Cinderella Is Dead(33)

I remember the burned circle of grass. “That was you?”

She nods. Then suddenly her face falls and she leans toward me. “I am the last. The last one who knows the truth.”

“I’m so sorry, Constance.” I don’t know what else to say.

“He’ll be after you now.” Her knee presses into mine on purpose. Testing her boundaries a bit. I don’t move away. “He won’t stop.”

“No, he probably won’t,” I say. “But neither will I.”

She presses her lips together and lifts her chin a little. “You’ll just stay on the run forever?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” I say. A wild thought takes shape in my head. “Maybe I get to him before he gets to me.”





15





The fire dies as the evening hours creep up on us. I had expected Constance to laugh in my face when I told her maybe I’d go after the king before he could get to me, but she sits quietly, studying me. After a few minutes she leans forward, crossing her bare arms over the plane of her legs. I try to refocus.

“My mother told me that Gabrielle received a letter from Cinderella shortly before her death, asking her to meet here, at this very house, under the cover of darkness, but when Gabrielle showed up, Cinderella was being dragged away by the king’s guards.”

“What did she want to meet her for?” I ask.

“Gabrielle heard her screaming about …” She trails off.

“Screaming about what?”

“She said that the prince was the curse upon Mersailles and that to save us, he had to be stopped.”

“But he’s dead now,” I say. “And nothing has changed.”

Constance sighs and pushes her hair, which is now completely loose, over her shoulder. “You can’t go home. I don’t think it’s worth it to ride back to my family’s cottage, but I’m not sure where we go from here.” She stands and goes to the little fireplace, poking at the kindling until the fire burns bright and hot again.

Her body, backlit by the flames, is like a vision. She is tall and strong. She’s got her sleeves pushed up; a wide, jagged scar runs over the muscles of her upper arm. They flex as she stokes the flames. I imagine how they might feel wrapped around me, and I wonder if she can tell how enthralled I am with her.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, trying to put my mind elsewhere.

“Of course.” She stares down at the fire, and I can only see her face in profile; the apple of her cheek lifts, smiling. She’s seen me watching her.

“Do you believe in curses?”

“I don’t know. And what does that mean anyway? Who could even do that?”

“Someone powerful,” I say as an idea completely takes hold of me. “Maybe someone who could turn a pumpkin into a carriage, someone who could enchant a pair of glass slippers.”

“The fairy godmother?” Constance exaggerates every syllable. “Are you saying she might have known more about the curse Cinderella warned Gabrielle about?” She looks doubtful.

“Maybe,” I say. “And think about it. All that fairy godmother business was probably just another lie. What kind of a woman has the power to transform objects and make a gown materialize out of thin air?”

Constance stares blankly into the fire. “A witch.”

A chill runs through me and I stand up. “A witch?”

In Mersailles, a belief in magic is almost bred into us. Woven into the Cinderella story are the fairy godmother’s fantastical abilities. But I don’t know anyone who has ever truly seen magic. I think of Liv and her prize at the bicentennial celebration, her replica wand. She believed unquestioningly, as do most people, in even the most unbelievable parts of the tale.

Witchcraft is something different. I’ve never heard anyone suggest that the fairy godmother might have been a witch.

“Do you know what happened to her?” I ask.

Constance shrugs. “When Cinderella died, the godmother disappeared. There were rumors she went into the heart of the White Wood to live out her days.”

Luke’s plan for our escape had included venturing into the White Wood. I think of his face as the guards took him away. My heart breaks all over again. “I want to try to find someone who knew her,” I say. “She was there, and after everything that happened, especially if it happened the way you say, there’s got to be some kind of record. Maybe she knew people in the area?”

“We’re talking about a woman who lived almost two hundred years ago,” Constance says. “Anyone who knew her would be dead.”

“You’ve kept your family’s story all this time. Maybe something similar happened with her. I think we have to go to the last place she was known to be.”

“The White Wood? You want to go looking for answers there?” Constance asks, her voice creeping up.

“We have to try. Or I suppose, I have to try. You don’t have to come with me, but I’d like your company. If there are others like you and your family, people who have kept a history, maybe we can find them and they can help us understand this curse.”

“You’d like my company?” Constance asks.

I nod.

“I can’t say no to that,” she says softly. “I don’t think we’ll succeed, but who wouldn’t want to be alone in a creepy forest with you?” Constance struts over and stands in front of me. “I’ve had people on my side before but none quite as headstrong as you.”