Cinderella Is Dead(35)

When she finishes braiding her hair, she can’t fit the tail ends under a cap, so we settle on tucking them down the back of her shirt. She then winds a thick scarf around her neck.

“Look at us.” She does a full turn. “I like this outfit more than any dress.” She shoves her hand in her pocket and smiles.

“I like dresses,” I say. “But I’d like to wear this sometimes, too.”

Constance smiles, and I can’t get past how stunning she looks. I shake my head. I need to get ahold of myself.

“We’ll head to the market,” says Constance. “I have a small cart. The horse should be able to handle it for us.”

I follow her around the outside of the house where her horse is tethered. As she loads her belongings into the cart, I notice that the house is built in a square arrangement, the middle of which opens to a courtyard. An enormous tree, a type I’ve never seen, stands in the center, its branches resting on the roof of the house. Its massive trunk is as wide as the ones that line the drive, but this tree has a distinctly different color. Instead of the faded shades of brown that mark the trunks of the others, this one is a silvery gray with patches of yellowish gold along the underside of its branches. Moss hangs from it like a curtain. The chirping of sparrows that have taken up residence in its wide canopy filters down.

“That’s where Cinderella’s mother is buried,” says Constance, gesturing to the tree. “In the story, she doesn’t even have a name.”

As if on command, the wind gusts, sweeping back the moss to reveal a small marble headstone at the base of the tree. Constance walks to the side of the house and pulls up a handful of wild lilies. She arranges them in a bouquet as I follow her to the headstone that reads: Alexandra Hochadel, Beloved Mother, Wife, and Friend.

“I wish I knew more about her,” says Constance, placing down the bouquet.

“Why do you think she was left out of the story?” I ask.

“Because she was determined? Smart? Willing to die for her family? Take your pick. Any of those reasons are good enough to warrant suppression.” Constance stands and stares up at the tree. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say.

“Apparently, it sprouted the evening Cinderella escaped to the ball.”

I am overcome by the notion that the tree is watching, listening, like a living, breathing thing.

“Strange,” I say.

“Strange indeed,” says Constance.

A strong gust makes me pull my coat in around my neck. My fingers brush against the necklace my father had given me, and his callous words replay in my head. I take it off and place it on the headstone. If remembering Cinderella’s mother is considered an act of defiance, I’m happy to do it.





16





We’re a mile outside the city center, settled in next to each other. With every passing bump in the road, my apprehension grows. What will happen if the guards in town find out I’m the girl they’ve been searching for? I’d be arrested for sure, but maybe my punishment will be worse. And what will happen to Constance? I’ve made my decision that any existence is better than the one I’ve been living, but I don’t want Constance to have to suffer for it.

“You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” Constance says, glancing at me from under her hat as she steers the horse toward town.

“I do. Everything feels different to me now. I didn’t intend for all this to happen, you know. When I left the ball, I just wanted to get away from the madness.”

“That’s how things happen sometimes,” Constance says thoughtfully. “Something small. A choice we make because, in the moment, we needed to make it. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less important. I believe that things happen for a reason, Sophia. If you hadn’t left the ball when you did, we never would have met.”

“Must be fate,” I say. She nods. It is comforting to know she’s on my side. “Since I’ve been here with you, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what it’s like to not have to watch what I say or pretend to be something I’m not.” I want to be open, but I feel terribly exposed, like I’m showing her the most delicate, guarded parts of myself.

She reaches over and squeezes my hand, causing that familiar little spark to course through me again.

“My mother taught me that I am a whole person with or without a husband,” she says emphatically. “Who I am inside and how I treat others are the only things that matter. The same goes for you. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling. Another question pushes its way to the front of my mind as the cart bounces along the road toward town. “You’d like a husband, then? Or at least, you’d consider that an option?” I try to sound curious to hide how incredibly nervous I am to hear her answer.

Constance pauses for a moment. “No. That’s not for me.”

I don’t press her, even though my mind races with a dozen questions.

“Can I be honest with you?” she asks.

“I thought that’s what we were doing here,” I say.

“I don’t just want equal footing in Lille. I want much more than that.”

I look at her, confused. “Equal footing sounds pretty good to me.”