up. "Did you break it, do you think? My wand, dear? Thank heavens you found the blasted thing. 'Twould not do for it to fall into nefarious hands." She dipped forward and swiped, not one, but two distinct pieces from the ground.

"Oh, dear," Cinderella whispered. She had definitely broken it. She was too stunned to cry. "I shall—I shall—" There was no escaping her actions. Pulling herself up, she squared her shoulders. "I shall turn myself in, of course. 'Tis only fitting I should be locked up. The dungeon would be preferable to the gallows. Is it possible...you could recommend...I mean, I would be most grateful...if I...well, I imagine there are friends in the dungeon. Or, mayhap, Marcel...I am friendly with mice, you see. They are not so terrible, you know. He...is not...so..."

"Cease your prattling, dear child. It is not as dire as all that. Worry naught. I shall handle matters from here. Do you think you can manage your way back?"

Cinde did not think so, but forcing the thoughts to words was impossible.

"Run along now, dear."

"But, I need to tell Essie. He...she...they..." Cinde flung out a hand.

"We'll not mention this little incident further, hmm?"

"But—" Fairy Godmother's stern gaze stopped her short. "No...no, of course not." Heat burned her face and she swung on her heel. Glanced over her shoulder. "Prince? Sir Arnald?"

"Not to worry, child. These spells never last long. You handled things magnificently, if I must say."

Pressing her luck was not an option. Cinde ran for the cover of darkness—never mind the lack of ladylike etiquette, or the fact that she had no inclination, whatsoever, on how to find her way back. Or the many questions she had for her elusive Fairy Godmother.

Perhaps another time, she promised herself, fleeing for safety.

# Chapter 30

Something strange was afoot, Hilda decided. She could not quite put her finger on the what, but 'twas there all the same. It would come to her sooner or later.

She trailed the three girls to the parlor, studying Pricilla. Her gown of soft rose was perfection. The maid had dressed her hair in fabulously high curls, leaving wispy tendrils framing her face. 'Twas unfortunate of the prince choosing his bride by the size of her foot. Pricilla would have made an ideal queen. Still, she would have an advantageous match with the Conte's eldest son. Signore Alessandro de Lecce would be fighting for her favors this evening, and Hilda looked forward to guiding his efforts. With Esmeralda all but married off, 'twas downright miraculous this opportunity afforded for Pricilla.

A mother had a duty to her children's future. Securing her own was just an added benefit. Olivier's financial wizardry had been dismal. Once again she'd left by another's whim, she and her daughters for destitute. She would not be so again.

Hilda pondered Cinderella through narrowed eyes. That child remained every bit the nuisance she had since the day Hilda had been forced to marry her murderous papa. Yet, somehow, the chit managed to manipulate her way into the queen's generous affections, no matter how erroneous. And short of death, there wasn't much Hilda could do to alter that state.

Hmm, death. 'Twas a dilemma. But if Cinderella should somehow manage to get herself locked up somewhere, anywhere with no one the wiser...well, that would be most convenient, wouldn't it?

Hilda ushered the through the door, snagging Cinderella's arm before she slipped by. Just a small squeeze to remind the child who was truly in charge. After all, she did seem to have difficulty remembering her place in the family hierarchy. Her eyes widened, assuring Hilda, her point had been received.

The opportunity to back her threat with words was circumvented by Queen Thomasine's pointed address.

"Lady Roche, would you care for sherry or claret this evening?" The queen's tone was mild, her gaze innocent.

Hilda released her grip, clearing her throat. "Claret would make a divine diversion, Your Highness." She nudged Cinderella aside, preceding her into the drawing room. The child would not escape censure forever. The night was young. Other opportunities would emerge.

Cinderella settled on a settee before the windows, lowering herself with an anomalous air. The misty moss colored frock she wore was downright infuriating. Hilda was not fooled in the least. Its soft green should have made washed out her complexion, but somehow managed the reverse, enhancing her olive tone. She was upstaging Esmeralda's pale skin. And those flickering eyes...well, they would be the—

Hilda brought herself up. They must remain cautious. It wasn't unheard of for a prince to retract a promise of marriage.

_Non_ , he would dare no such a thing. The scandal would make him a laughingstock of the world. He would lose all respect. Regardless, 'twould not do to take chances. She trusted no one.

Hilda accepted her claret from the servant's tray, eyes narrowed on the Conte's son. He was maneuvering his way toward her errant stepchild, lowered himself shamefully close to her.

Heated rage roiled through her. Why, the little vagrant was out to cull Pricilla's prize.

Her heart lurched into an erratic rhythm that had her wanting to clutch her chest. Her breath stilted into short and rapid intakes. With concerted effort, she managed to calm herself slow, steady inhalations. But, enough was enough. She would achieve that one-on-one _tête-à-tête_ —this very eve.

She sauntered to the settee, the signore standing quickly. "Ah, _merci_ , young man." She patted his hand, turned a bright smile on Cinderella.

The girl's blanch sent a shot of pleasure through her. "Cinderella, my dear, you look absolutely stunning."

Cinderella's eyes fell to her lap. " _Merci_ , Stepmama."

"Your daughter, she is lovely, no, _Signora_?" Alessandro smiled.

" _Mais oui_ , your compliments are appreciated, Sir." Her heart's erratic tempo soared once more, leaving her almost faint. She glanced up and caught a silent communiqué between Pricilla and Esmeralda.

Mayhap she should have a word with Pricilla as well. As the favorite of her two girls, Pricilla could always be depended upon to further the family's edicts.

Ah, well. It would have to wait. She couldn't afford the risk of leaving Cinderella on her own with Alessandro. His infatuation, unfortunately, was too predictable. 

# Chapter 31

Cinderella sank deeper in the coverlets, tugged them tightly to her chin. It did little to dispel the chill in her grand chamber. She was so tired, though sleep alluded her.

'Twas a miracle she'd managed supper. The small amount of food she'd wielded on her fork had made it past her lips, but she feared choking, or worse, and only managed one or two bits at best. She hadn't been in Stepmama's direct line of sight, Cinde knew she'd kept a close eye on her.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to be ensconced in her own little corner, in her own little chair. Back in their cottage where her imagination let her be whatever she wanted. Invisible.

Stepmama had plans, of course. It was the not knowing that made the painful supper durable, rather than waiting for something unknown.

Cill leaned over. "What did you do with the magic stick?"

Couldn't she just die? She flinched. Essie had frowned from her place across the massive table.

"Well?" Cill whispered.

"I-it broke," she stammered out in a whisper.

"What!" Her hand flew to her mouth, so thankfully, her high pitched squeal was muffled.

Cinde winced as several heads shifted in their direction.

Cill had shoveled in a mouthful of food to hide her embarrassment, while Cinde knew a bite for her would only draw more attention once she started asphyxiating. She'd settled for a sip of water.

"You _knew_ I didn't want to return that stick yet." She spoke behind her glass.

Cinde clinched her teeth. "There wasn't a choice." she snapped.

Cill's eyes had narrowed on her. "And, just how did you __ know who to return it to?"

What was she to say to that?

"Pssst," came Essie's save. She tipped her head indicating the end of the table.

"Blast. Maman," Cill hissed. She lifted her fingers in a little wave, smiling.

The knots in Cinderella's stomach roiled.

A tiny squeak pierced her thoughts. "Marcel?"

He squeaked again.

"Did you find new friends?" She should just find the dungeons on her own, lock herself away within their depths. "I'm glad you're here, Marcel. I can't seem to get past these jitters." She snuggled deeper. The chamber was large, cold and lonely.

There might have been hope, but she'd sealed her fate once she'd stepped on Fairy Godmother's silver baton.

Despair settled over her like the heavy blanket weighing her down. Cill would marry Alessandro. Essie, the prince. And her? She blinked back the tears. Prince would never learn his mysterious princess stood feet away watching every sordid detail, she thought glumly.

She let out sigh that frosted in the cold chamber. Perhaps she just needed to look at things differently.

After all, she was safely tucked in her large bed, despite the daggers Stepmama would have lodged in her heart, if looks could have killed. Cinde meekly endured each thrust as she'd been taught, she'd successfully hidden her anxiety and Stepmama had not demanded her solitary audience.

She shuddered. That was a clash she wouldn't have won. Squashed like a bug, she'd be.

She closed her eyes, listening to Marcel's tiny breaths. The sheer hush would unnerve the bravest of souls. Everyone knew she was the least brave person in all of Chalmers.

A prick on her arm startled her. She bolted upright as Marcel's teeny claws dug in and his mews chattered frantically. The door creaked. Adrenaline spiked, she thought her heart might fly from her chest. "Essie?"

"Essie, indeed," Stepmama cackled.

Terror ripped through her. The cold had frozen her to ice. It would seem the audience with Stepmama was inevitable.

Due to the solemnity Cinde's chamber, Stepmama hadn't even bothered lowering her voice. The flame of her candle flickered wildly, casting her face in an eerie mask-like quality straight out of a medieval gothic.

Stepmama edged closer to her frozen form until she towered above her. "You've managed the impossible, haven't you, Cinderella? Turning Esmeralda from the bosom of her family; swaying the queen with your mild and meek façade."

Her attempt to swallow fell short, her mouth was too dry. If she could not save herself, mayhap she could prevent Essie from some hazardous misfortune. "I... I could never do that, Stepmama. Essie would never allow it."

"Essie!" she spat. "How I despise that shortened version of her name." She clucked her tongue. "'Tis no matter. I am here to speak with you on something entirely different, my dear." She set her candle on the bedside table.

Terror muted her.

"My concern is seeing how you've lured the Conte de Lecce's eldest son." Venom saturated the chamber in a haze.

" _Non. Non_. 'Tis not like that at all..." She shook her head, sidled to the edge of the bed.

Stepmama refused to be mollified. "You little twit! Your vile manipulative skills will never cease to amaze me." She paced the length of the bed then back, thrust her finger in Cinde's face. "You think you can turn my own daughter from me and not pay?"

She jerked her hand away and again stalked away. This time, however, she didn't return. Her purposeful aim was the dying fire in the hearth. "And, pay, you shall." She snatched the poker from its stand and stabbed at the red embers. It clanged back into the metal stand. "There is no one to save you now, is there, sweet?"

Oh, _non_. There wasn't. Cinde slid down the far side of the bed, feet hitting the ice cold floor. Mayhap, she could make it to the door. Too late.

Calmly turning, Stepmama sauntered back to the bed. There was one recourse. Cinde dropped to her knees and dove beneath the bed.

"You're nothing but a little sorcerer." Her screech would haunt Cinde's nightmare's forever. "Come out of there right this minute."

The massive bed was a godsend but it was pitch black under. Stepmama jerked up bed skirt. Her features were shadowed with the low flickering light, but Cinde didn't need to see her hatred, it was etched in her mind.

"Come out, child." She was mad if she thought that cajoling timbre sway even a fool. Cinde would fare better freezing to death. "I only wish to talk, _oui_?"

The bed skirt dropped, surrounding her in complete and utter darkness, both comforting and disconcerting. Her mind followed Stepmama's rustling night rail. Something scraped against the grate and Marcel twittered. A foreboding of horrifying magnitude surged through her. She scooted against the wall, centering herself between the posts just as the bed skirt flew up from the opposite side. She pulled her feet under her barely missing the stroke of the hot poker. It caught the edge, ripping the delicate fabric of her nightgown.

Stepmama brandished the poker beneath the bed like a broom. Marcel darted forward, nipped Stepmama's forearm. She did not seem to notice. "Come, child. Don't keep me waiting. 'Twill be worse for you."

"Stepmama, _non_. Please," she begged.

"There is no one to hear, my dear. You know the consequences of failing to obey me, _non_?" Another swipe. Her arm missed by mere millimeters.

She couldn't come out, Stepmama would kill her. "Why?" she sobbed. "Why do you hate me so?"

"Maman?" Cill's voice echoed through the chamber. The poker clattered to the floor. "What are you doing? Is there a mouse beneath the bed?"

" _Oui, oui_. _Une souris!_ " Stepmama stood and let the bed skirt drop.

Cinderella stuffed her fist in her mouth choking back her cries, welcoming the obsidian refuge. Marcel's tiny body moved close.

"I thought to check on Cinderella. But, alas, she is nowhere to be found, the ungrateful child."

"Maman. You know you will catch your death if you are not careful." Cill's tongue clucked as if she were the mother and not the other way around. "You know how sickly you become. Let us worry not about her. Come, we must get you back to your chamber, post haste."

Quiet sobs wracked Cinde. She couldn't stop shaking enough to console Marcel's anxious mews. Though silence descended over the chamber, her body quaked too violently to crawl from beneath the bed.

Finally, fingers stiff from the cold, she reached for the poker. Reality set in at the streaked, deep marred ash. It slipping from her hand and clanged to the floor. Hiccupped sobs tore through her. "What did I do? Why does she hate me so?" she cried. "Oh, Papa. Would that you were here..."

"Cinde? Cinde." A moment later Essie's firm hold wrapped her. "Come, dear. You are freezing."

Essie guided her to the bed, tuck the covers about her. The cool touch of a damp cloth smoothed her tears away, Essie climbing in alongside. Cinde clung to her murmuring, nonsensical words thought chills of fear coursed through her body.

"Oh, Essie. I don't understand," she whispered, quivering beneath the covers. "Why does she hate me so? Why?"

"I wish I knew, Cinde. I wish I knew." 

# Chapter 32

"Maman, what were you thinking? The queen could have you thrown in the gallows."

"Oh. My dear, dear Pricilla."

Were the outcome not so alarming, Cill might have laughed. But the situation was dire.

"That child shall be the death of me. Of us. All of my carefully laid plans."

Her mother fanned her face with an exaggeration jesters would lavish in an evening deigned for entertainment. Cill led Maman down the quiet corridor, working to slow her pounding heart. The muscle threatened to land on the imported rugs. A bloody mess it would be, too—landing in front of them, and she, stomping the life from her own heart.

Heavens. If she had not awakened and—why, it was almost as if she'd possessed some sort of magical insight. She'd never checked Maman's bed before, and when she'd discovered her missing—

That didn't take magical powers. That only took experience in living with Maman for the last nineteen years. Cill guided Maman through to her plush chamber; and to her bed.

Cill lowered herself the closest chair, her legs unsteady.

Silver moonlight streamed through sheer linings, illuminated Maman's harsh features. There was a day—heaven's, it was so many years ago. When Cinde and Essie used to play about in some ancient ruins. Papa would laugh, tweak their noses and tell them to take a bath, while Maman... Maman was so hostile. It was difficult pinpointed the exact time Maman changed.

The whisper of a dark image teased. _A carriage ride, a man with a scarf on his face, Maman's scream_ , Cill trying to comfort her. But there was no comforting her. Whatever happened had scarred her, indelibly.

"That _despicable_ child led me astray," Maman hissed. "She must be stopped. Stopped, I tell you."

Cill started. "Shush, Maman, someone will hear," she whispered. She had to do _something._ Her chest hurt. Something dire was bound to happen. How on earth was she and Essie to keep watch on her day in and day out? On the heels of the betrothal ball? Someone would end up dead or worse. Not just someone. _Cinderella_.

Cill should have never shoved that silver stick Cinde's hand, she thought morosely. She could have taken care of things quite nicely with that little stick. She propped her chin on a fist but could come up with nothing. They were on their own.

"That girl is out to destroy me. _Moi._ " She flounced on the bed.

Cill jumped up, adjusted Maman's pillows before Maman worked herself into a frenzy. "'Twill be fine, Maman," she said softly. "Please, don't worry." She smoothed the hair from her forehead.

Had Maman always been so monstrous? _Oui_ , and Cill had been there right along with her.

"Mayhap, you have one of your megrims, Maman. Where is your potion?" She searched the vanity, using only the moon's light. She tried the bedside table and spotted the dark bottle and picked it up. Funny, she thought she'd looked there.

An odd flicker glimmered but winked out quickly. Cill glanced out the drapes. The skies were clear and the moon full. Strange.

The craziest notion trickled through her as she tugged at the cork, fingers shaking. _Sheer madness._ "Maman?" Her voice trembled.

" _Oui_ , dearest. My potion. I-I do seem to be having one of my megrims."

Eyes blurred by a shock of burning tears, she poured out a measure into the glass. Then, poured another, and yet another... She slipped her arm beneath Maman's neck, set the glass to her lips.

Maman drank hungrily.

The tears trekked down her face, but she kept her tone soft, even. "Sleep, Maman. You'll soon feel better." She brushed the hair from her forehead.

" _Merci_ , my darling." Maman patted her cheek. "I love you, you know, _ma_ _chère_?" Her eyes drifted shut, her words whispered, her smile slight.

"Oh. Maman. _Je suis desolée_. I love you too." Her voice was rough and raspy. "I'll sit here with you until you sleep." Cill grasped her hand and lowered herself onto the mattress, shocked and dry-eyed, appalled by her actions. Maman would not be giving anyone trouble much longer.

'Twas a long while before she moved.

# Chapter 33

They were almost out of time.

The betrothal ball was in full swing, despite Essie's determination to keep it at bay.

Cinde felt her pain. She should confess her deception. Correction: _deceptions_. Not only was she Prince Charming's "mysterious princess" but she had done the unthinkable. She'd kissed him. _Without his consent._

The memory surged through her. The guilt. She rubbed her throbbing temples. How was she to survive the culpability of such egregious action? How could she ever face Essie? Or Prince?

The head seamstress stood off to one side waiting to administer a final fitting for their gowns. She hadn't seen Stepmama since the night before.

"Where is Stepmama? I've yet to see her today."

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

'Twould seem she was not the only one on edge. She eyed her sister warily. This was an Essie of old, barking at the shy girl. Manette fumbled, spilling a shock of pins on the floor.

"Now, see what you have done, you little imbécile." Essie's eyes sent every lit taper in the chamber, flickering violently.

"Essie—" Cinde spoke softly. "That's enough." She bent down to gather the scattered pins.

Essie's head shot up, tears spilling over. She dropped to her knees too. "Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît, Manette."

Cinde's pique evaporated as effectively as Fairy Godmother.

Manette poured a dress of soft powder blue silk, trimmed in scallops of embroidered silver over an unusually docile Cill. The effect was compelling, turning her gray eyes to stark pewter. It was her jittery fingers brushing over the soft silk that finally struck Cinde.

"What is it, Cill?"

She started, but didn't acknowledge her right away. Just stood staring blankly into the looking glass. "No...nothing."

'Twas nothing, all right. Cinde climbed to her feet and hurried over. She clasped her hand and squeezed.

Cill's eyes focused, meeting Cinde's from the mirror. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight, the chalky complexion, the fear.

"Nothing can be so terrible to worry so."

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

The sight of the three of them before the mirror was momentous though the tone, somber.

"I killed her."

Her words whispered up Cinde's spine.

"Killed who, Cill?" Essie eyes flashed.

Cinde froze. "No! Don't say it."

But Cill would not accept reprieve. "Maman," she whispered. "I killed."

Essie let out a breath and patted her hand. "Oh, Cill. Of course, you didn't kill her. We just _want_ to kill her." She dropped Cill's hand, fear stressing her expression. "Come. We must finish dressing for this outrageous farce."

"Milady?" Manette said softly. She held out an ivory cream silk, edged with the softest whispering of white velvet.

Frowning, she stormed, but Cinde couldn't move. Her eyes met Cill's in the glass. Cill spoke the truth. It scraped over Cinde's skin like a bed of rusted spikes.

She squared her shoulders. Cill killed her, and she did it to save Cinde. She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Stepmama killed herself. Do you understand me? She. Killed. Herself," she whispered fiercely. Then threw her arms around her.

Cill embrace returned, tenfold. A tense silence stretched between them.

" _Oui_. She killed herself." Cill said in her ear.

Cinde pulled back, watched her a moment longer, willing Cill to remain calm. They just needed to think. Still, the relief was staggering. "I'm a horrible, horrible person, Cinde whispered back, clinging to her.

"What of me? I'm the one who—"

"No! Something terrible was going to happen." Cinde inhaled deeply and pulled back, gripped Cill's hands. "We should never speak of this again. Ever."

Tears filled Cill's eyes but she blinked them away. Her chest, rising and falling steadily. After a long moment, she nodded, and Cinde squeezed her hand, guilt clawing through her. She owed Cill more than she could ever say.

Her distress pained Cinde, but only added to Cill's beauty. Her translucent skin and shimmering flaxen hair. The effect might fool someone into believing her a delicate porcelain doll one was only allowed to adore from her place on the shelf. Oh, but they would be the fool. Cill was the strongest person Cinde had ever known. "I—thank you. Thank you for being my sister."

One one tear slipped down Cill's cheek, her silver eyes darkened with fury. " _Non_. It is I who should be thanking you." She pulled her hands away and turned back to the mirror. She seemed to pull herself up, brushed her fingers over the blue silk skirts, back to the sensible, pragmatic sister Cinde had grown to know over the past fortnight.

Cinde blinked back her own tears and turned to Manette. 'Twas time to come to terms with her own nefarious deeds. The petite made held out a breathtaking emerald green silk, ready for her to step into. Accept her place as sister to the future queen. Sister by marriage to the only man she would ever love. This was her fate, and truly, what she deserved. She was not a good sister.

Cinde let out a long held breath, staring at the beautiful dress, stomach pinched with apprehension. As heavy as a woolen pelisse, she gathered her resolve around her and stepped forward.

"Wait." Cill pushed forward, her stance, confrontational.

Out of instinct, Cinde edged away.

Cill turned her no-nonsense gaze on Essie. This did not bode well. "Something is wrong," she said. She circled Essie, studying the cream confection Cinde loved. "That shade makes you appear...I don't know... Ess, wan... pallid, colorless, sallow." Cill flung out her hand as more adjectives escaped her. "That dress is _all_ wrong for you."

Cinderella flinched. "Um, Pricilla, I vow she gets your meaning." She stepped into the pool of green skirts. Manette and another maid lifted them to her arms and over her corset. Almost all traces of Cill's apprehension had vanquished.

This was not good at all.

Essie's pent up vexation let loose in a torrent of velocity that sent the windows crashing back, blasting the chamber in freezing air. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she shrieked, "We have been hours— _hours—_ being fitted for these dresses. Every day for the week, and you say something, _now_?"

To Cill's credit, she wrinkled her nose, chagrined. Cinde dashed over and grabbed Essie's hand as maids scrambled to the windows. "Don't listen to her, Essie. You look enchanting." She glared at Cill.

"Oh, for the sake of heaven." Cill was unphased. She took her by the shoulders and pointed her to the looking glass. "Tell me, that white does not make you appear ashen and bloodless and corpse-like—"

Cinde gasped.

Cill ignored their reactions. "I cannot be sure; but it's just occurred to me, rationally speaking of course—"

"Of course," Essie retorted.

"That cream would look much better on Cinde with her dark coloring. And, the emerald silks on you—'twould match your eyes to perfection."

Essie cast a critical gaze over Cinde's dress. Cinde cringed. Essie's nerves were not the only ones wrought. If the floor could just open up swallow her whole. Truly, she would be most grateful. She sent up a silent prayer to Fairy Godmother. As if anything could _un_ break her magic stick. It was hopeless.

"I do so love that color," Essie said. "Mayhap I would not be so nervous if I didn't feel so much like the sacrificial lamb on its way to the slaughter?"

An apt analogy, Cinderella professed inwardly.

Oh, but how right __ they were. Still, she pressed her lips tightly together—refused to comment. She was small. All she needed was a minute crack. She would never complain. Because, the white dress _was_ stunning and it _did_ make Essie's skin look chalky. But if Essie donned that green dress Prince would take one look at her and fall heedlessly in love.

She felt a crack in that cloak of resolve. She deserved this, she reminded herself. Did she not steal a kiss from her sister's betrothed without his knowing? 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 and found out the fraud she was.

Fear had her trembling to the point of swooning.

What was she so afraid of? Stepmama was dead. Cill had confessed murdering her—how strange that the horns had not yet sounded. Mayhap she was not the only one relieved. Perhaps the poor wretched soul who'd happened upon her cold dead body had decided to keep mum.

Fine. She would give over the green dress. 'Twas time the people, of more import, for Prince to see Essie's true beauty. This would serve as restitution. And, she would confess all. Tell them she was the mysterious princess, and how she'd used the magic stick to steal a kiss.

_I'm not_ ready. How could she ruin the relationship they'd formed after all they'd been through? The three of them. They would never forgive her deceptions. Never.

Once the words left her mouth there would be no happy ending for the three of them. Since Papa's death, she'd been alienated, detested, disliked, and mistreated by both Essie and Cill. Stepsisters in any tale were the bane of the heroine's very existence. The truth would obliterate this new harmony.

How would she bear a life relegated without them? Because that was the one certainty she'd unleash.

Even with Cill's wary, critical, and outspoken manner they _cared_ for one another—like real sisters. Of course the first barrier had been difficult, but now it felt solid and right. Cill would never have put herself between Stepmama and Cinderella, otherwise. The thought of hurting either of them pierced her heart with a flaming arrow— _non_ , poisoned arrow.

"Well?" Essie's tentative question startled her back. "Cinde?"

Cinde opened her mouth to say— _say what_?

"Well, I don't see a problem." Cill's typical impatience and matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, calm straightforwardness settled the matter. She snapped her fingers at Manette. " _Vous, vite!_ "

The poor thing tripped over her own feet.

"The white shall be striking on you, Cinde, with your dark hair and eyes. Why do you hesitate?"

Essie bustled to Cill's commands without a single dispute. "Quick, we are out of time."

The stays down the back of Essie's white dress fell quickly apart.

Panicked, Cinde spun around and faced them. "You need to... I-I want you both to know—" she stopped. Her breaths came to rapidly, head swimming with the rush of oxygen. Her control teetered on a glass edge, ready to shatter. "These...past few days...have been..."

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

Oh, heavens, she was hyperventilating. The chamber air swirled over her in a thick fog. She fanned her cheeks with her hands. Was it too gauche to ask Essie for a bit of breeze? A surge of hysterics choked her as Manette tripped the hooks with a blast of irritating speed and proficiency.

Once she donned that white dress there would be no need to tell them anything. Everyone in the chamber 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.

_Non_! She must confess. She flexed her fingers and forced another deep breath. "These have been the best days in my life since Papa died," she said in a rush. Tears blurred her eyes, clogged her throat. The green silk slid over her body and down, another made clasped her hand, helping her over the sea of emerald folds.

Essie ran over. She and threw her arms around Cinde. "Oh, Cinde, I'll wear the white if it distresses you so. Please. Please do not cry. There have been enough tears, _non_?"

She returned Essie's hug fiercely. "It's not that," she muffled against her shoulder. _Resolve,_ she reminded herself and straightened, set herself apart, then nodded to Manette.

The rich emerald silks cascaded over Essie. She watched her sister's reflection in the mirror with a sad smile. Essie looked stunning.

_Oui,_ it was time.

Essie's attention was absorbed as Manette slid the ivory masses over Cinde's head. Tingling, shimmering particles glittered the atmosphere.

The glorious skirts drew up her body and pulled snug, with each hook fastened, Cill's brows furrowed. The waist narrowed and her mouth flattened in suspicion. Up Cinde's back, molding her frame in a heap of cream.

Cill's astonished gasp filled the chamber as the final transformation settled around Cinderella. She couldn't feel sorry though as the softest Chinese silk swished around her. And, she wished... _wished for what_? For a happy ending, like a true fairy tale.

The shimmers in the air morphed to a phosphorescence glow that could only be described as magical. Her body prickled with chilled bumps. The light-headedness was accompanied by dizziness. And... panic.

"Dear heavens," Cill breathed.

Essie's head whipped around. "What—"

Silence deafened Cinde. Well, except for the blood pounding furiously through. Heat flamed her cheeks. She turned to the mirror, her motions encased in thick heavy syrup. She met their gazes in the glass. Cill's accusing, Essie's confused.

" _Je suis désolée_. I'm sorry, I-I could not find a way—this must appear. _Non_. I-I should have told you." A river of tears streamed down her face. But a sudden moment of resilience gripped her, and she grasped it—with both hands. She threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin. She spun around, face Essie. "I love him, you know. _Me._ "

"But...but how?" Essie whispered. "How did you do it? You were at the ball. _You_ are the mysterious princess."

The deathlike hush that settled over the chamber, sent Cinde sliding to the floor on legs no longer supporting her. She closed her eyes against the hate and ridicule she would see. After a moment, she gathered her courage and lifted her eyes.

But it wasn't anger that met her. Essie's mouth hung open. Cill studied her with an intense practicality.

"I h-had a fairy godmother," she stammered. "She did it to me."

"A fairy godmother?" Cill echoed.

"She did not do _everything_. You are—beautiful," Essie choked out. "Dear saints, they are going to know. The minute we walk into that ballroom, they are _all_ going to know. We cannot hide it!" Essie was stunned. But then a light lit her steady unblinking eyes. "That's right; they are _all_ going to know! How could I possibly marry the prince now?" Her relief would have been comical any other moment.

Cill jumped in to motion. "Essie, quick. Help her up. She'll muss the dress. Though, I must say with that crown on her head and those hoops surrounding her. She appears like a castle in the center of her own fortress poking out of puffy white clouds."

"I want a crown," Essie muttered rushing over.

"Crown?" Cinde's fingers snaked up to her hair which had miraculously righted itself high above her head. She glanced in the mirror and, indeed, a jeweled band wrapped her hair.

Cill tugged one arm, Essie the other, and pull her up from the floor. The reprieve flooding her filled her vision with more sparkles. _Please don't faint_ ; 'twas no time for such theatrics.

Once she was certain her legs would hold, Cinde met Essie's gaze. Her stark relief was sparked with a glint of mischief. They both turned to Cill.

"What should we do?" they demanded.

"Are you _trying_ to choke me?" Prince snapped at Arnald.

"It is unfortunate this cravat will not cooperate."

"You act more nervous than I." Prince would have laughed if he hadn't thought he might swoon.

"Only because if you are not happy, I shall be the one to pay," Arnald retorted. "What of your maman? Have you had your audience with her?"

Prince scowled. " _Non_. Her efforts to avoid me at every turn have certainly succeeded. What of you? Have you managed to gainsay yours?"

" _Non_. I fear we may be stuck."

Prince glanced over his shoulder to the ormolu clock over the hearth as a thought occurred to him. "How is it that I did not know my dear maman was a twin, do you suppose?" Prince turned on his cousin with narrowed eyes. "How is it that _you_ did not know? After all, surely you knew your maman to be alive and well all these years."

Arnald scowled back. "Yes, well. That is quite the feat they accomplished, is it not?" With a last flick of his wrist, Arnald stepped back. "That is the best knot I can wield."

"I'm not sure it's your best," Prince muttered. Arnald could have strangled him, after all. He supposed he should be thankful. "This is not over, Cousin." He stopped, then added, "I don't suppose you arranged for my kidnapping?"

"Hardly. Securing your confirmation was difficult, if you recall."

An odd flutter of air fanned Prince's lips. The intensity startled him. He closed his eyes and tried to grasp the swift flash, but alas, it escaped. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Once Lday Ezbeth strode through those ballroom doors, there would be naught they could do to elude the noose around their necks. Their fates would be sealed.

Funny, how he came to think of her as an accomplice in their efforts to circumvent the looming connubial prison.

He prayed he would not be required to call her by name. He winced at the thought. No one would remiss him a glass of brandy. In fact, mayhap he should have two.

"Here," Arnald barked, snapping him out of his doldrums. He held out two small glasses filled with the rich gold liquid.

"Perfect," Prince praised under his breath. He was sunk.

Escorted by the timid Manette, Cinderella awaited with barely suppressed panic alongside Cill and Essie, just beyond closed doors of the ballroom, trying her best to ignore the footmen's curious gazes. Dual shiny brass handles separated insanity from unreality. Cill's brutal honesty spelled practicality, she reminded herself. 'Twas their only hope.

"Breathe," Cill hissed. "And whatever you do, hold your head high. 'Twill be our saving grace if we are to carry off this bout of lunacy." She pierced them with a stern scowl.

Cinde nodded and made every attempt to absorb Cill's confidence. Bracing herself. She lifted her head—do or die, the time had come. Her wildest dream or starkest nightmare was set to unfold.

"I said _breathe_ , blast it. Both of you." Cill should lead an army into battle. "We'll get through this. What can they do, stash us in the dungeon?" A second later she frowned.

A hysterical laugh threatened Cinde's composure, or lack thereof. It probably so in some monarchies. The perfect ending to a horrific fairy tale.

Essie's eyes fluttered, dangerously. "You don't think—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ess. The prince is more in love with Cinderella than his mysterious princess, besides. He'll be groveling on bended knee before you and me."

"What? What do you mean Prince is—"

Strings, horns, wind instruments, and percussion pounded Mozart through the walls. The ball was in full swing.

"I pray someday we'll be laughing about this moment," Essie said.

"Follow my lead." Cill, the colonel. "Just remember our strategy." Her calm demeanor was amazing.

Esmeralda nodded, but Cinde had nothing. She felt like one of the statues in the gardens—Thanatos, Greek god of death, she decided as an odd detachment took hold of her.

Cill inclined her head—not unlike Queen Thomasine—to the waiting footmen.

The doors to the ballroom swung wide and the music tapered off to a slow death. There was naught for it now. Cinde sent up a silent pray. Her shaking knees would likely send her barreling to the bottom of the grandiose staircase in a heap.

Cill stepped forward and paused. Red flags dropped signaling the crowd. The footmen framing the doors lowered their trumpets. The blast shushed the crowd and the herald bellowed. "Lady Pricilla."

Such grim determination Cill had. She stepped through the doors to the top rung. If Cill's gasp hadn't sent the surge of panic crashing over Cinde, her glance back filled with surprise, then fear surely did.

She closed her eyes waiting for the barrage of accusations. Somehow had found them out? _Non_. _non_ , that did not make sense. She and Essie were the ones who'd traded gowns... and no one else had yet seen them. She opened her eyes and followed Cill's procession down the stairs from her shadowed corner.

Muted oohs and ahs followed the staid footman's return. Essie shot her a last look of encouragement then handed the footman their note per Cill's instructions. His brows beetled as he read and dread coursed through Cinde. He looked from her to Essie and, oh no, her eyes took flight.

Cinde's battle to stave off her apprehension was quickly losing ground. They could not pull off this feat. She grabbed her hand. "Ess." The wind quickly died.

The scene took on a peculiar _milieu_ , a strange ambience. She caught a small shrug before he delivered their message to the herald.

"Lady Esmeralda." His bellow thundered throughout the hall, bounding off the wooden surfaces. Essie squeezed her hand then disappeared. The breath rushed through her. Another obstacle hurdled.

Cinde waited, alone with only her fears.

And hope.

"Darling, you are pacing like a nervous cat. Whatever is troubling you?"

As if his mother didn't know. Prince was ready to howl at the moon. Her calmness heightened, not only his annoyance, but his panic.

"Come dear. Once the formal announcement is made, all will be well and you can relax." She patted his hand as if he were a toddler of two. His gaze flew around the ballroom, the panic threatening to consume him.

He'd like to know how she managed to remain so composed. How _anyone_ could remain so unruffled. 'Twas too late to toss himself onto the jagged rocks off the cliff.

The usual pleasure Prince took in the strains of Mozart pulverized his reserve. He'd suffered through several dances. But every effort to maintain his placid mask was thwarted with a need to see Lady Cinderella. There was something about her that soothed him. The wish for silence overwhelmed him.

The music ground to a halt. A bow screeched across a single violin string, screaming its last agonizing note in perfect accord with his stilled breath.

Prince cursed the wish he'd been so suddenly granted. For with the silence came the end of his pursuit of his true love. Now would be a new life, and beside him, Lady Ethelina... His mysterious and beautiful princess forever lost. The room took on a curious opiate view. Ten candles now appeared as twenty, the twenty forty. 'Twas not one pair of eyes each patron slid his way but quadruple that.

By all that was divine, could the grounds not open up to save him?

Of course not. As future king, his fate was sealed.

He drew himself up and moved to his place beside Maman, Papa and Lady Roche. What else could he do but prepare for the inevitable?

The heavy fragranced atmosphere threatened to suffocate him. The thousands of flickering flames stretched into sharp points, the whispers poignant, following the sudden hush. But like their guests, his eyes moved to the doors at the top of the stairs. The dread constricted his chest. The doors swung back; the herald stepped forward.

"Lady Pricilla."

The ballroom's dreamlike facet became reality, his destiny, even as the champagne he'd sipped furled in his belly. Swallowing the large lump did nothing to ease the constriction.

Lady Pricilla pushed forward, her shoulders squared, prepared for battle.

He narrowed his eyes. If there was one thing he'd learned in the short time he'd known these sisters, that when that particular glint gleaned in their eye, one should take cover. Something was amiss. He would stake his life on it.

She glanced in his direction. Surprise flashed across her face, and the glint was masked by a quick flutter, not unlike her sister's.

She recovered quickly enough. But closer inspection her gaze went past him to her mother. Odd.

She seemed to adopt a facade of detachment. She stepped forward. Prince took her hand and brushed his lips over her fingers, then handed her off to Alessandro, grateful for once for the man's attendance for once.

From his peripheral vision, Lady Roche frantically fanned herself, dabbing a tear. Maman's expression was a bit more surprising. Tense with the smallest frown.

His gaze moved back to the top of the stair, thinking he should have confirmed his kidnapping scenario. At the very least, hanging by cravat.

Lady Cinderella was next. She would give him a smile of courage and her soft dark eyes would offer consolation.

That thick dark hair that refused to hold a fashionable curl, her theatrical delivery on the Eros and his personification of love, all wearing the rags of a servant girl. He stuffed back the hysterics threatening to burst through, realizing how... traitorous his thoughts.

He frowned. Why hadn't he tried the glass shoe on Lady Cinderella? His affection for her rivaled that of his mysterious princess. A mysterious princess who disappeared without a trace. Dark brown eyes filled his inner vision, merging with that of... _non, non. 'Twas impossible._

Prince braced himself, and tried to focus on how entertaining the changing weather could be when, or if, his bride might have had some hand in its phenomenon, though his insides clenched with fear.

His future bride waltzed through the doors, head high, eyes, clear and bright and... green.

Scores of deep emerald silks, shimmer with a gold sheen enhanced the brilliance of her copper locks, coiled in an elaborate coiffure. She was stunning. She trained her gaze on him, daring him to shake her composure, meeting his eyes in belligerent splendor. A soft, knowing smile touching her lips on her slow descent.

Confusion rippled through him. Locked in place, feet mucked in a trench of mud, walls closing in— _Lady Cinderella_? _Where was Lady Cinderella_? Had they announced her and he missed it?

He scanned the perimeter of the throng. Arnald cast him a disgusted glance and stepped up to escort Lady Esmeralda. The grateful look she graced Arnald should have infuriated. Instead, he found himself vaguely aware of the snorting huff a bull—somewhere behind—one where the animal had seen the red cape and was not amused. The only thing missing was the stomp of its front hoof prior to its deadly gorge. He pushed all of that aside.

Anticipation filled the great hall as the herald emerged once again. The odd tingle, Prince now referred to as the "fainting possibility tingle," hovered in the ambiance.

Staunch horns blared in the marked stillness. A wave of expectant drama swept the room. The ballroom took on a starkness Prince had not experienced since the night he'd danced in the arms of one beloved mysterious princess.

The air fairly cackled, candlelight danced from wood waxed shined to radiant brilliance. Not so much as skirt rustled. The trumpets pealed their call of royal splendor.

The herald marched to the forefront, clicked his heels, fell his deep bow. "Lady Cinderella."

Prince's heart stopped.

Then startled by the reverberation, his hand flew to his chest. _Non_. The thud was there—erratic, beating fiercely. A bevy of servants scurried over to Lady Roche. She lay flat on her round and full-bodied face. He pushed away the twinge of guilt, and _relief_ , that it was not he who had succumbed to the dead drop swoon.

A vibrating hush quivered over the room. His ears rung in the silence. His eyes lifted to the heavens. The angel who played the trick on his eyes.

Her? _His_ mysterious princess. But hadn't the herald announced _Lady Cinderella_? Glitter filled the air.

Rich dark hair, just as he remembered, amassed in artistic magnificence. A tiara of blinking diamonds sat atop her head. Mounds of full ivory skirts and petticoats fanned in soft silk behind her in an elaborate train as she made her foray down the highest of grand balustrades known to man.

Fear met his eyes as she began her descent, but he recognized something new, something different. Steeled determination. It was registered in the tilt of her chin, in the glint of her focus. Shimmering sparkles that saturated the air, dissipated, as if a veil lifted, clearing the fog-filled vision he'd been looking through for weeks.

Elation swept through him. _He'd found his love_.

Satin gloves covered her arms but for leaving a small portion of exposed skin. His fingers itched with the need to touch her. He stepped forth, and a slight change altered her demeanor from determination to uncertainty.

His eyes feasted on the solitary teardrop diamond resting at the base of her throat. The pulse beating an irregular rhythm—the only sign of her terror. His gait shifted into a predatory glide. He dared not take his eyes from her as she would surely disappear. His gaze drifted down. She raised her dress so as not to trip with each methodical step in dainty glass slippers.

How could he not have known she was his lost love? _Mayhap she's hidden right beneath your nose, Cousin_. His gaze hungered over her beauty. The only thing missing in her appearance were the cinders on her cheeks. A tremulous smile tilted her lips. He lunged into a run.

No one would disappear this eve. Not this time, he vowed. He met her eyes and his heart stopped. Relief, relief covered her features and she grinned. A smile turned knowing. She was on a mission and he was her goal.

He stepped up as she stepped down, one blissful step at a time, until he had her wrapped in his arms, never to escape his hold again. Let the gossips say what they will.

He'd found his mysterious princess.

Prince touched his lips to hers in a fated seal. But not before she whispered with sound confidence, "What were you thinking, my prince—trying my slipper on every maiden in the kingdom?"

# Epilogue I

Cinderella blushed even giving her new husband her secret smile, and a quick wink. He winked back and happiness soared through her. She would never tire of looking at this charming man. He held her heart in the strongest of spells.

Her fairy tale had come true.

Bits and pieces of conversation seeped into Cinderella's spinning head. She listened absently as Essie and Cill bickered over George Berkley's _An Essay Toward A New Theory Of Vision_. Apparently, it questioned the objectivity of perception. She shook her head, still smiling, as they hotly debated the perception by sight and distance, magnitude and situation of objects of—well, she was not quite certain. She tried to follow, as their voices escalated into a debate that considered the differences between sight and touch, and anything common between the two. 'Twas confusing at best.

Their closeness brought her nothing but joy.

She tossed two sugars into a cup of tea, no cream, for Essie, and handed it to her. Then poured Cill's who drank hers black. Then deftly snuck one cube in her pocket. Marcel nipped her finger in appreciation.

How different her life might have turned out had Essie not had such a dainty foot. No girl could be as lucky as her to find such two extraordinary sisters that may never have otherwise materialized.

Not to mention, the expanded-shoe wardrobe. Things really did happen for a reason.

# Epilogue II

Heart near to bursting, Prince could not take eyes from his new bride. Her affection toward her sisters filled him with joy, velvet brown eyes twinkling with mischief and happiness. The change in her was nothing short of miraculous, he thought, shaking his head. Not her physical beauty. He'd seen that when they stood at Eros pond. No, her beauty was an aura of goodness, forgiveness and—she slipped a lump of sugar in her pocket. Hm.

How marriage plans with Lady Esmeralda had gotten as far as they had, could only be described as astonishing. How ridiculous his idea of trying a slipper on every maiden in the countryside. That had not been one of his better ideas.

Though, in retrospect, he'd not only gained a warm and loving wife, but an exceptional Land Manager in Lady Pricilla with her pragmatic manner and skills. Her dry wit worked wonders in handling the diverse and multifarious tenants throughout Chalmers. Who could have known? The havoc she wreaked over Arnald was just added benefit.

Lady Esmeralda was proving a brilliant accountant with her mathematics wizardry. Not to mention her weather changing abilities, should the need ever arise.

A snort of laughter escaped him, drawing the attention of all three sisters, Arnald, and Alessandro.

Prince smothered his laugh behind a quick cough and small apology.

In his travels and single-minded way, it had never occurred to him the glass slipper could or would fit someone other than his "mysterious princess." He made a mental point to take the time, to think through to an ideal solution, more thoroughly in the future. 'Twas preposterous that a shoe only fit one person in an entire kingdom.

After all, it wasn't like some transcendental fairy godmother had swooped in to swing her magic wand to make the shoe fit only one foot.

_Oui_ , the notion was ludicrous.

# The Real Epilogue

Three months later

"I must confess," Thomasine said. "'Twas a call too close for my comfort. I thought my son was to perish right before my eyes."

"Nonsense," Faustine said. "I assure you, I had control of the situation entirely."

"Mmm." Thomasine turned to Arnald. "Dear boy, what a blessing you are to your sweet maman." She accepted a fluted glass of champagne from her him, dropping into a second chair Faustine had so generously conjured.

" _Oui_ , quite the dear." Faustine pinched his cheek before snagging her own glass.

"Yes, quite." He jerked his head towards Prince who stood near his bride across the chamber. "I have a feeling, however, my shortened life span is under consideration as we speak."

"Nonsense." Thomasine sipped watching an amused and mischievous, smirk tip his lips.

"He _is_ curious how the two of you managed to keep the fact that you are twins such a secret."

Faustine tsk'd. "And how, pray tell, did you manage that one, Darling?"

"I'm afraid he is not quite finished with the conversation. I shall have to avoid him for a time."

"A not so difficult feat, I should think, with a new wife and all." Thomasine eyed the sparkling bubbles. "Just think! Soon I shall have _grand_ children. Oh, the thought."

Faustine frowned, jealousy marring her delicate brow and lifted narrowed eyes to Arnald.

He backed quickly to the door. "I suspect I should be going...uh...before I am...uh... missed," he said quickly.

"Hm. Perhaps you should," Faustine said.

Thomasine smiled as Faustine's gaze remained focused on his hasty departure.

"Who do you suppose I should set him up with, darling?"

"Oh, Faustine. You know your powers do not allow you to force love."

"Alas, I do know," she snapped. "But I can certainly entertain the possibility by throwing irresistible women in his path." A petulant pout touched her lips.

"Did not Cinderella break your little magic stick by stepping on it?"

" _Oui, oui._ But I managed a bit of adhesive to piece it back together," she said absently. "It works almost perfectly."

Thomasine's eyes flew to her. "Almost? Dearest, mayhap, we should leave the young ones to find their own way. Don't you think?"

"Perhaps," she murmured. "More champagne, dear?"

Thomasine held out her glass. " _Mais oui,_ _s_ 'il vous plait."

With a quick flick of her repaired wand, the bubbly spilled over the tops of their flutes, along with their soft giggles.

~~~~

Books by ****

Kae Elle Wheeler

The Wronged Princess – book i Amazon Best Seller

The Unlikely Heroine – book ii

The Surprising Enchantress – book iii

The Price of Scorn: Cinderella's Evil Stepmother

The English Lily (Kae Elle Wheeler)

Books by Kathy L Wheeler

Rebel Lord's of London (Regency Romance)

The Earl's Error

Bloomington Series (Spicy Contemporary)

Quotable 2013 IDA Finalist Contemporary Long

Maybe It's You

Lies That Bind

Martini Club 4 Series (Sweet Vintage Historical)

Reckless – The 1920s

Pampered — The 1940s

Novellas

The Mapmaker's Wife (Civil War - Sweet) 2015 IDA Best Historical Short

Blood Stained Memories (A World of Gothic - Sweet) Amazon Best Seller

Nose Job (A Scrimshaw Doll Tale – Spicy)

Trust In Love (4 Holiday Shorts - Sweet)

Mail Order Bride Series

Mail Order Bride: The Counterfeit

Mail Order Bride: The Breakaway

~~~~~

About the Author

 Kathy L Wheeler/Kae Elle Wheeler graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma with a BA in Management Information Systems and Vocal Music minor.

Kathy loves the NFL, NBA, musical theater, reading, writing and karaoke. She is an active member of Romance Writers of America and belongs to the Greater Seattle chapter, Olympia, Eastside, Hearts Thru History, and The Beau Monde.

She lives with her musically talented husband in the Pacific Northwest. She has one grown daughter (who has two adorable boys), one bossy cat, and a beautiful but neurotic dog!

You can find Kathy everywhere

<https://kathylwheeler.com>

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<https://twitter.com/kathylwheeler>

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