Cinderella Six Feet Under(107)

The crowd parted for a figure barging towards the dais. Not Prue, but Miss Austorga in a puffy, pollen-yellow gown. She hitched her skirts and tromped up the dais steps. Redness mottled her upper lip, complexion spots dotted her forehead, and she was out of breath. “You say, Prince Rupprecht, that your intended, your bride, your true love, is the only one in the world who would fit that slipper?”

“Yes,” Prince Rupprecht said with a scornful glance.

“And you promise to marry she who fits the slipper?”

“That was the idea, yes. But it has been ruined, and I—”

“But do you promise?”

“If her foot had been small enough, then yes, I would have promised to marry she of the tiny foot. But this grotesque thing”—Prince Rupprecht sneered at the automaton—“is imperfect.”

Austorga dragged one of the musician’s chairs to the center of the dais. She plopped herself in the seat, skirts puffing like a cheese soufflé, and pried off one of her slippers. She thrust out her foot. “I am ready.”

“You cannot be serious,” Prince Rupprecht said. He addressed the sea of faces. “This creature?”

“Her foot appears to be quite dainty,” a gentleman near the dais said. “Why do you not make an attempt?”

“Try,” another gentleman said. Then the whole crowd was urging him on.

Prince Rupprecht shook his head with disgust. He bent before Austorga and affixed the glass slipper to her foot. It slid on neatly.

The crowd cheered.

Prince Rupprecht’s jaw went slack.

Lord Cruthlach, in a wheelchair, rolled up beside Gabriel. He was wheezing for breath. Lady Cruthlach, also wheezing, emerged beside her husband.

What had they been doing? Playing badminton?

“Where is she?” Lady Cruthlach whispered. “I cannot see her.”

On the dais, Prince Rupprecht looked ill. Austorga looked like she’d just broken the bank at Monte Carlo.

*

The gas chandeliers sank to blackness. The only light came from paper lanterns on the terrace outside. For a moment, Ophelia was blind. Ladies yipped. Gentlemen made indignant noises.

A lady screamed, “Un fant?me!”

A lone figure stood outside on the terrace, staring through an open door. A young, fair-haired girl, lovely to see in her ivory tulle gown that seemed to shimmer with stars. But there was something wrong, very wrong, with her chest: her ivory bodice had a dark stain around a small, black hole.

The girl’s face was expressionless. Slowly, she lifted a bare arm and pointed at Prince Rupprecht.

“Sybille?” the prince croaked. “Mon Dieu, Sybille!” His eyes were wild as he clung to Austorga’s arm for support.

He’d fallen for it. “Translate for me,” Ophelia whispered to Griffe. He nodded.

“I beg of you, have mercy,” Prince Rupprecht said to the apparition. “I did not mean for it to—oh, Sybille, your grave is too fresh!”

The apparition did not move.

“You know that it was not I who pulled the trigger!” Prince Rupprecht said. “I only meant to lift you up from misery, to bring your beauty into the light, to polish it. I did not intend for you to—mon Dieu, say something, Sybille!”

The specter said nothing. Somewhere in the ballroom, a lady wept.

“I did not kill you!” the prince roared. “You cannot torment me so! You saw that it was that little wretch, Josie!”

Josie? Ophelia blinked. There was another fair-haired young woman, this one more willowy, in yet another ivory tulle gown. She glided through the dim ballroom. The crowd parted so she could pass. She ascended the dais, exuding a riveting power that belied her slight frame. The diamond stomacher on her bodice sparkled in the gloom.

A gunshot cracked out. Screams. A thud. Ophelia smelled gunpowder.

The chandeliers flared back up. Prince Rupprecht lay in a lifeless heap on the dais. Austorga wept over him.

Josie rushed out to the terrace, clutching a pistol, and the stunned crowd let her pass.

“I’m not going to let her get away after all of this,” Ophelia muttered, hitching her skirts. She pushed through the staring guests. By the time she reached the terrace, Josie was heading down the steps into the formal gardens. Ophelia dashed after her, dimly aware that others were following.

She grabbed Josie’s arm at the bottom of the steps.

Josie squealed and fumbled with the pistol. “I will shoot!” She aimed at Ophelia’s face.