The Girl Behind the Glass Slipper

I. Ashes Ella had learned, during the long years after her father’s death, that there were different kinds of silence. There was the peaceful silence of a house before dawn, when even the mice seemed reluctant to disturb the darkness and she could sit beside the dying kitchen fire with her knees drawn against her chest, warming her hands over the embers and pretending, for perhaps five precious minutes, that the house belonged to no one at all. And then there was the silence that followed the footsteps of Lady Tremaine. That silence was very different. It waited. It listened. And it was rarely kind. “Ella.” She closed her eyes. There it was. “Yes, Stepmother?” Lady Tremaine appeared at the top of the kitchen steps with Anastasia and Drizella behind her, all three already dressed for the evening in silks that seemed particularly unnecessary in a room filled with soot, onions and dripping pans. Lady Tremaine looked at the floor. Then at Ella. Then back at the floor. “You missed a spot.” Ella followed her gaze. “There are several hundred stones in this kitchen.” “And yet,” Lady Tremaine said, “you have somehow managed to leave precisely the one I am looking at dirty.” Drizella laughed. Anastasia lifted her skirts away from the floor. “It smells terrible down here.” “It is a kitchen,” Ella said. Lady Tremaine’s eyebrows rose. Ella lowered her eyes. “It is a kitchen, Stepmother.” “Better.” Drizella leaned over the railing. “Have you heard, Ella?” “Heard what?” “The palace ball.” Anastasia elbowed her. “She knows. Everyone knows.” Ella continued sweeping. “Yes. Everyone knows.” Lady Tremaine descended one step. “Her Royal Highness Princess Aurelia is expected to choose a husband.” Ella stopped. “A husband?” “That is generally what princesses choose.” “I suppose.” Lady Tremaine watched her carefully. “You sound doubtful.” “I don’t know the princess.” “No,” Drizella said. “And the princess certainly does not know you.” The sisters laughed again. Ella pushed the broom slowly across the stone. “And you are going?” “Of course.” Anastasia twirled. “Mama says the princess will notice me.” “No,” Drizella said. “She will notice me.” “The princess is choosing a husband.” Drizella frowned. “Well, then perhaps one of the princes will notice me.” Ella smiled despite herself. Lady Tremaine saw it. “You find something amusing?” “No.” “You were smiling.” “I sometimes do.” “Not tonight.” Lady Tremaine turned toward her daughters. “Come. We have preparations to make.” Ella looked up. “Stepmother?” Lady Tremaine paused. “There was an invitation addressed to the household.” “Yes.” “The entire household.” Lady Tremaine smiled very slightly. “So it was.” Ella’s fingers tightened around the broom. “Then I may go?” Anastasia burst out laughing. Drizella followed. Lady Tremaine waited until they were finished. “If your work is completed.” Ella stared at her. “All of it?” “All of it.” “You have given me three days of work.” “Then you had better hurry.” And with that, the three women disappeared up the stairs. Ella remained alone. She looked at the broom. Then at the mountain of copper pots. Then at the laundry baskets. Then at the vegetables waiting to be peeled. “Of course,” she whispered. She swept harder. But later, when the house had become quiet again and she was sitting beside the hearth with ash on her cheek and exhaustion pulling at every part of her body, she whispered something else into the fire. “I would have liked to see her.” She had seen paintings of Princess Aurelia, naturally. Everyone had. The princess was twenty-eight, three years older than Ella, with long auburn hair, green eyes and the sort of confident expression painters liked to give royalty because royalty rarely had the opportunity to complain about inaccurate portraits. But there had been something else in Aurelia’s face. Something lonely. Ella had noticed it immediately. Perhaps because loneliness recognized itself. “I would have liked,” Ella murmured, “to know whether you really look that sad.” The fire cracked. Ella smiled. “That was foolish.” “Not particularly.” Ella screamed. A woman was standing beside the kitchen door. She appeared to be somewhere past sixty, perhaps older, her silver hair swept back elegantly, her pale robes shimmering as though someone had sewn pieces of the night sky into them. Ella grabbed the broom. “Who are you?” The woman looked at the broom. “Do you intend to defend yourself with that?” “If necessary.” “Excellent.” “Who are you?” “Your godmother.” “My godmother is dead.” “No, dear. Your godmother was extremely irresponsible about correspondence.” Ella stared. The woman smiled. “Shall we go outside?” “Why?” “Because turning pumpkins into carriages is disastrous indoors.” Ella blinked. “What?” II. A Little Magic The garden behind the manor had once belonged to Ella’s mother. Lady Tremaine had allowed it to become wild. Ella preferred it that way. Moonlight lay across the roses, and an enormous pumpkin sat among the vines near the old stone wall. The silver-haired woman pointed at it. “That one.” Ella folded her arms. “You are serious.” “Painfully.” “You are going to turn that pumpkin into a carriage.” “Yes.” “Why?” “So you can go to the ball.” Ella laughed. She could not help it. The woman waited. Ella laughed harder. Finally she wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry.” “Quite all right.” “I look like this.” “Yes.” Ella gestured toward herself. “My dress is torn.” “I noticed.” “I smell like smoke.” “I noticed that too.” “My family has gone without me.” “Also noticed.” “And you intend to solve this with a vegetable.” The woman considered. “When you put it like that, it does sound somewhat ambitious.” Ella sat on the garden wall. “Why are you doing this?” Her godmother’s expression softened. “Because your mother once asked me to look after you.” “She died fourteen years ago.” “I know.” “You took your time.” “I did.” Ella looked away. “That was cruel.” “Yes.” The answer surprised her. Her godmother sat beside her. “I cannot give you back those years, Ella, and I cannot pretend that appearing tonight repairs them, but I can offer you one night in which no one commands you to scrub a floor.” Ella swallowed. “And after tonight?” “After tonight, we shall discuss that.” “You mean there can be an after?” “There is always an after.” Ella looked toward the distant palace, its towers glowing against the night. “What if I don’t belong there?” Her godmother smiled. “My dear girl, half the people in that ballroom will belong there considerably less than you do.” “That is not comforting.” “It wasn’t intended to be.” Ella laughed softly. Her godmother stood. “Now.” She raised one hand. Golden sparks gathered around her fingers. Ella immediately stood as well. “What do I do?” “Try not to panic.” “That is your instruction?” “It has served me surprisingly well.” The light moved. Not downward. Around. It circled Ella’s waist first, warm and weightless, then climbed across her shoulders while her ragged sleeves dissolved into glittering fragments. Ella gasped. “Wait.” “Too late.” “My dress—” “Is appalling.” “It belonged to my mother.” The magic stopped. Her godmother lowered her hand. Ella stared at the brown fabric still clinging to her skirt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. The older woman touched the cloth. “Then we keep part of it.” Ella looked up. The magic began again. This time the brown fabric did not simply vanish; it folded itself beneath layers of silver-blue silk, becoming hidden inside something new. “Your past,” her godmother said quietly, “does not have to disappear merely because your life changes.” Ella could not answer. The gown grew around her like moonlight becoming solid, pale blue and silver, embroidered with tiny sparkling leaves and flowers, while translucent gloves covered her hands and the old shoes upon her feet turned clear as ice. Ella stared down. “Oh.” Her godmother smiled. “Those are glass.” “I noticed.” “Try not to kick anything.” Ella turned slowly. The skirt moved around her. “Is this really me?” “No.” Ella stopped. Her godmother smiled. “This is clothing.” Ella laughed. “You are still you.” A carriage now waited where the pumpkin had been. Ella looked at it. Then at her godmother. “The vegetable.” “Yes.” “You actually did it.” “I told you.” Ella touched the carriage door. “What happens at midnight?” Her godmother’s expression became serious. “The magic ends.” “All of it?” “All of it.” “The carriage?” “Pumpkin.” “The horses?” “Mice.” Ella looked at her shoes. “Glass remains glass.” “That seems inconvenient.” “It frequently is.” Ella took a breath. “And me?” “You remain exactly what you were before.” Ella’s smile faded. Her godmother stepped closer. “No, Ella. That was not an insult.” Ella looked at her. “You remain yourself. And that is the one thing tonight that does not depend upon magic.” III. The Princess Who Did Not Want a Prince Princess Aurelia had danced with seven men by the time Ella arrived. She disliked six of them. The seventh she had forgotten entirely. Her mother, Queen Helena, intercepted her near the musicians. “You are scowling.” “I am smiling.” “That is not your smile.” “It is my diplomatic smile.” “It looks murderous.” “Diplomacy is difficult.” The queen sighed. “Aurelia.” “Mother.” “You must at least try.” “I am trying.” “Prince Frederick says you spoke only twice during your dance.” “He spoke enough for both of us.” “He is handsome.” “So is your horse.” “Aurelia.” “I am not marrying the horse either.” The queen closed her eyes. Aurelia kissed her cheek. “I love you.” “You are impossible.” “I inherited that.” Then the ballroom doors opened. Aurelia turned. And forgot her mother was speaking. Ella stood at the top of the staircase. For several seconds she did not move, because several hundred people had turned to look at her and she suddenly considered throwing herself back into the carriage. Then her eyes found Aurelia. The princess was staring. Not politely. Not curiously. Staring. Ella descended. Aurelia met her before she reached the final step. “Hello.” Ella curtsied. “Your Highness.” “No.” Ella blinked. “No?” “Please don’t do that.” “I thought one was supposed to.” “One is.” “Then why—” “Because if you curtsy again I shall have to remember that I am a princess, and I have been trying very hard to forget.” Ella smiled. Aurelia stared at the smile now. “That is unfair.” “What is?” “You.” Ella’s cheeks warmed. “I haven’t done anything.” “Exactly.” The orchestra began another dance. Aurelia extended her hand. “Dance with me.” Ella looked around. Several nobles were watching. “Should you not dance with one of the princes?” “No.” “That sounded very definite.” “I have spent four hours dancing with princes.” “And?” “I would now like to dance with someone I actually want to touch.” Ella looked at the offered hand. Then took it. Aurelia drew her onto the floor. Ella whispered, “Everyone is staring.” “They always stare.” “At you.” “At us.” “That is worse.” Aurelia smiled. “You may leave if you wish.” Ella met her eyes. “I didn’t say I wished.” “Good.” Aurelia’s hand settled at Ella’s waist. Ella’s breath caught. Aurelia noticed. “Too close?” “No.” “Certain?” Ella stepped fractionally closer. Aurelia smiled. “Very.” They moved together. Ella had danced before, long ago, when her father had still hosted dinners and her mother had been alive, but she had forgotten the strange intimacy of it—the way another person’s movements became instructions without words, the way one hand could say follow me while another answered I trust you. Aurelia leaned nearer. “What is your name?” “Ella.” “Only Ella?” “For tonight.” “That sounds mysterious.” “It isn’t.” “Then tell me something unmysterious.” Ella thought. “I hate turnips.” Aurelia laughed. People looked over. The princess laughed harder. Ella smiled. “You asked.” “I did.” “Your turn.” “I hate balls.” Ella glanced around the enormous ballroom. “That seems inconvenient.” “You have no idea.” “Why have one?” “My mother believes I should marry.” “A prince?” “So I am repeatedly informed.” Ella hesitated. “And do you want to?” Aurelia’s amusement disappeared. “No.” Ella searched her face. “Because you haven’t found the right prince?” Aurelia looked directly at her. “No.” Ella’s heart beat once, hard. “Oh.” Aurelia’s thumb moved gently over Ella’s gloved hand. “Is that a problem?” “No.” “Good.” “No,” Ella repeated, softer. They continued dancing. Eventually Aurelia said, “You keep looking at the clock.” Ella stiffened. “Do I?” “Yes.” “I have somewhere to be.” “After midnight?” “Before.” Aurelia frowned. “That sounds ominous.” “It isn’t.” “Will you tell me?” “I can’t.” Aurelia stopped dancing. People moved around them. Ella whispered, “What are you doing?” “Being difficult.” “I noticed.” “Come outside with me.” “Your Highness—” “Aurelia.” Ella swallowed. “Aurelia.” The princess smiled. “That was worth stopping for.” They slipped through the terrace doors. The music softened behind them. Outside, the palace gardens stretched beneath the moon. Aurelia leaned against the stone balustrade. “I think everyone assumes I am unhappy because I have not selected a husband.” “Are you unhappy?” “Yes.” Ella’s smile vanished. “But not for that reason,” Aurelia added. “Then why?” “Because no one seems interested in asking what I want.” Ella looked down. “I know something about that.” Aurelia studied her. “Who are you, Ella?” Ella’s throat tightened. “Someone you would not have invited.” “I invited three hundred people tonight whom I actively hoped would stay home.” Ella laughed despite herself. “I mean it.” “So do I.” Aurelia came closer. “You think I care about your family name?” “You might care about my lack of one.” “I doubt it.” “You say that now.” “I am usually irritatingly consistent.” Ella looked into those green eyes. “You hardly know me.” “Then stay.” “I can’t.” “Tomorrow.” “I don’t know.” “The next day.” “Aurelia—” “Next week.” Ella smiled sadly. “You negotiate badly.” “I am desperate.” The clock began to strike. One. Ella froze. “No.” Aurelia frowned. “What?” Two. Ella gathered her skirts. “I have to go.” “What?” Three. “Now.” Aurelia caught her hand. “Ella.” “I’m sorry.” Four. “Tell me where to find you.” “I can’t.” “Why?” Five. “Because this isn’t mine.” Aurelia stared at her gown. “What does that mean?” Six. Ella pulled away. “It means you met someone tonight who doesn’t exist.” Aurelia followed. “That is nonsense.” Seven. Ella ran. “Ella!” Eight. She reached the staircase. Nine. The first edge of magic began breaking into sparks along her glove. Ten. She hurried downward. Eleven. One shoe slipped from her foot. It struck the marble step behind her. Ella turned. Aurelia was halfway down the staircase. For one impossible second they looked at each other. Twelve. “Ella!” But Ella was gone. Aurelia reached the bottom. The carriage disappeared beyond the gates. She looked down. A single glass slipper rested on the step. The queen approached slowly. “Aurelia?” Aurelia picked it up. Her mother looked at her face. “Oh dear.” “I am going to find her.” “Aurelia—” “I am going to find her.” “With a shoe?” “With whatever I have.” IV. The Search By noon the next day, every unmarried young woman in the capital had apparently developed precisely the same shoe size. By evening, Aurelia had become suspicious. On the second day, she became openly hostile. On the third, she told the captain of the guard that if one more woman attempted to butter her foot before trying the slipper, she would abdicate. Then they reached Lady Tremaine’s house. Aurelia entered the drawing room carrying the slipper herself. Lady Tremaine curtsied deeply. “Your Highness.” “Madam.” “My daughters have been beside themselves with anticipation.” “I imagine.” Anastasia tried first. The slipper did not fit. Drizella tried next. It fit even less. Aurelia exhaled. “Thank you.” Lady Tremaine smiled. “Of course.” Aurelia turned toward the door. Then she stopped. There was ash on the floor near the kitchen corridor. She looked at it. “Who else lives here?” Lady Tremaine’s face changed. “No one.” Aurelia turned. “I did not ask whether anyone else wished to marry me.” Lady Tremaine stiffened. “I asked who lives here.” “My servant.” Aurelia’s heart began to beat faster. “Bring her.” “That would hardly be appropriate.” “Bring her.” Lady Tremaine hesitated. Aurelia looked toward the guard. “Or I can search the house.” “No.” The answer came too quickly. Aurelia smiled without warmth. “Bring her.” Ella entered several minutes later. She wore her brown servant dress. Her hands were red from washing. There was ash on her cheek. Aurelia forgot to breathe. Ella stopped. Neither spoke. Lady Tremaine looked between them. “Your Highness?” Aurelia whispered, “You.” Ella’s eyes filled. “Aurelia.” Lady Tremaine went pale. The princess crossed the room. “You said you didn’t exist.” Ella laughed through sudden tears. “I was having a difficult evening.” “I have searched half the kingdom.” “I’m sorry.” “You left me with a shoe.” “I’m very sorry.” “A shoe, Ella.” “I lost it.” “I noticed.” Aurelia held it up. Ella laughed. And Aurelia, who had spent three days imagining every possible speech she might give when she found the mysterious woman from the ball, forgot every word. Instead she said, “May I kiss you?” Lady Tremaine gasped. Ella stared. Aurelia immediately added, “You can say no.” Ella stepped closer. “You spent three days looking for me.” “Yes.” “With a shoe.” “Yes.” “You danced with me once.” “Yes.” “And now you want to kiss me.” “Very much.” Ella smiled. “That seems reckless.” “I have been told I am difficult.” “I noticed.” “Ella.” “Yes?” “Kiss me.” So she did. Not because a slipper fit. Not because magic had transformed anything. Not because a princess had rescued a servant. Ella kissed Aurelia because she wanted to, because Aurelia’s hands trembled when they touched her waist, because neither woman pretended not to know exactly what the moment meant, and because after years of being ordered where to stand, what to wear, when to speak and how loudly she was permitted to laugh, choosing whom she loved felt like the most astonishing freedom of all. When they finally separated, Aurelia rested her forehead against Ella’s. “You are coming with me.” Ella raised an eyebrow. “That sounded suspiciously like an order.” Aurelia winced. “Would you please come with me?” “Better.” “To the palace?” “Yes.” “Today?” “Yes.” Ella looked at Lady Tremaine. Then at the kitchen. Then back at Aurelia. “I need to pack.” Aurelia glanced at Ella’s dress. “How much?” “Very little.” “Excellent.” Lady Tremaine found her voice. “You cannot simply take her.” Ella turned. For years she had feared that voice. Now, strangely, she did not. “She isn’t taking me.” Lady Tremaine stared. “I’m leaving.” “You belong to this household.” “No.” Ella smiled. “I never did.” V. After Midnight There were no trumpets when Ella returned to the palace. She insisted on that. There was no announcement. No grand procession. No proclamation that a poor servant had captured the heart of a princess. Aurelia had suggested all three. Ella had threatened to go home. Aurelia abandoned the idea immediately. Instead, the following morning, they walked together through the palace gardens while the sun rose above the towers. Aurelia carried the glass slipper. Ella eyed it suspiciously. “Why do you still have that?” “I like it.” “It nearly broke my neck.” “It brought me to you.” “You found me because there was ash on a floor.” Aurelia considered. “That is less romantic.” “It is more accurate.” They stopped beneath an arch covered in roses. Aurelia held out the slipper. “Do you want it?” Ella took it. For a while she simply stared at the transparent shoe resting in her palm. Then she looked up. “No.” Aurelia blinked. “No?” Ella placed it on the stone balustrade. “I think I have had enough magic.” Aurelia stepped closer. “And princesses?” Ella smiled. “I have not decided.” “That is alarming.” “You may have to persuade me.” Aurelia placed one hand at Ella’s waist. “I am prepared to dedicate myself to the task.” Ella laughed. “You are impossible.” “You said that yesterday.” “I expect to say it frequently.” “Good.” Aurelia leaned closer. “Ella?” “Yes?” “I do not want you here because I found your slipper.” “I know.” “I do not want gratitude.” “I know.” “I don’t want you to believe you owe me anything.” “I know.” Aurelia hesitated. “What do you want?” Ella looked at the palace behind her, at the gardens, at the distant city, and then finally at the woman standing before her. “You.” Aurelia became very still. Ella touched her cheek. “I want mornings when nobody tells me where I’m allowed to sit. I want a room with a lock I control. I want books. I want to learn things. I want to plant my mother’s roses somewhere they won’t be neglected.” “We have fifty-seven gardeners.” “I want to do it myself.” “They will be devastated.” “They’ll recover.” Aurelia smiled. “And?” Ella’s voice softened. “And I want you.” “Good.” “That sounded very princess-like.” “Sorry.” Ella kissed her. When they separated, Aurelia whispered, “Marry me.” Ella stared at her. “What?” Aurelia’s eyes widened. “That was too soon.” “Very.” “I knew it as I was saying it.” “We have known each other for four days.” “Technically five.” “That does not improve your argument.” “I can wait.” “You had better.” “How long?” Ella laughed. “Aurelia.” “A year?” “We will see.” “Six months?” “You are negotiating again.” “I told you I was desperate.” Ella wrapped both arms around her. “Ask me after I’ve discovered all the terrible things about you.” Aurelia thought. “I steal blankets.” “Appalling.” “I dislike pears.” “Unforgivable.” “I occasionally speak in my sleep.” “What do you say?” “My maid claims I once threatened Denmark.” Ella burst out laughing. Aurelia smiled. “There. Now you know the worst.” “I doubt that.” “So do I.” Ella looked toward the glass slipper sitting in the morning sunlight. For years afterward, people told the story incorrectly. They said the princess had searched the kingdom for the mysterious woman whose foot fit a magical slipper. They said destiny had brought them together. They said Ella had been rescued. Ella always objected to that part. “No,” she would say, whenever someone repeated it in her presence. “Aurelia found me. There is a difference.” And if Aurelia happened to be nearby, she would invariably add: “She also left me with only one shoe.” To which Ella would answer: “You survived.” “Barely.” “You had an entire palace.” “I was heartbroken.” “For three days.” “They were exceptionally long days.” And then, sooner or later, Aurelia would pull her close, Ella would pretend to protest, and whatever argument they had been having would end precisely the way most of their arguments did—with laughter, a kiss, and the comfortable certainty that neither of them was going anywhere. The glass slipper remained in the palace. Not locked inside a treasury. Not displayed beneath glass. It sat on a shelf in the private rooms Ella and Aurelia eventually shared, beside books, letters, dried roses, and all the ordinary evidence of a life built deliberately rather than magically. Only one slipper. Because the other had disappeared when the enchantment ended. And Ella rather liked it that way. A perfect pair would have suggested the story had been inevitable. It had not been. They had chosen it. And that, Ella thought, was considerably better than magic.