Cinderella Is Dead(3)
But I still know every line.
An ivory-colored envelope sits on the mantel, my name scrawled across the front in billowing black script. I take it down and pull out the folded letter from inside. The paper is thick, dyed the deepest onyx. I read the letter inside as I have done a million times since it arrived the morning of my sixteenth birthday.
Sophia Grimmins
King Manford requests the honor of your presence at the annual ball.
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This year marks the bicentennial of the first ball, where our beloved Cinderella was chosen by Prince Charming. The festivities will be grand, and made all the more special by your attendance.
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The ball begins promptly at eight o’clock on the third of October.
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The choosing ceremony will begin at the stroke of midnight.
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Please arrive on time.
We eagerly await your arrival.
Sincerely,
His Royal Highness King Manford
On its face, the invitation is beautiful. I know girls who dream of the day their invitation arrives, who think of little else. But as I turn it over in my hand, I read the part of the letter that so many of those eager young women miss. Along its outer edge, in a pattern that reminds me of ivy snaking its way up latticework, are words in white script that give a dire warning.
It is the first of October. In two days, my fate will be decided for me. As terrible as the consequences will be if I’m not chosen, the danger in being selected might be worse. I push those thoughts away and shove the letter back in the envelope.
I leave the house and make my way to the dressmaker’s shop, taking the long route and hoping I’ll run into Erin. I’m worried to death about her, but I know my mother is worried about me too.
The shops along Market Street are lit up and bustling with people making last-minute preparations for the ball. A line winds out of the wigmaker’s. I peer into his shop window. He’s really outdone himself this year. Elaborately styled wigs crowd his shelves. They remind me of wedding cakes, tiers upon tiers of hair in every shade, the ones on the top shelf featuring things like birds’ nests with replicas of eggs tucked inside.
A young girl sits in the wigmaker’s chair as he places a four-tiered piece atop her head. It’s layered in fresh pink peonies, topped with a small model of Cinderella’s enchanted carriage. It teeters precariously as her mother beams.
I hurry past, cutting through the throngs of people and ducking down a side street. The shops here aren’t ones that my family and I have ever set foot in. They’re for people with enough money to buy the most outrageous and unnecessary baubles. I’m not really in the mood to feel bad about what I can and can’t afford, but this is the quickest way to the town square, where I can cut across and find Erin before I meet my mother.
In the window of one shoe store, Cinderella’s glass slippers sit on a red velvet cushion, illuminated by candlelight. The little placard next to it reads, Palace-Approved Replica. I know if my father had the money, he’d snatch them up immediately, hoping they’d set me apart. But if they’re not enchanted by the fairy godmother herself, I don’t see the point. Shoes made of glass are an accident waiting to happen.
Farther down there is another line snaking out of a small shop with shuttered windows. The sign above the door reads Helen’s Wonderments. Another sign lists the names of tinctures and potions Helen can brew up: Find a Suitor, Banish an Enemy, Love Everlasting. My grandmother told me Helen was just some wannabe fairy godmother and that her potions were probably watered-down barley wine. But that didn’t stop people from putting their trust in her.
As I pass by, a woman and her daughter—who looks about my age—hurry out of the shop. The woman has a heart-shaped glass vial in her hand. She pops the cork and pushes it to the girl’s lips. She drinks the whole thing in one long gulp, tilting her head back and looking up at the evening sky. I hope the things my grandmother said weren’t true, for that poor girl’s sake.
3
I make a quick turn and hurry toward the town square. The Bicentennial Celebration has been going on for a week and will culminate with the annual ball. Until then, the festivities continue every night. Before curfew, people crowd the square to make music and drink, and tonight is no exception. As I push through, trying to cut directly across the square, vendors are hawking their goods in the shadow of the bell tower, a gleaming white structure with four tiers topped by a golden dome. There are jewelry and dresses from the city of Chione in the north, and satin gloves, makeup, and perfume from the city of Kilspire in the south.
As I zigzag through the booths, searching the crowd for Erin’s face, I notice a young woman standing on a raised platform. She is reciting passages from Cinderella. The palace-issued volume sits on a book stand in front of her.
“The ugly stepsisters had always been jealous of Cinderella, but seeing how lovely she looked that night, they realized that they could never be as beautiful as she and, in a fit of rage, tore her dress to shreds.”
People who’ve gathered around jeer and boo. I keep walking. I still don’t see Erin, and an all-consuming terror creeps in. I tell myself she’s at home, but I have to get there to make sure.
A booth, much more crowded than the others, sits near the middle of the square, and a crowd of people blocks my path. As I try to maneuver around them, I see that all the fuss is over a game being played in the booth. There are shoes piled up, and little girls pay a silver coin to be blindfolded as they pick one set of slippers and try them on. If they fit, they win a small prize—a beaded bracelet or necklace, along with a little slip of parchment that reads “I Was Chosen at the Bicentennial Celebration.” A little girl with a crown of bouncy brown ringlets beams as her tiny foot slides into a violet-colored shoe with a tall heel. It’s all good fun until another little girl picks the wrong size shoes and wins a slip of paper with a small portrait of Cinderella’s fabled stepsisters, their faces twisted into hideous smiles.