Soot and Slipper

PREFACE

Does the world need another Cinderella retelling? In a nutshell, no. But sometimes we do things because they’re fun, not because they’re necessary.

Six months ago, I’d have laughed if someone suggested I write an adaptation of this particular tale. With countless variations of it already in print and film, I didn’t see a gap that would require my creative fingerprint to fill. Then five months ago, I stumbled across an angle that intrigued. The more I explored the idea, the more it captivated me. At the time, I needed something light and fluffy and whimsical to write. This pet project, as it were, fulfilled that need admirably.

Cinderella is the brain candy of literature. Everyone knows the set-up and the basic plot progression. We come to any retelling with predefined expectations, and how far the story strays from its original pattern—or from our original perception of it—depends largely on the genre and setting in which its new form occurs.

I chose the traditional route. Charles Perrault’s telling provides the base of this novella, although my narrator does a couple of literary hat-tips to the Brothers Grimm (if you can find them). My heroine is optimism personified. Her circumstances are roughly what you would expect… and roughly not. The variations arose from questions that the original tale left me unanswered.

In paying homage to my primary source, I drew upon French influences for atmosphere, with a smattering of Italian, Celtic, and Greek added to the mix. Nevertheless, this is a fantasy world. Although it may reflect familiar patterns, it also runs according to its own rules.

Many thanks to my critique partners, Jill Burgoyne and Rachel Collett, who countenanced this fanciful detour from the novel I was supposed to be working on; to my mom, Edith, who egged me on after I let her read the first ten pages; to my ANWA chapter mates who provided excellent feedback on a pivotal scene; and to God, who showed me how to love writing again.

Even literary fluff can be instructive.

So here’s my take on the well-known theme of ashes and an infamous glass shoe. I hope you enjoy reading it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

K.S.

March 2019

1

ONLY A PARTY

Eugenie only wanted to go to a party.

It didn’t seem like a lot to ask, but the dying light in her stepmother’s eyes said otherwise. Marielle blinked, a rapid reaction to mask her welling tears. When she looked away to the wall with her bottom lip caught between her teeth, Eugenie knew it was too much.

She should have squelched the desire.

I suppose, Marielle started after a weighty swallow, but her throat choked on anything further. Eugenie crushed her worn apron in clenched fingers, the magnitude of her frivolity striking her in full. In reaction to her dismay, Marielle grasped her wrist with one small hand.

She ducked her head into Eugenie’s view—not a difficult task, given her petite stature. "It’s not that I don’t want you to go. It’s just⁠—"

The money, Eugenie finished for her.

Marielle’s brows arched, and her feathery voice vaulted into childlike pitches. No! That is, yes, but not how you think. It’s just… this is their chance, Florelle and Aurielle, their chance to mingle with their peers without any stigma of poverty clinging to them. It’s not that I don’t want you to go, but you’re so beautiful, and they’re…

Not.

She didn’t say the word, and guilt flashed across her face, that she could speak of her own children so unfavorably. But she was right. Florelle and Aurielle didn’t take after their delicate mother in anything more than stature. They inherited much clumsier features from their father, the late Baron Lavande. His portrait hung in the family gallery—not in a place of prominence, as that would be inappropriate—and every time Eugenie gazed upon the hooked nose she could see Florelle, and the deep-set eyes were Aurielle’s own. Their mouths, wide and thin-lipped, bore no resemblance to the puckered rosebud before her now, and their hair hung limp in shades of mouse-brown instead of their mother’s lustrous silver-blonde.

It wasn’t the younger Elles’ fault that they inherited such strong features. Still in the bloom of youth, they were pretty in their own ways, just not according to current social preferences. A masquerade would conceal those surface flaws and allow others to see them as they truly were.

Which wasn’t… great, but at least they wouldn’t have any aesthetic judgements working against them.

Don’t you see, Eugenie? her stepmother asked, her voice warbling as she teetered close to tears. Once you reach your majority, everything here is completely yours alone. You can cast us all out on the streets if you wish⁠—

I would never⁠—!

She silenced the girl’s protest with a forbearing smile. Of course you say that now, but things change. If you marry, you would want to live here with your husband, and he might not like three extra women underfoot. My daughters and I have nothing to call our own, nothing beyond the small allowance their father left for them, which is hardly enough to live on, as you know.

Eugenie swallowed the rising lump in her throat. A fortune awaited her, a fortune that her stepmother refused to touch. Her stepsisters had gone to finishing school on the remnants of their father’s wasted estates, pinning their matrimonial hopes on acquiring as much gentility as they could. They returned with social graces and affectations, eager to please any prospective husband with their twittering laughs and fluttering lashes.

Marielle’s smile faded as her eyes became distant. If either one of them can find a husband thanks to these masquerades, all our futures will be secure. As long as… don’t take this the wrong way, Eugenie. As long as the gentleman doesn’t develop a preference for you instead.

Eugenie blushed to the roots of her golden hair, her face afire. Any man who would transfer his affections based on looks wasn’t worth having. And if he transferred them after already engaging himself to another, doubly so.

Her disappointment retreated behind a mask of false good cheer. I don’t have to go. It was only a whim. Of course I’ll stay home.

Her stepmother tempered her relief with regret. I’m so sorry. We’ll make it up to you, somehow. And she squeezed Eugenie’s hand in reassurance before releasing her again. Her attention shifted to the piles of yellow satin and iridescent gauze upon the work table. The costumes are coming along beautifully.

Eugenie’s nerves bubbled up her throat in an anemic chuckle. I’m only working with your old dresses. Sun, moon, and stars. If you’re not careful, you might steal away their suitors yourself.

Marielle’s laugh tinkled like a small, silver bell. As long as he’s rich, it doesn’t matter.

The words twisted her stepdaughter’s heart. That a lady of title and refinement should be reduced to such mercenary ambitions⁠—

But such it was. Marielle had neither skill nor stamina to earn her own living and remained at the mercy of social standards she didn’t create.

And the best Eugenie could do was support her.

So she would continue to sew and alter and embroider, and when the grand evening arrived, she would stay home.

Even though she wanted more than anything in the world to go.

2

MISCHIEF SPARKED

The carriage rattled past the manor gates, teetering as it settled into the worn wheel tracks on the main road. Within, three elegantly dressed silhouettes leaned close, chattering their excitement to one another. The piercing sun, low in the sky, illuminated them through the back window.

They didn’t even glance behind them. The carriage passed beyond sight, and Eugenie’s shoulders drooped on a sigh.

Why did she always linger to watch them leave? They never turned to wave that one last farewell. She hugged her arms close, staving off the inevitable disappointment.

Her father used to wave half a dozen times between the house and the posts that marked the estate boundaries. He would pause to blow kisses and shout for her to behave.

A piece of her heart had died with him four years ago. It wasn’t the Elles’ responsibility to revive it, yet still she waited on the manor steps every single time they left.

In resignation, she turned her back on the sunset and trudged to the garden, weary to her very bones. The past five days had been nothing but sewing, from early in the morning to late at night. The Elles had even taken over kitchen duties so she could stay on task—a mixed blessing, as none of them could cook.

She should make herself a proper meal tonight, but it wasn’t worth the effort. They would eat at the masquerade, and she could make do with whatever scraps she could glean from the kitchen. Despondency had withered her appetite anyway.

With another sigh she plopped onto a stone bench and lay flat, its residual summer warmth pressing through the back of her worn cotton dress.

It’s no use getting depressed, Eugenie, she said aloud, staring up at the slate-colored clouds against the orange sky. You couldn’t have made another costume even if Marielle had said you could go.

Her fingertips ached in response, raw from all the beading and stitching she had accomplished in such a short time. The other noble houses would have hired seamstresses, but the House of Pluterra had no such funds to spare. Eugenie, the only one with any practical sewing skills, had been making their clothes ever since her stepmother discovered that she liked such needlework. What had started as a mere hobby while she recovered from an extended illness became almost an occupation.

But it was fine. The Elles had their fashionable clothes, and Eugenie avoided any guilt that her father had left the whole of his estate to her and only a small remembrance to each of them.

Even so, three full costumes in only five days was really too much. The palace should have given more notice that they were reviving the old tradition of weekend masquerades.

She shut her eyes as the vermillion sky transitioned to indigo darkness. If the Elles wanted to attend more than one masquerade, she needed to start a new set of costumes now. They were the sun, moon, and stars tonight—Solella, Lunella, and Astrella, she had gleefully announced as she presented them with the finished ensembles.

Florelle had pounced on the golden, frothy confection with its sparkling mask, and Aurielle snatched up the silver one. Their mother, with a faint smile at her lips, accepted the dark, spangled dress her daughters had bypassed. Everything went exactly as Eugenie had predicted. Her stepsisters preferred flashy colors, but the starry dress was the prettiest of the group.

Much like Marielle.