My mother made that clear before she died. We all have our opinions, but we must behave kindly.
My father remarried to save the estate. Then he died, too.
My stepmother took control of the property; then she and her daughters diminished my name.
Ella.
I live amidst the cinders in my family’s home. My stepsisters fix that fact to me like a label.
The chores, the insults, the little indignities…I make no retort. I cook and clean, do the mending. I attend to their slight heartaches.
But I feel easy about disliking them in the quiet darkness of my mind.
When the palace announces that every maiden in the kingdom shall attend the ball, it upends the household. I sniff the air, hopefully, a forest creature emerging from hibernation.
My stepmother and stepsisters laugh uproariously.
They don my mother’s lace collar, her moonstone pendant, and her diamond earrings – and off they go.
I reflect.
I cannot beg, steal, or borrow a dress. The one gown left to me is the one I wore to the funerals. It is black. And purchased when grief consumed me.
I tie my corset strings to the bedpost – and lean.
The seams strain, but I manage to don the dress. My bosom is on prominent display.
I have no carriage, so I wear my boots and carry my slippers. I change them before reaching the palace. There, I nod to the guards, and slip into the ballroom.
I am a crow amidst preening peafowl.
But.
The prince himself asks me to dance.
He is handsome and graceful. Eyes dipping, he waxes poetic about my womanly qualities. He elucidates the burdens of rule. He speaks majestically, and – after endless waltzes – announces he has a room for me at the palace.
I raise an eyebrow.
“No, no, you misunderstand; your comfort is my priority.” My stepmother and stepsisters rend their hair as the prince’s major domo escorts me to a lovely room. He asks:
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Fiction.” He brings a dozen novels.
I spend mealtimes with the prince, and in-between times with the major domo.
Steven.
He knocks respectfully and asks innocuous questions: “Do you care for music? Spring or autumn? Dogs or cats?” Later, I return the favor: “Do you have siblings? Do you care for poetry? How did you come to work for the prince?”
Our conversations grow richer. One day, Steven is describing the shape of his faith…the prince snaps, “Am I interrupting?”
I choke back my real answer. It would be unkind.
Afterward, Steven escorts me back to my door.
He kneels. I am beaming. “I cannot offer you a palace, or jewels. The best I can manage is a rented house and a rocky kitchen garden. But…will you…”
“I thought you’d never ask.” In the night, he retrieves my boots from the hollow tree.
At dawn, we fly.
We hear the prince calling my name to the four winds: