A lie was only as good as the lengths we were willing to go through to make it convincing.

Fifteen and armed with an unyielding appetite, Raphael sat on the barn floor, eating a carrot, utterly engrossed in Arabella's nonsense.

Edmond stood leaning against a support beam. And I? I was the unfortunate accomplice brought in to sell this tale.

I wasn't doing a very good job, sadly.

From my reluctance, one might have thought Arabella lacked talent. It was the contrary. So convincing was she, that poor Raphael believed every single falsehood her pretty head concocted.

Mother insisted she cease with her tall tales and she almost had, until she found her most captivated audience—Raphael.

Edmond, now eighteen, often flashed a pearly smile, lighting up his entire expression out of politeness.

Perhaps it was the fact that Raphael and Arabella were nearly the same age why she focused her fantastical stories on him.

For me, who had long since grown tired of believing Bella's tales only to take scolding after scolding, learned early to let her speak, and never to listen.

Raphael finished his carrot and tossed the stem. Edmond caught it.

"So he could fly? Actually fly?" Raphael marveled.

He was a boy of few words so to have him this animated for something other than mischief was rare.

"Of course. You need only believe."

Tight-lipped, I muttered her reminder, "And have magic words."

Raphael's spirits sank and Bella, still standing before him with her arms held out, her story now at an end, regarded me coolly, annoyed that I'd interrupted the 'magic' of her lie.

"You need magic words for them?" Raphael asked, disheartened.

"No." Bella lowered her hands and told him, "One moment."

She marched to me and grabbed me by the elbow with such force that I mistook her for our mother.

Raphael stood and waited.

When we were close enough to the door, Bella perched her hands on her hips, beyond angry. "Why must you do that? Why must you ruin it?"

Ruin? It was a lie.

In my mind, her stories were foolish and childish, but I hadn't the heart to tell her directly.

Instead, I said, "We're growing up now. When will you grow up?"

She leaned back, scoffing. Despite my not bringing her intelligence into question, I'd hurt her.

"It's not about growing up, sister. It's about being happy. Happiness is so fleeting. Isn't it lovely to have it in these small instances?"

Was it? I hadn't found the value quite as yet.

"Wait," Edmond called. "Wait. Come down."

"You worry so much, brother. I am a strong believer." Arms outstretched, Raphael walked the main beam up high. He jumped off, tearing a gasp from Bella who clutched my arm for dear life.

He landed safely on the upper ledge.

"Raphael!" Bella cried, her voice cracking. "It was just a story."

From this distance, his eyes held a challenge. "It was a story? But stories come from someplace. Isn't that so?"

Once he reached the top window, he shoved the shutters open and put one foot on the sill.

"I believe your words," he told her then took a great leap straight out the window.

Bella lost power from the shock. I held her up. She broke from my hold, tears in her eyes as she hurried out.

I...was less animated. For I could not move. I was too fearful to go and see what we'd done to poor Raphael.

Edmond stood with me. Finally, he said, "Your sister, and my brother are tricksters. Raphael'd put hay behind the barn in anticipation for this. I hadn't been sure why he'd done it till now. You must not react, otherwise it'll encourage them."

The wave of dread and fear pulsing through me changed. It no longer throbbed with a thumping of my heart, but instead my rage consumed it.

"He scared me half to death!" I said, marching out.

I opened that barn door and circled the structure, intent on telling the two liars off.

What I found had me turn away.

Bella was nearly to the house, screaming bloody murder.

Raphael had missed his target.

Trick or lie, a perfect execution could provide any desired result. Failure amounted to two broken legs, like Raphael.

In the here and now, it was my turn.

My lie was a masterpiece.

I marched into Gareth's study unannounced and declared, "I would like to buy this house."

Hunched over a neat glass of whiskey, he unfolded until his glare met mine.

He looked ghastly. Where was the handsome young man with the body of Adonis? A straggly beard now hid the cleft in his chin. His dark blond hair grayed at the temples. His face no longer held confidence and adventure, but rather pain and vexation. Once upon a time he was a million feet tall, even sitting.

Now, he barely amounted to a millimeter. But for this to work, I had to sell this lie with everything I had in me.

"Who are you to barge in here?"

I stood proud, refusing to meet his gaze. "This is my family home. Now widowed, I wish to return to it. I will not see it sold to a stranger." Without meeting his gaze, I could not manage this, so I risked looking at him dead on.

It was worse than I feared; he was a wreck. I saw myself reflected in his graying gaze, fearful that I'd morphed into some weathered hag to mirror his beaten down state.

The drink had aged him; the sickness, the sloth, everything he did had aged him.

But I had to confront it.

Deep down, I knew, whatever he looked like on the surface, was how I'd felt within. He was me, ripped from the trenches of my heart, displayed before my eyes.

He still had the habit of tugging his ear when he meant to bluff. That would explain all gambling debts.

"I'm in no mind to sell," he told me, reclining. Arms folded over his budding gut, he grunted. "And you don't have the sort of money I'd need."

The drooping of my shoulders required expert timing. He eased forward.

I had him.

"Please," I said, my voice quivering.

The smile he fought back nearly had me gagging but I needed to do this. Without it, I'd lose far more than this house.

"How much do you have?"

It was no secret that women didn't deal in matters of real estate. My late husband had demanded that I learn. Because he was my senior, he hadn't expected to outlive me.

His excuse was he wanted his 'girls' safe. Now, in this very moment, I saw him for the angel he was. He had wanted me safe.

Knowing more than an opponent proved hard to mask, but I managed it.

After I uttered the price, Gareth fell back into his chair, speechless.

His beady eyes settled on the table then me, "You have that much?" he managed to whisper.

I didn't. But I needed for him to believe it.

Why settle for a bucket of water when he could own the well?

The tug of his ear this time was more discrete. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "still, I'm rather attached to this. It was a gift from your mother, as you know."

I knew. Oh, how I knew.

Being in his presence was already taxing, so I decided to bring the grand finale.

I turned to leave.

My hand touched the doorknob when I heard, "Wait." He paused but said finally, "What's this nonsense about you being a governess?"

Oh no.

Me wanting a house was one thing. Me wanting my daughter was another.

I summoned up my bravery and prayed I knew what I was doing.

"That's another thing," I said, turning to face him, "I have my own daughters I wish to install here. This is where I grew. Your daughter may be best suited with a relative. Then you'd be free to roam on your own."

My gut plummeted.

All of my insides shriveled up and vanished out of me with how long he sat back and contemplated my words. For a grueling moment, he said nothing.

Eardrums throbbing with the pounding of my heart, I swallowed down my terror; he was considering it. For this to work, he'd have to have loved his daughter more than riches. I could no longer bank on that humane thought, so I threw everything I had into this role. Rather than view me as a safe absolution of his debts, he needed to see me as a long-standing bounty to exploit. "I...I can give more if you'd need money for her schooling."

He sat up again, brow creased. A stroke of his earlobe had me calming, but not by much.

With every second that ticked on the clock at his back, my breathing grew shallow. I couldn't faint. Should he not ask about my husband's former business, I'd lost. He'd call my bluff, send Cinderella away, and leave this property a free man upon its sale.

And I'd be lost.

Gareth's eyes met me for a moment. They roved me from head to toe. A younger woman might have taken it as flattery, I wanted to claw out his eyes.

Think of your daughter, you swine.

"You're a widow," he drawled.

The rest came in a haze. I couldn't hear it all past my loathing. Somehow, perhaps all the lessons from my late husband were so ingrained that I needed no consciousness to put them into practice.

When I came back to myself, Gareth stood before me, his eyes hungry. I nearly retched.

He took my hands and said, "Isn't that a more agreeable plan—a more moral plan?"

The glare I trained on him was no lie. It was real and raw, and he let me go.

"I don't see why I should share this house with you," I said.

"Yes, but—"

"I'll give you twice the offer."

All color faded from his face. It was hard for his worn-down features to look youthful, but some joy came back into his eyes.

"Wait. Your sister had mentioned your good fortune and I hadn't properly thanked you for contributing to her funeral costs. I see now that she hadn't embellished. Don't be hasty. Spend some time here. Cinderella can be a bit of a nuisance, but she stays out of the way should you snap at her."

He misunderstood my silence for defiance. It was anything but—it was to mask a murderous craving.

I wanted him dead.

But I had him finally, and if I didn't reign in my emotions, I'd get nothing.

"If you won't sell, I could just buy another house."

"Then you would have done that already," he fired back. It came out a bit too harshly, so he tried to laugh. "Come. Come. We were friends once." His hand settled on my waist and he admitted, "More than friends."

I willed my expression to soften but it could hardly obey me. If it didn't, Cinderella'd be gone with his kin. Then the house. And then Edmond.

A wave of calm came over me and I held Gareth's face. "So you do remember?"

With a laugh, he leaned in, but I considered his illness and eased away.

"Oh no. I've learned my lesson." I couldn't make this too obvious, so I let out a held breath and promised, "But as soon as we wed. I haven't forgotten you either."

My money or my bed, whatever the reason, Gareth sent for my daughters the very same day, the priest, he would visit personally to ensure the proper preparations were met.

In my bedroom, an hour later, I stared after the last of the carriage, repulsed.

A soft hand slipped into mine, bringing me back from the abyss I'd sunken into.

Cinderella peered up at me. She no longer hesitated in seeking me out whenever she wanted. The times when she couldn't find me, she looked frazzled, so I'd taken to leaving my bedroom door wide open during the day.

The expression on her face was foreign to me. "What is it?" I inquired.

She shook her head at first then confessed, "You just look like someone else whenever you've spoken to him."

I drew in my breath. And not just looked. I stood rigid, both in heart and mind.

"Does it frighten you? I'm sorry."

Not even a polite refusal came my way.

Every day here again felt...fragile. I hadn't even discussed what I'd planned.

Though fearful, I leaned in and asked, "Would you hate it at all if...I weren't your governess?"

Her grip on my hand tightened.

This was all very sudden. Mourning for a widow lasted at least a year. Before that time, she could not wed. I was well past that restriction. A widower, however? He could come and go as he pleased.

Perhaps I'd been mistaken in my final decision now to wed Gareth. Because I'd run here with Cinderella from the fields two days prior with the intent to return to my home the following day. It was the alarming happenings of that night which convinced me otherwise.

Gareth, so drunk the smell of liquor oozed from his very pores, barged into my bedroom looking for his daughter. He had me by the throat by the time he realized I wasn't her.

Edmond's short arrival after that brought my rescue. A servant couldn't lay hand on the man of the house, so I was surprised to find Gareth letting me go. That spoke of shame. And shame spoke of a crime. What sort, I could not say, but it was one so bad that Edmond's very presence adverted it.

When I found Cinderella in the living room later on that night, crouched up, sleeping behind the settee, I'd made up my mind. Edmond had been dressed, not ready for bed, and holding a long-lit lamp meant this was no rare occurrence. He'd anticipated something of this nature.

I would not leave her. And I couldn't steal her away, not without explaining my true identity, something I could not prove.

Now, two days later, as I watched the carriage disappear into the distance, solidifying my engagement, I felt numb.

"You will not be my governess?" Cinderella asked.

I prayed she would not see my presence—my intent—as an intrusion.

When I clarified my meaning, something in her gaze dimmed.

The welled-up tears in her eyes hung on her long dark lashes but fell only with a blink, and not anguish. Seeing her reddened face transform from hurt to elation was an exquisite sight.

"A stepmother!"

She hugged me and I watched her, equally contended. Once she'd calmed, I stood beside her, peering out the open window.

"Will I soon meet your daughters?" she asked.

"Yes. The eldest, I call Poppy and the second one is called Piglet."

Cinderella exclaimed, "Am I right to guess she's called Piglet because she's a little heavy?"

"Shh," I teased. "You must never criticize a woman's age or body unless you seek an enemy for life."

We quieted and I tightened my grip on her hand, more for myself than for her. This had to work. This was the only way; taking away my sister's child would be difficult without her father's permission. And even so, explaining to her who I was meant unlocking something I dared not. No. The simplest solution was for me to sacrifice.

I held her right cheek and promised, "Once my daughters arrive, you'll have double the friends."

With a forced smile, Cinderella nodded. Her eyes bore into mine so long that I felt hollow. I asked, "What is it?"

"You're...you're so nice. No one's ever been this nice to me before."

More unpleasant a confession never existed.

"I'm sure your mother—"

"No. I loved her stories. Whenever she was well, she'd let me sleep in her bed and she'd tell me them." Cinderella beamed. "And I'd always wanted brothers or sisters."

The way she quieted lit me up with alarm.

She met my gaze. "I begged father for a sibling, and he said it's Mother's fault why I couldn't have any."

Her words cut me in two. I was shattered. That blaggard. It was thanks to what he gave her why she couldn't.

As much as I was tempted, I dared not speak ill of my would-be husband. "Oh, your father...."

But while I searched for an honest, yet decent, thing to utter, Cinderella finished my sentence, saying, "Can be rather terrible. I know."

I tried to refute her words but couldn't.

Cinderella was a problem, in more ways than one. That would all change with the arrival of my girls, I knew. Poppy, especially. She was my general in this battle in all that held us back. My girls would arrive soon. Finally.