Stepmama swept from the buggy with the aid of their only footman, much like a reigning queen. Ha. In Stepmama's wildest dreams. Her nose, long and crooked, made for a less-than-attractive sight. The deep furrows in her forehead reflected blatant narrow-mindedness, and the bitter lines about her mouth aged her more than her actual years.
Papa must truly have loved her. They'd married when Cinderella was but a child of three. A feat she still struggled to comprehend. Why else would he have married her?
Anonymity provided decent cover for Cinderella's true feelings as her eyes followed the procession of her vicious stepsisters. She cast a quick glance to Marcel. He gave her an encouraging nod.
Having suffered at their hands for many years, Cinderella knew when to speak and when to hold her tongue. Now that she and her sisters were at the marriageable ages of seventeen and eighteen, Cinderella hugged a spark of hope with the advantage of her own little secret.
Prince Charming of Chalmers Kingdom was in love with her.
"Marcel," she gasped, "Hide!" With a tiny mew he fled beneath the baseboard. Cinderella backed from the window and donned her most earnest and heartfelt expression as her family barged through the door. "Was the ball just wonderful?" She gushed. Ugh. But survival remained vital in this quaint cottage. So if she must gush, then gush she would.
"Of course, Cinderella." Amazing how Pricilla and Esmeralda could spat in unison like rusted, cringing door hinges.
"Until that mysterious princess showed up," Pricilla bit out.
Cinderella swallowed. "Mysterious princess?" It came out similar to Marcel's squeak.
"Once she showed up, the prince ceased his search toward any other marriageable prospects." Esmeralda sniffed, tossing her head of copper curls.
Cinderella mustered a mask of practiced blankness. Excruciating as it would be, she must languish through the next hour if she had any hope of learning what had happened after her departure. As expected, Pricilla and Esmeralda droned on with mundane descriptions on the varying dresses and ballroom decorations. She picked up a dust cloth and swiped the already spotless bookshelves. A shame she possessed not enough skills to redirect the conversation to Prince and the monopolization of his "mysterious princess."
She stifled the many urges to roll her eyes as they prattled on. Well, she had asked, had she not? She deserved the torture, she supposed with an inward sigh, having let curiosity get the better of her. Still, Cinderella struggled to repress the impulse to spill her secret, but experience had given her the gift of patience.
"What is with you, Cinderella?" Stepmama's gaze narrowed with penetrating suspicion and undisguised curiosity.