Cinderella Is Dead(2)
“We’ve got a runner,” a gruff voice says.
I freeze. If I’m caught this far into the woods, the guards will make an example of me. I picture myself being paraded through the streets in shackles, maybe even stuffed into a cage in the center of town where Lille’s people are so often made to endure public humiliation as penance for stepping off the beaten path.
The men’s voices and footsteps move away from me.
I’m not the runner they are talking about. I haven’t even started running yet. My heart crashes in my chest. I hope they can’t gain on Erin quickly enough.
The guards’ voices trail off, and when they’re far away from me, I tuck my shoes under my arm and run into the shadowy cover of the forest. Ducking behind a tree, I peer around the trunk as several more guards gather. They’ve got an older woman with them, already bound at the wrists. I breathe a sigh of relief and immediately feel a searing stab of guilt. This woman is now at the mercy of the king’s men.
I turn and make a break for it. With my legs pumping and lungs burning, I think I hear the snap and snarl of hounds, though I can’t be sure. I don’t dare look back. I trip and smash my knee on a rock, tearing the flesh. The pain is blinding, but I pull myself up and keep going until the trees start to thin.
At the path that leads back to the heart of town, I pause to catch my breath. Erin is nowhere to be found. She’s safe.
But this is Lille.
No one is ever really safe.
2
As I trek home all I can think of is Erin. The forest is deep and dangerous and, most important, off-limits. I know she won’t stay hidden. She’ll make her way home, but I need to know she’s safe.
The bell tower in the town square rings out the hour. Five loud clangs. I’m supposed to meet my mother at the seamstress’s shop for a fitting, and she specifically told me to come there bathed, with my hair washed and a fresh face. I look down at myself. My dress is smudged with dirt and blood, and my bare feet are caked with mud. I escaped the king’s men, but when my mother sees me, she’ll probably end me herself. Guards patrol the streets. Many more than usual now that the ball is so close. I keep my head down as I pass by. They aren’t too concerned with me. They’re on high alert because of what people in Lille are calling the incident.
It happened two weeks ago in the northern city of Chione. There were rumors that an explosion damaged the Colossus, a twenty-foot likeness of Mersailles’s savior, Prince Charming, and that the people responsible were ferried into Lille under cover of night and taken into the palace to be questioned by the king himself. Whatever happened, the details he was able to pry from them sent him into a state of panic. For the first week after the incident, he ordered the mail stopped, our curfew was moved up two hours, and pamphlets were distributed that assured us the incident was nothing more than an attempt by a rogue band of marauders to vandalize the famous statue. It also stated that the perpetrators were put to death.
When I get home, the house is empty and silent. My father is still at work, and my mother is waiting for me at the seamstress’s shop. For a moment, I stand in the center of the floor, looking up at the wall hangings over the door.
One is a portrait of King Stephan, haggard and gray; it shows him as he was before his death only a few years ago. Another is of King Manford, the current king of Mersailles, who wasted no time in pushing out his official royal portrait and requiring that it be hung in every house and public space in town. Our new king is young, only a few years older than I am, but his capacity for cruelty and his lust for absolute control rivals his predecessor, and it is on full display in the third frame hanging over our door. The Lille Decrees.
A minimum of one pristine copy of Cinderella will be kept in every household.
The annual ball is a mandatory event. Three trips are permitted, after which attendees are considered forfeit.
Participants in unlawful, unsanctioned unions will be considered forfeit.
All members of households in Mersailles are required to designate one male, of legal age, to be head of household, and his name will be registered with the palace. All activities undertaken by any member of the household must be sanctioned by head of household.
For their protection, women and children must be in their permanent place of residence by the stroke of eight each night.
A copy of all applicable laws and decrees along with an approved portrait of His Majesty will be displayed in every household, at all times.
These are the hard and steadfast rules set forth by our king, and I know them by heart.
I go to my room and light a fire in the small hearth in the corner. I consider staying until my mother comes looking for me, but I’m worried that she already thinks something terrible has happened. I’m not where I should be. I bandage my knee with a clean strip of cloth and wash my face in the basin.
My copy of Cinderella’s tale, a beautifully illustrated version my grandmother gave me, sits on a small wooden pedestal in the corner. My mother has opened it to the page where Cinderella is preparing for the ball, the fairy godmother providing her with everything her heart desired. The beautiful gown, the horse and carriage, and the fabled glass slippers. Those attending the ball will reread this passage to remind themselves what is expected of them.
When I was small, I used to read it over and over again, hoping that a fairy godmother would bring me everything I needed when it was my turn to go to the ball. But as I got older, as the rumors of people being visited by a fairy godmother became fewer and farther between, I began to think the tale was nothing more than that. A story. I told my mother this exact thing once and she became distraught, telling me that now I certainly wouldn’t be visited if I voiced so much doubt. I never said anything about it again. I haven’t looked at the book in years, haven’t read it aloud like my parents want me to.