Cinderella Is Dead Page 34
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.”
“I’ve never understood why people follow along so blindly,” she mumbles. “Even when they know something is wrong, they do it anyway. Maybe you all should start thinking for yourselves.”
Constance moves toward the door. “This was a mistake, coming out here. She can’t help us.”
“Wait,” I say. I kneel at the woman’s side. “What’s your name? Your real name. None of that fairy godmother nonsense.” I haven’t been almost devoured by wolves to walk away with nothing.
She looks away from me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I say. “As hard as the king tries to make us nameless, we aren’t.”
A faint smile flits across her lips. “My mother called me Amina, but I’ve not heard that name spoken aloud in many, many years.” Something softens in her. Her defiant attitude is just a mask. Even out here in the darkest part of the White Wood, this woman is fearful.
“Please, Amina, we need to know anything you can tell us about Cinderella’s true story, the kings who have ruled over Mersailles—especially Prince Charming, his past, where he came from, anything.”
“And what would you do with this information?” she asks.
“We would use it to end the reign of men like Manford,” says Constance, whose tone remains firm. “Forever.”
Amina sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. She runs her hand over her forehead and allows her fingertips to rest on her lips. “Even if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. Do you truly think men like him can be stopped?” Her tone suggests she has thought long and hard about this very question.
“Yes,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true, but I want it to be. “Maybe if you tell us what you know, you can help us.” While Amina is icy with Constance, I see a softness in her eyes, a willingness to open up to me.
“I will never be free from this burden, no matter how honest I choose to be,” Amina says, looking me directly in the face. “I will carry it with me into the next life as penance for what I have done.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than what the kings of Mersailles have done.”
“You can’t be certain,” Amina says. Her eyes bore into me, and a primal rush of fear sweeps over me. This woman, delicate as she seems, is powerful, but she takes great care to mask it in our presence. “I have done things you cannot fathom. I have been more wicked than you can imagine.” This is not a warning. This is not a threat. It is an admission.
“Tell us what you know,” Constance urges again. She moves to a chair and sits down.
Amina leans forward and sighs, resigning herself to something. “Very well. But I will not be held responsible for the hopelessness, for the emptiness that you will feel when I’m done.”
Her warning echoes Constance’s. And if Amina’s revelations are anywhere near as life changing as the ones Constance shared with me, there will be no going back. I sit down on the floor and wait for her to continue.