Cinderella Is Dead(45)

“The Cinderella story is two hundred years old,” I say. My mind races as the woman nods.

“It is indeed,” she says.

“What am I missing?” Constance asks, an edge of anger in her voice.

“A great many things, apparently,” says the woman.

Constance stomps around the woman’s chair and looks her dead in the eye. “We didn’t come through the White Wood to be mocked. We came here for answers about Cinderella, about why she betrayed her family by marrying Prince Charming, about how the kings of Lille have kept such a tight grip on this land.”

The woman slowly looks up at Constance. “Why does any of that matter to you?”

“Because Cinderella’s family is my family,” says Constance. Her hand still sits on the hilt of her dagger.

The woman stares at Constance as if she is seeing her for the first time. Her eyes grow wide, and the corners of her mouth turn down. She presses her arms across her chest. “You look very much like Gabrielle.” She gazes up at a small portrait hanging by the hearth. A young boy with dark eyes, maybe six or seven years old, stares back at her. “I suppose that means she was able to make a life for herself somewhere in the world.”

Constance balls up her fists. “If you call scrounging for food, living in constant fear, and being one of the most hated women in the land a life.”

The woman looks Constance over again. “I never thought I’d see the day when kin to the evil stepsisters would be here in my humble abode.”

Constance clenches her jaw, and I move to her side.

“Gabrielle was many things, but she was neither evil nor cruel, just as I’m sure you’ve never been a wish-granting fairy, godmother, or otherwise.” Constance and the woman exchange angry gazes.

“Anyone with eyes can see that’s not the case, but do you have any idea what I really am?” the woman asks.

“You’re a witch,” Constance says. It is accusatory, almost mean.

“I’m not much for labels, but I like that one. It doesn’t have quite the same ring as fairy godmother, but I suppose it will do.” She tilts her head and stares at me.

I would never have guessed that this was the fabled fairy godmother. The woman in the story is a nymphlike creature, with wings and a wand that spews magical dust. This woman’s face is crisscrossed with lines, the folds around her mouth and eyes deep.

“We need information, not spells,” I say.

She clasps her hands in her lap and rocks back and forth in her chair. “It’s a strange request. Most people seek me out for something more material.”

“People still look for you? They know you still exist?” I’ve never heard even a whisper of her.

“They do,” she says. “Sometimes I help them, sometimes I don’t, but when they return home, they tend to forget where they’ve been and why.”

“What do you help them with?” I ask. “Dresses? Carriages? Glass slippers?”

“That story has taken its toll on you, hasn’t it?” she asks. She looks at me as if she pities me. “Anything they think will give them an edge at the ball.” The woman stares into the fire, settling back in her chair. She measures her words and movements, as if she is adept at controlling something that lurks just beneath the surface of her calm exterior.

“Do you know that the Cinderella tale is a lie?” I ask.

The old woman bristles and then smiles. “Which part?”

“I want to know what role you played in getting Cinderella to the ball that night,” says Constance. “I know the story isn’t true.”

“What do you know of truth?” The woman sounds amused. “You think because you’re related to Gabrielle that you’re owed something?” She scowls at Constance.

“I know my family’s history,” Constance says angrily. “We know you worked for the royal family when Cinderella was alive.”

“See there?” says the woman. “You’re already wrong. I’m not now, nor have I ever been, in the employ of anyone in the palace.” She turns her nose up and scoffs. “I was there of my own accord, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“The king is after me,” I say. “I ran away from the ball. I put my entire family and everyone I care about at risk, and I want to destroy him before he has a chance to hurt me or anyone else.”

Constance’s posture changes, and she stands a little taller and presses her shoulder into mine.

The woman shakes her head. “Lofty ambitions, my dear.” She turns and stares so intensely into my eyes that I take a step back, my heart racing. It is like she can see inside me.

“Do you know what it’s like in Lille?” Constance asks. “Do you understand the damage the Cinderella fairy tale has caused to the women and girls who live in town?”

I gather myself. “My friend died after attending the king’s ball.” Constance and the woman look at me. “And my other friend, Erin, is suffering a fate worse than death. We just watched a woman be executed because the king thought she helped me escape.”

“People make their own decisions,” says the woman. “You can’t blame the king for all of your problems.”

I step closer. Constance cautions me with a little wave of her hand, which I ignore. I look down at the woman. A palpable energy emanates from her, but I steel myself. “When the leader of this kingdom treats women as property, it sets an awful precedent. People think it’s okay to do the same.”