Ellacinder

“Char?”

“What mother?” I called.

“Are you ready yet?”

I looked down at the restrictive blood-red dress, laced as tight as possible, and wondered about the word ‘ready’. Was anyone ever ready for anything? Would my mother blame me if I never left this room, ever, in anticipation of what was about to happen to me? Would she even protest if my father decided to have me dragged out by palace guards? Would anyone care if I was paraded out in front of the world as a desirable asset to any young prince?

I laughed at myself.

Of course they wouldn’t. Nobody cared. They simply wanted an efficient male heir to the throne, and if auctioning off their ‘beloved’ princess was the easiest way to do so, then let it be done.

Let it be done.

“Ready,” I replied, then whispered to myself, “As I’ll ever be…”

“Oh, Charlotte, you look lovely,” mother crooned as I appeared.

All the better to entice you with…

“A princess Charming, if there ever was one,” she continued, “Now come along, dear…”

No, I am not Prince Charming. I am Cinderella, enslaved to her country. Be realistic – princes don’t need to be auctioned off. They find a princess fast enough and even if they don’t love her, they’re allowed mistresses. No, it’s me, the female, who cannot have a hand in her own affairs.

As we crossed the gallery I caught a glimpse of the hall below; between marble arches and flowing curtains were amassed nearly a hundred men, all surveying the rest with an imperial eye, summing up their chances, practising their soliloquy’s. I forced my gaze away.

Trumpets called a fanfare. Doors were flung open. I descended the stairs.

Staring is impolite, correct? Well, rules are made to be broken after all, I mused, as eyes span to the stairs.

“Charlotte, meet a few of their gazes,” mother hissed softly, as she noticed my down-turned gaze.

Haughty, I lifted my head and set my lips.

The few gazes I met broke into self-contented smiles.

The thrones were set upon a raised platform, gazing down upon a slightly lower platform, upon which was set two more gilt chairs nestled together, conspiring against me already. My father led me to one, and so the pointless introductions began.

“Your eyes are such a gorgeous colour, my lady.”

All the better to see you with.

“Hair that burns like fire, m’lady, you are most blessed…”

All the better to burn you with.

“Your voice lilts like some stolen angelic melody…”

All the better to curse you with.

“Your hands…”

All the better to strike you with.

“Your mouth…”

All the better to bite you with.

Words began to melt into insignificance, my gaze resting upon nothing but a blur of changing faces, my thoughts fading into nothing, echoing only the same words again and again. A pleasure to meet you… a pleasure to meet you…

In search of some reason to continue to exist, I looked up to the gallery, invoking God. And there my gaze was transfixed with a singular sight. A pair of eyes so clear and lucid they burned into my own with an aggressive ferocity. Their heat kindled some kind of curious fire in my chest, and I found myself unable to look away.

“M’lady?” inquired a far-away voice, “Princess?”

A hand touched my own and startled, I looked down. The suitor grimaced and removed his hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, m’lady,” he said, leaving graciously.

Relinquished from obligation for a second, I looked back up at the gallery, but found no one there. The fire kindled in my chest remained though and I felt a sudden grief at being unable to name the pair of eyes which had so captured my attention.

Throughout that week the eyes haunted me. As I slept they newly branded themselves onto my eyelids, so that every time I closed my eyes they appeared again. When I attempted to fathom the face they had resided in, my memory failed me, and only a vague male figure hovered elusively out of the corner of my eye. The fire in my chest remained, lulling to a soft warmth which resided close against my throat and heart.

Unnaturally, I found myself willing the dates to fly by, in order to reach the second ball. I could not contemplate the thought that those eyes might not grace me with their gaze again.

The evening of the second ball brought piece of parchment fluttering through my window, the gust of wind dying as soon as its passenger was deposited by my bed. Curious, and driven not-a-little frantic by the eyes which still taunted my dreams, I opened the parchment.

To the owner of the piercing blue eyes, it read.

A glance in the mirror placed my claim on the spidery writing.

I unfolded the parchment to find, not further writing, but a drawing, of two eyes staring out of the paper. It was a perfect rendition of my own, the thin scar above my right eyebrow confirmed my suspicions.

I was burning with the fear that I wouldn’t find him in the room when I entered.

A ball is not a ball without dancing, or so my mother claimed. Whilst I searched the hall for those eyes which had bewitched me my hand passed from partner to partner, unconsciously tracing the ritual steps back and forth. My heart nearly failed me when I saw him leaning against a marble pillar across the room.

Star struck, I drank in his gaze, the soft warmth in my chest roaring to a fire once more.

“Milady?” asked my partner, unsure of what to do.

My sight was once more wrenched from the eyes which had taunted my subconscious throughout the week.

“I’m sorry,” I faltered, “I just felt a little dizzy.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No, I-”

A hand rested lightly on the bare skin above my glove, tracing a subtle line to my shoulder.

“Might I cut in?” asked a bewitching tone.

I glanced upwards in surprise from the hand on my shoulder to its owner.

Reason left me.

“Perhaps you’d like to wait-”

“Yes,” I breathed, unaware that my partner had spoken.

Dancing had never made so much sense until that moment.

Only when you are truly infatuated with your partner to you feel the full effects of a dance. The bewitching touch of palm against palm, the grief in loosing its touch, even for a moment to another, the empty space closing step by step, bringing him inches away, only to spin away again into the arms of another... There was something deliciously exquisite in its torture. The dance finished, fingers entwined, the tip of his nose hovering inches from mine – I felt my heart faltering at his proximity.

Then his fingers eased from mine and he disappeared.

The next week could not have passed more slowly. My dreams were invaded again, yet this time his presence was torturing close, his eyes still unblinking, latched on mine.

My mother smiled at me, believing herself clued in to my bewitchment, claiming to my father that I’d been caught by one of the princes. But no introduction had been made to the object of my attention – a lack of royal blood? Undoubtedly he would not be approved of by my parents.

The night before the final ball brought a second drawing fluttering through my window, this time of my entire face, haloed in the characteristic flying-wild flames of my hair. I took out the first drawing from its hiding place under a false bottom in my jewellery box and compared the two; certainly the same hand had drawn them. Was it his? He had never mentioned it…

In fact, I’d only ever heard him speak four words together.

That evening I scoured every face for those clear eyes, but none were seen. My mother noted my ‘disappointment’ and an epiphany told her that I must be in love with the Prince of Italy, for he was vacant due to a cold. But something darker burned in my chest now; the desire to disappoint my parents. I wanted this man because he obviously had no connections. He who had bewitched me so wholeheartedly with his terrifying eyes… I wanted him with every last fibre of my being.

It wasn’t love. It was lust.

I bore out the evening, wary only of the lack of those eyes I’d languished so much time on these past two weeks. I wished my parents goodnight, pretended to sleep but, fresh with the wish to rebel, climbed out of the window instead. I’d always been provided with a very easy route out of my bedroom; my father, constantly worried that fires would spring up outside the very doors of our rooms, had ordered that balconies with ladders be built outside every window. Naturally, our home being a palace, the ladders were built into elegant swirling structures that climbed like dull-shone metal vines to frame the multiple windows.

Something in my mind bid me wander farther than ever before. I surpassed my most recent excursion to the gardens’ extravagant gate, climbed over a lower part of the wall and went further than I’d had means to see, past the horizon’s hill ledge and into the forest I’d always been forbidden to enter. The darkness crept in close, claustrophobic and uncomfortable; completely wrong for a princess…

It was liberating.

I took a deep breath of stale air and revelled in the mud which had sucked up my silk shoes. Harsh pine needles rasped at my face and bare lower arms, twisting into my hair and snagging my dress. Then, ahead, moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the surroundings in a surreal landscape of black and white. A far-off figure stood by the side of a small lake, tossing pebbles onto the still water.

My instinct whispered to me to turn. Curiosity spoke louder.

I brushed aside branch after branch until I stood at the side of the clearing, still embedded in pine in an attempt to hide from sight. The green silk of my dress wasn’t exactly pine coloured, but the dark should have concealed me.

Should.

A twig snapped under my weight.

He reacted, suddenly disappearing from the lakeside into the surrounding foliage. I sighed, disappointed yet relieved at the same time.

“Now why is a princess wandering the woods alone, at night?” asked a soft voice, breath caressing my ear. Shock ran through my body at his obvious proximity, parallelises rooting me to the spot. Unable to speak or move I concentrated on breathing. A finger traced the line of my jaw, turning my head towards his. Piercing eyes met my own. Bewitching eyes. Eyes which hovered centimetres from mine.

“Well?” he asked, his breath now cool against my face.

“I could ask the same of you,” I replied.

A slow smile curled across his face.

“Well, I was musing about someone I met two weeks ago,” he answered, “Yourself?”

“Just walking,” I mumbled, my breath becoming uneven.

“Just walking,” he repeated, “Nice night for it.”

“Who-” I began.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he cut in, “It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I laughed, “It’s just a forest.”

The look on his face told me how wrong I was.

“No, I’ll take you,” he said as I began to move.

“Walk with me if you will,” I replied, thankful for the company.

“Do I need your permission?” he asked, a mischievous twinkle alighting in his eyes.

“Well, no, but…”

He laughed at my answer and set off back the way I had come. Our walk seemed too brief for comfort and few words were exchanged but something kept me self-conscious throughout, hyper-aware of every step I took. As we reached the walls, he turned left to reach the gate. I thought suddenly of the nightwatch.

“No,” I whispered, reaching out for his hand.

He looked down surprised for a moment at the contact, then up at me, a questioning look playing across his light features.

“The guard,” I explained.

He nodded, and followed me right towards the lowest part in the wall, which I’d first traversed to get out. I faltered when we reached it, aware of how unladylike I would look attempting to scramble over it, as I had done before.

“Shall I?” he asked, after a moment, to my relief.

I nodded, and he easily pulled himself up. Once he was straddling the wall he reached down for my hand. Thankfully, the wall was rough and filled with notches where the soft sandstone had worn away, so I managed without falling back down.

“Dresses seem to be more inhibiting than I thought,” he commented, as I struggled to right my petticoats.

“Well, I could hardly wear a shirt and trousers,” I replied sardonically.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he replied.

He saw the unbelieving scowl which had taken home upon my unsuspecting features, “If you wanted to…”

“I’m sure my parents would be overjoyed,” I commented.

We traversed the rose garden in quiet, reaching the winding metal of the fire stair in silence. As I looked up to the billowing curtains of my room I thought back to the notes which had flown in through my window.

“Would you – would you wait here a moment?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied, curious.

I retrieved the drawings from my jewellery box. Once back at the bottom of the stairs I passed them to him wordlessly. He smiled before he'd even taken them.

“Do you like them?” he asked, unfolding one.

“They’re beautiful,” I replied, breathless.

“Well, you’re in them,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant – it’s just – you’re a very good drawer…” I stopped, aware of his eyes on my face, which was fast growing to match the roses.

“No, it’s what I meant,” he replied softly, reaching out to brush away an errant curl resting over my eye. His proximity, the touch of his fingers still resting against my throat and ear, the panic of my irrational heartbeat, my ragged breathing; all combined to eradicate my usual sensibility… As he leaned forward I couldn’t help but receive his kiss.

* * *

At first it wasn’t love. But it grew into it.

My mother soon gave up on the Prince of Italy after I visibly snubbed him in front of the Embassy. My father resigned himself to my never marrying after I snubbed the one-hundredth-and-seventy-eighth suitor he had presented to me. A year and three months after I had first met him, my prince charming rode through the palace gates and presented himself to my parents as a prince of a little-known principality, seeking my hand in marriage. My parents, overjoyed to find someone who actually wanted to attempt marrying me, after the rumours of my frigidity had spread so wide, presented him to me.

I accepted him without a backwards glance.