The incident with the chair was the last straw. Mother and Father soon informed us that we'd no longer spend holidays with Grandmother, but rather, in the city. We were getting older now and needed to start thinking of our futures.

While Arabella was ecstatic, my only thought was to ask about Gareth. Mother pretended not to hear me.

I took that to mean he'd changed his mind. All my life, we'd steadily holidayed with Grandmother. Hearing that time was at an end came as a shock.

Unsurprising, my sister hummed the days away.

Arabella loved to dance; it was the only thing she learned in earnest.

Our summers stretched out for ages because we hadn't visited Grandmother's manor that year though letters upon letters of her requests came often.

Needless to say, I was in a state of shock when Bella led me out into the barn one summer night to see two unexpected guests.

A long, brown body donning white lounged in the hay, as was Raphael's way. He wasn't as tall as Edmond who towered over us all. But while Raphael reclined lazily, Edmond sat on the ground.

Edmond stood at attention when we entered.

At sixteen, Raphael made a ruckus when he staggered to his feet. "And to what do we owe this summoning?" he asked, bowing in an overexaggerated fashion.

I looked between them, confused.

Bella brushed off her summer dress and hurried to close the door. "It is an emergency!"

Raphael and Edmond shared a glance. When their eyes settled on me, I shrugged, completely unawares.

"There's a ball," Bella insisted, "and neither of us have ever laid hands on a boy let alone practiced with one."

When she came to a stop before Raphael, he focused on me then my sister and scoffed. "And this is your plan? According to popular opinion, even with our help, you'd still never have."

Edmond admonished him with one look. They needed no verbal cue—not when he wore that serious expression.

Raphael sighed. "Very well then. But what can we do for you?"

"Grandmother must have taught you," Bella insisted.

The readied response Raphael attempted to make was cut off with a word from Edmond I didn't understand. I knew the meaning though, as I'd heard him command Raphael with it often.

Raphael brushed off his all-white clothing and plucked a straw of hay out of his wavy hair, tied in the back.

He stood as a contrast to Edmond whose hair was always cut short.

For as far back as I could remember, Bella and Raphael butted heads. It came as no shock that Bella nearly trembled when she curtsied and Raphael bowed in turn.

Edmond stood watch. I stationed myself by his side. The sight of the dance affected my nerves. Arabella was nimble. Despite Raphael's reluctance, he was careful. Once or twice, their hands looked ready to touch, a fact that had me blushing. Each time, they followed proper protocol and simply mimed the action.

Arabella looked lovely.

Thoughts of Gareth plagued me. Had he thought me unrefined? I hadn't shown him much of which I were capable. But the sight of Arabella now, looking absolutely perfect, stole my confidence.

Could I manage this when the time came? Everyone was so special in comparison. Arabella, fifteen to my sixteen years, carried herself almost like an adult. But what of me? Had Gareth found me lacking in some way?

My eyes left Raphael and settled on Edmond. Edmond was a scholar. Whatever Raphael could do, Edmond could accomplish tenfold with expert precision.

I trembled at the thought of being the only one in our group with nothing to offer.

When I asked him something, it took a long moment for him to remember me. "I'm sorry, miss. What did you say?"

I nodded at the dancing couple. They looked so very charming.

"I asked, would—"

"No," Edmond answered, cutting me off. After a bout of silence, he told me, "It wouldn't be proper."

Embarrassed, I turned my face away in hopes no one would notice.

Bella's voice brought my focus back to them. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry."

"What kind of lady has feet this enormous?"

My sister's gasp had me wincing.

"You take that back! My feet are tiny."

"And your hands are so calloused."

Edmond groaned under his breath.

"How dare you! Our governess has even said my hands are as soft as rose petals!" Bella argued.

"Roses? I hadn't been aware that roses came in pure thorns."

And back and forth they went.

Edmond shook his head, disappointed. "Why can't he just allow her to be happy? Even for an instant."

He spoke to himself because when I tried to answer, he called to his brother and commanded him in that foreign tongue of his.

Raphael straightened up and bowed yet again.

Bella still seethed. He held that pose for ages. His back must have hurt by the time she forgave him and curtsied yet again.

This dance was much calmer. More beautiful. The routine they settled on required them to touch. I wondered how Bella would avoid it.

"We're leaving soon," Edmond said.

I turned to find his eyes trained on me.

"Please do not tell your sister."

A pit in my gut, I nodded. "Where will you go? Must you go?"

Edmond indicated Raphael with a nod of his head and that was enough. The boy was restless. Rarely could he remain still for long.

"Will you return?" I asked.

It was the first time Edmond ignored me.

Never. Not once had he ever done something like this.

"Come," he shouted to his brother, "it's getting late."

"Now?" Raphael called back. At the cold silent response, he told Bella, "Well, Princess Thorns, until we meet again."

Bella's shock made her face beet red. "Oh, you...you...."

Raphael waited. "Yes....?" When she stomped her foot, he boasted, "Run along and tell your father and he'll whip me for you. Won't be the first or l—"

"Enough."

I'd never seen Edmond so angry.

The brothers stared each other down and I, much like Bella who heeded the warning, inched toward the door.

"Get home safely," I said.

Neither answered. Once outside, Bella asked, "It's not true, is it?" She insisted, "That my hands are like thorns? But he did wince sometimes. Oh, what will I do if that happens during a dance?"

I didn't know.

We returned to the house without trouble but the light from the barn didn't fade. They hadn't left.

Something was the matter but I couldn't rest without knowing. However they knew mother and father were away for the day, I wasn't sure. Something compelled me back to that structure, so I went, leaving Arabella to lament her two left feet she was now convinced afflicted her.

I closed in to the sound of shouting. Words from Edmond, I could not understand, but Raphael, having long abandoned that language, responded as he normally did, in our tongue, dripping with defiance.

"You keep saying that," Raphael insisted. "And how is that my fault?"

The barrage of words spilled out even though I wasn't terribly close.

Silence followed for some time until Raphael asked, "Must we leave? Why do you want to leave so badly? We can stay."

"We can't stay," Edmond replied, so readily that it sounded automatic. I prayed he'd continue on in that vein and he didn't disappoint. "Not now. Not with what you've done. Where have you put it?"

The next bout of silence came with a chuckle. "How did you notice?"

"I noticed because I am not a fool. You're toying with our very lives!" He shouted something else then calmed, perhaps repeating, "You'll be hanged."

Raphael's silence no doubt came with his brow furrowed in the same deep contemplation he used whenever he weighed the risk of leaping at a distance greater than any of us ever dared.

"We'll be hanged for sport, for breathing. Where's your sense of adventure—?"

"It's in my head, which is still on my body, right where I'd like to keep it. Where is it?" Silence. Finally, Edmond calmed and confessed, "I do not want to die here. Being paraded around like animals. Being put on display, look, they can even read. And look, they even dance upright! I want a family, I want land, I want dignity!"

He sounded like someone wounded and I found myself leaning with my back against the aging wood of the barn.

"Best if we take our chances and go home."

Raphael never sounded unsure. I barely recognized him. "I don't even remember their faces," he began but paused. "If I return—"

"You can no longer safely return it," Edmond chided. For a grueling moment, Edmond took his time then said, "So no. Not with what you've done. We can no longer stay. You've made certain of that."

As I made my way back to the house that night, I forced that memory to fade. Edmond was always reasonable. His plans were always clever and yielded the results he'd wanted.

Therefore, if he said he must leave, he must.

I had never expected to see him here again at Grandmother's house. If I'd known he was here, I asked myself almost daily, would I have come for him? He could have butlered for us, far more comfortably.

But I never asked, and I never checked. All for fear. Fear of what I'd find. Fear of the answer.

Fear.

Fear hardly ever came from the threat of punishment, but rather, shame. A strike on the back or the face could fade in a day or two, but a strike against someone's pride and reputation, could last a lifetime.

For our cook, that became clear to me later that morning as I let her go. Her wage was meager, an insult, and yet, she wept as if a great injustice was taking place.

Sitting across from me with her frumpy white frock spilling out of the leather chair, she wiped her eyes.

"Was it Edmond? Was it he who told you?"

More than curious about her deductive reasoning, I gave her ample silence to fill. She did not disappoint. Recently, she'd found a job at a wealthier estate. Her hours were rather flexible as well. She could come and go as she pleased and was up before dawn here making food which Edmond would reheat, giving her enough time to reach her proper employ.

The lunches were sandwiches because that was easier, and our supper was later than she'd liked.

I hadn't noticed.

From sunup to sundown, this woman ran herself ragged.

Why?

"Edmond. I should have known he would have told you."

No matter how much someone might have thought it, a woman never acted without reason.

When her eyes met mine, she saw my revelation and her face turned crimson.

"You're a married woman," I marveled. "You have children."

Mouth hung open, the cook stood. "Ma'am!"

I sat unmoved. I needed not say a word. Our unspoken argument would only intensify.

"Stepmother," a little voice called from the open door.

Cinderella.

Her blue eyes peered from beyond the door frame, capturing my surprise. When she stood to her full height, something in her grip, she inadvertently dragged a flood of curiosity and worry up inside me with that trusting smile.

She'd taken to calling me Stepmother, without any prompting, or request.

Still standing at the doorway with her hands clasped, Cinderella waited for my invitation.

Before me, the cook stood defiant.

She was a wise woman and knew when she had the upper hand. Truth be told, I could not risk losing the cook. Edmond wanted to hire a soldier to take on the task, but I wasn't comfortable with the idea. I had girls. A strange man that I did not know roaming my house wasn't a relishing thought.

The idea that I'd have to tell Edmond I'd lost faith in his plan worried me.

But Cinderella.... I dared not let her wait any longer.

"Come."

Nearly sixteen, she'd changed so much in the past months.

"Mother, look—"

"If it's all the same to you, ma'am," the cook began, "I best be going. I'll be coming back for lunch," she declared.

I stood to call out but lost the chance. Cinderella rushed in, eager to show me something; the cook stormed out, eager to curtail my firing. They collided.

Something brown jumped from Cinderella's grip and slipped into the cook's ample bosom.

A gut-wrenching shriek followed.

"Get it off. Get it off!"

Cinderella covered her mouth, aghast. "No. Don't hurt him!"

Despite my rushing to the cook's aid, it was to no avail. The thing was already in her clothes. She jumped around and stomped.

A mouse fell from her skirts and scurried off.

The woman had to use the chair for support as she huffed and puffed. Her curly red hair stood in all directions and she glared at Cinderella with such hate I feared the child would burst into flames.

"Strange. You strange, twisted child! What kind of girl are you? You're supposed to be a lady one day?" the cook demanded. "But if your mother could see you now, rest her soul!"

Cinderella's posture wilted. Hands clasped at her lap, she took each verbal blow without opposition.

It went on, due to my shock, until I could no longer stomach it. "That's enough." My words were too quiet, so I shouted, "That is enough!"

Cook lowered her pointing digit and remembered my presence finally. Then she looked between the two of us and could find no words.

Her once pale skin now pink from her fury, she fought to respond to me.

But she realized her error too late. I was no longer listening to her.

"Get out," I ordered.

"Ma'am—?"

"Or I'll throw you out. Is that the way you talk to a child? Out. Get out of my house. This instant."

The blood drained from her face and she shed one tear but turned to hurry out as the rest fell.

There was only Cinderella and I after that, both of us too embarrassed to address one another.

A mouse. She'd been playing with a mouse. With either of my girls I would have shouted much like the cook had. Now, being on the outside looking in, I saw that disgusting display for what it was—heartless.

The woman had been right, but what good would that do to scream it at someone gentle and clearly lonely?

I held Cinderella's shoulder, because I knew not what else to do. Finally, she took several shaky steps to the other side of the desk and retrieved her mouse-friend.

Eyes fixed on the floor, she muttered, "I suppose you want to kill it."

Was this how children truly behaved? Weren't they supposed to fight for the things they cherished?

From where did this weakness come? From whom? A lady couldn't carry on like this—defeated long before the battle. A woman couldn't lose control of her emotions. But if she must, then fight to the death to save her treasures. Surely.

All this, and more, I wanted to say to her, but I dared not meet her trusting gaze.

"Come now. Hush," I soothed. "But consider it your luck that it was the cook to have seen and no one else." After guiding her to the chair Cook once occupied, I knelt before Cinderella and explained, "Being here all alone is hard, I know. But look. You have two new friends now with Poppy and Piglet—"

The welled-up tears in her eyes hung on her long dark lashes but refused to fall. "They hate me. Now, especially, when they find out about this."

I let out a sigh.

All quieted and I told her, "Cinderella, you cannot play with mice. They are filthy."

In time, she nodded. "Please don't tell anyone," she begged.

"Of course." I held her right cheek and promised, "You can keep it for as long as you like, but I plan to get some cats, so you will have to learn to let him go."

With a forced smile, Cinderella nodded. Her eyes bore into mine so long that I felt hollow. "He's very strong. I think no cat can best him."

I willed myself to give her the benefit of the doubt. "I hope you do not keep it in your bedroom."

"I won't anymore," she promised. "But I have a little box for him. Do you want to see it?"

Most certainly, I did not. But it was either I or one of the girls, which was an impossibility, Piglet especially.

It now occurred to me what Piglet, the poor thing, might have wanted to alert me to some time ago when I'd shouted at her so terribly. I owed her an apology. Best if I investigate said room before any other surprises arose.

"And I wanted to show you something," Cinderella said.

I followed her to her room which was far tinier than I'd expected. It was an old guest room we barely used when I was young.

Once I stepped in, I could see what she had in common with rats...the hording.

It wasn't filthy necessarily, nor did it smell. There were just so many things.

As she promised, there was a box on the dresser for her mouse friend. Beside it, an ornate little bottle caught my eye.

I picked it up, frozen at the sight of Arabella's handwriting. The word 'medicine' scrawled out.

This wasn't a bottle written by a doctor. I brought it up and peered below it. The decoration was all hand-painted.

Fake medicine. Perhaps they couldn't have bought real medicine in her latter days. My heart felt heavy with this realization.

When I caught Cinderella's eyes upon me, I returned the bottle but asked, "You know better than to take medicine alone, correct?"

Cinderella confessed, "It was for my mouse friend. He hadn't eaten much lately, so I thought perhaps he was sick. But he's all right now so I suppose he doesn't need it." Her expression softened when she regarded the bottle. "That was the last bottle mother had before...."

The worry in her expression made me force a smile while holding her shoulders.

"I'm sure your mother would not mind you putting it to good use."

With that, Cinderella perked up. She hesitated then said, "Please don't tell your daughters but...the books I've been reading...."

Everything in me wanted to put her at ease and let her know that we knew but I could see it, this meant a lot to her.

"It's the only thing they'd compliment. But...." She went to her dresser and took something from the top draw. It was a pile of papers. "I...I don't really read. I can read some words," she hurried to add. "But the stories I tell, most come from these. Mother would read them to me. But...I won't have any more stories soon enough."

My eyes scanned this little room, then settled on her and I held her cheek again. She was trying. Despite her situation, she was trying her hardest.

The papers meant as much to her as perhaps her mouse because she held them to her chest.

"These belonged to Mother. And...and she had them with her in her bag, even in the carriage. She...."

At the pause, I waited. Till now, I'd been impatient, with everyone, everything; this was not the time to rush her.

"Can I tell you something...something that worries me?"

I nodded.

"Sometimes...sometimes I think—I thought mother loved these more than me. Her last...her last words were for me to keep them and not show anyone."

Surprise wasn't a word to do my reaction justice.

"Not I love you, or...or be safe."

The oncoming tears were why I dipped low to meet eyes with her. "Sometimes, at the last moment, people lose their reasoning, darling. It doesn't mean she didn't love you. Or perhaps, perhaps she wanted the two thing she loved the most to be together."

Cinderella considered my words then lowered the papers, allowing them to sag in her arms.

Finally, her big blue eyes bore through me. "And it won't be...wrong to show someone—to show you? I don't trust anyone else."

I was touched. This time when I scanned her room, I saw the treasures for what they were. Small pieces of her memories, her mother, her hopes, her dreams. From her little mouse, to her papers.

"I'll read them for you," I promised, "and give you some new stories."

Cinderella let out a held breath. "And you won't show Father? Never. Never ever?"

I smiled wide and echoed her. "Never ever."

After she shoved the papers into my arms, I patted her cheek and turned to leave the room. I returned to the study to find Edmond waiting.

I walked by but told him, "We are in need of a couple of pusses. Do you know of anyone who may have some extra?"

"Yes. I can acquire that. Under one condition," Edmond said. "They must be male cats because I'm feeling terribly outnumbered."

I scoffed and after he exited, I sat, a weight lifted.

When I regarded the papers, finally, I realized they were in fact letters. All out of order. They dated back years.

One I recognized.

It was still in the envelope...addressed to me.

Arabella sent me one letter and one letter only and I sent it right back unopened. This was that.

A feeling of dread swelled up inside me as I began organizing them by date. The very first one predated Cinderella's birth and read, "I'll always keep your secret. Will you keep mine?"