Mistress Tremaine

Summer

Extravagant silk pooled around my ankles in the most feminine fashion as I stepped from an old, well-used carriage. The smell of rusted bronze trimming danced around me in a light breeze, raising the hair on my exposed neck and rustling my pinned hair.  A footman gently held my gloved hand in attempted assistance, but I snatched it from him, suddenly irritated. Quick apologies spewed from his mouth, doing little to hearten my dampened mood.  

I walked ahead, just as I had been taught to decades ago, with my shoulders back, spine straight, and chin high. A woman, and most especially a lady, must always carry herself with a sense of dignity and poise, even when carrying the heavy burden of grief.  

Dignity and poise. The words rang throughout my head as I continued my journey up a stone walkway that led to what was supposed to be my new home. The change of scenery seemed to be of little consequence to my daughters Anastasia and Drizella. They stumbled behind me, their obnoxious laughter and snide remarks towards the working staff of the chateau bearing great indication towards their entitlement and ignorance of the world. My mouth pulled tight at the edges, my face flushing at their remarks.  

Shame flooded through my body, twisting my stomach into knots and causing my legs to stiffen. Nevertheless, my posture never wavered, even as I stepped through the threshold of the grand home. An innocent smile of a child greeted me, her head a mop of blonde curls that cascaded down her back.  

I frowned, looking to my newly wedded partner beside the girl. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”  

Autumn

Screaming, I threw an empty vase against the hearth, reveling in the explosion of shattering porcelain. Fire danced in the brick flue, reacting to the moving air it was meant to breathe. The contrast between the two scenes was almost laughable, but my rage was brighter than a forest succumbed to orange flames. Yes, fire could be gentle and warm, but it was also capable of unleashing chaos.  

Ella, the only piece of my late husband I had left, stared around the doorway to what was now my bedroom. Her mourning soul reflected my own, her eyes being the only ones to truly understand my anguish.  

“Is there anything I can do to help you through this?” she asked, her voice hoarse from what had to be crying. She was very quiet and couldn’t meet my eye.  

Rationally, I knew that she needed someone to cry on just as much as I did. Her father and my husband, a man whom we’d both loved with all we had, was suddenly and viciously ripped from us without so much as a goodbye. Despite this, my voice spoke of its own accord.  

“Get out.” I didn’t look up from my place on the floor, but I knew she was hurt by the words. Softly, she walked away. Her steps seemed hesitant at first, but as she moved, they gradually became heavier. As the sound faded away, I knew that she had to be running.  

The rest of my body sunk to the floor, dignity having been long forgotten. I curled around myself, choking on tears. Everything shook, making it hard to breathe. Devastating, convulsing sobs push their way from my mouth before I could think to stifle them, my heart pouring every piece of wretched, grief-stricken emotion I’ve ever felt out into the world.  

Poets often speak of pain and tragedy, but never do they explain how one is meant to pick themselves up after they fall. I suppose the descent is often easier to express, for great heroes die like stars. But what they don’t talk about is what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been stabbed through the heart, but survive the steel scraping the organ. What do you do when you’re expected to get back up?  

Winter  

I found myself slipping farther and farther from sanity as time passed. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. It all passed quickly I noticed, but each individual day progressed agonizingly slow. Ongoing insomnia enhanced my irritability and my body ached in the strangest of places. I soon found that socializing was beyond exhausting, so most of my time was spent in the massive chateau my husband left me, my only company being his ghost.  

Since dismissing the working members of the household, Ella was scarcely seen. She ran to and fro about the space, maintaining the house as best she could with nothing but elbow grease and her bare hands. She managed to put aside her grief while she worked, and she took demands without the slightest hint of frustration or anger.  

Somehow, her calm angered me. Ruthlessly, I commanded her to complete the most overwhelming amount of work. Whether I wanted her to scream, fight, or simply leave, I didn’t know. Day after merciless day, I howled at her. I called her the most hideous names and mocked her pain. I knew that I was being cruel, but I had lost the ability to care. Despite this, never once did she complain or show that she was upset. She would smile, and simply say, “As you wish, Madame.”  

Even the day she ran away, the only reaction she would give me was a smile. She had mounted her horse in the middle of a blizzard, tears trailing down her ash-streaked face. With bloodied hands from cleaning up broken glass and a dirt stained gown, she rode hard into the distance, crying the name she had been reduced to: Cinderella.  

Spring

The entire town was in an uproar. Seamstresses bounced around their shops, reveling in the surplus of business that had been provided by the grace of the King. Streets swarmed with bustling people, each one making haste to prepare for the upcoming event. The King had not only declared that there will be a ball held at the palace for the prince to find a suiter, but that there was an open invitation to every maiden in the kingdom.  

My girls squealed with excitement over the news, and for once, I agreed with the sentiment. If one of them, and it was a long shot that it would be, were able to snag the prince, then they would be saved from the squaller that my husband’s death had reduced us to. We would no longer be eating scraps. We could hold parties again. I just might be able to manage an estate for myself, never having to worry about my children having a roof over their heads.  

The days preceding the ball were a blur, but I can recount that they were some of the most exciting of my life. The girls finished last minute touches to their hair and gowns, and my heart welled up with pride as they descended the stairs and met with me in the parlor.  

“Oh, my beautiful babies,” I sighed, fanning my face with my hand to keep from crying. “I never thought I’d see you both dressed this extravagant again. Since your stepfather’s passing, I had begun to worry that you wouldn’t be able to live the life of luxury you deserve. I-,” my was cut off at the sight of a third body coming into the parlor.  

She held up a hand, silencing my rising questions. “It cost you nothing,” she said in a reassuring tone. “This dress used to be my mother’s. I’ve taken it up, and with it being the finest gown I own, I would very much like to wear it to the ball tonight.”  

She grinned, and for the first time in months, there was hope in her eyes. Now that I saw her, I noticed that she held herself differently then she had been. Her head was up and not once did her gaze fall to the floor. She assumed a confident posture and her complexation seemed to glow. Though the pale salmon fabric that hung from her shoulders didn’t flatter her much, it was easy to see why she was known through the town as an angel. She was truly one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen.  

My eyes narrowed at her, gaze distrusting. “For what reason do you wish to attend the ball? Do you have hopes of meeting the prince?” I rested my hand on my hip, feeling as if I was scolding a small child. “You do know that he would never take a peasant such as yourself as a bride.”  

The girls snickered behind me. Ella’s expression wavered, but she didn’t lose her composure. “No, not at all. I was hoping to meet a... friend,” she answered shyly, blushing. “He’s an apprentice at the palace.”  

The way she spoke about him was concerning to me. Her smile was ever so slightly warmer and she her eyes drifted, almost as if she wasn’t even there anymore.  

I, myself, knew the feeling well. The butterflies, the tenderness, the excitement. Both the men I married, I loved with all that my heart could give. The first had been the sort of romance you read about in books; children slowly falling for each other. We were happy. The second was entirely different. I didn’t care for him at first, only sought the protection he could give. It wasn’t until I got to know and understand him that I started to fall. To think he only had to die for me to realize it.  

There was no such thing as forever and the sooner she realized this, the better. The good men always die young and all that are left are heathens that are desperate enough to attack children to experience the vast pleasures of the flesh. With that aside, her diminished social status would never allow her to marry any respectable man, let alone an apprentice at the palace. She had once been the heir to a thriving estate and her dowry would have been bountiful enough to pass blessings on to her family for generations. Since the passing of her father, she had been reduced to nothing more than a servant girl.  

My head rose, mind finally reaching a conclusion. “How can you expect to be seen at such a gathering dressed in rags? You are hardly fit to be seen in a brothel, let alone the palace.”

Ella drew back, visibly struck by my words. I was instantly flushed with shame, but some small, sickening part of me reveled in the reaction she gave. Never had she shown to be anything other than busy or content. I had gotten through her skin and the feat was delicious to me.  

“You are little more than a slave. You are nothing and let me make myself clear: you will not go to the ball.”  

Summer

I opened the grand front doors of the chateau, curtsying so low my knees brush the floor. “Your Grace, Captain,” I greet the bodies before me, a frown threatening to crack my stoic expression. Two men step into the lively abode at my invitation, one of which reaching into a bag at his side, slowly pulling out a rolled sheet of parchment.  

The man cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his military uniform in what looked to be exhaustion. “I’m sure you’ve heard this spiel before; news travels fast in this town. While it seems to be a moot point, I am required to read you the King’s official proclamation.”  

The Duke behind him smiled, feigning an heir of slight acquaintance towards me. I quickly reciprocated the gesture, waiting for the Captain to continue.

“By penalty of death, as a subject of His Majesty King Kristopher the Second, you are hereby mandated to present yourself, as well as any and all other maidens residing in the estate (placement on the social hierarchy notwithstanding) to an elected member of His royal court. Should the original holder of the abandoned glass slipper collected by the King (on this night, three moons prior to this initial declaration) be found, King Kristopher the Second shall forthwith marry her, should she be willing.” The Captain paused, looking up at me from the creased paper he read from. “Do you understand the order that has been given to you?”

 I nodded, already preparing to call out for my girls. We had known that this day would come, and we had prepared accordingly. After all the universe had put not only me through, but my daughters as well, this had to be a gift. This was the last chance the girls had to prove that one of them could win the heart of the King, or else they would have to turn to other means to survive.  

My eyes drifted towards the Duke, who still smiled at me, and my stomach dropped. I would do what I must to keep my children from the streets but doing so would surely kill me. He and I became very well acquainted after the ball, though whether that was a good or bad thing, I was still debating. Our social circles overlapped so naturally we knew who each other were, but not by any means were we friends. During the ball, I had more to drink than I should have, which led to me stumbling down the right hall at the right time. I overheard some things that could have been damaging to his reputation, as well as the then-prince, and as compensation for my discretion, he vowed he would help get my family back on their feet. Of course, this meant that I must marry him, as well as offer my daughters to men of his choosing.

This was a last resort. First, I must try to trick the Captain into believing that either Drizella or Anastasia were the princess from the ball. If I could manage to do that, then everything would be alright.  

I called my girls from their bedroom, staring daggers into them. We had spoken about maintaining a certain level equanimity before the Duke and Captain, knowing that they would be asked to try on the glass slipper. They tried to carry themselves with dignity, but one could see the stress they felt about the situation. They knew how high the stakes were and would do anything to make this plan work.  

They both greeted the men politely, going about trying on the slipper with little to no comment. It did not fit Drizella, for the slipper was too large. She looked up at me defeated, most likely hoping to find some semblance of comfort. I tried to be encouraging, but my tension must have been visible. She looked down, trying not to cry, and excused herself from the room.  

Anastasia was met with a similar reaction when we found the slipper to be too small for her feet. This struck me as extremely odd, considering the girls has always had the same size feet, even as children. Drizella was technically older, but the two had almost synched up perfectly when it came to their development.      

After pleasantries were exchanged and goodbyes said, I walked the men to the door. My heart stopped and the contents of my stomach went cold. The Duke scrutinized me as he went to leave, a guise that I’ve never been able to unsee, even decades later. A smile unlike any warm expression I had ever seen cracked his perfectly constructed face. Dread creeped through me, almost crippling me with nausea.  

A kind voice broke through the haze, though in the moment, I struggled to focus on what he said. “What?” I asked.  

“I said,” he replied patiently, “are there any other maidens in your home? Perhaps a maid or servant that hasn’t been accounted for?”

I once again looked towards the Duke. I knew very well that Ella was locked in the attic. I was also aware that she was the girl that the King had danced with at the ball. The girl he had every intention of marrying.  

The Duke also knew this.  

I answered the Captain, never taking my eyes from the Duke, “No sir. I’m afraid I had to dismiss the household when my late husband died.”  

As if on cue, soft singing rang from above us. Without a word, the Captain pushed back into the house, searching for the owner of the voice. I remember the house breaking out into a flurry of chaos, though beyond that point, I can’t remember many details. When Ella was found, she was taken into a different room for a private audience with the Captain, and I remember the doors being closed.

Due to my shock, I barely registered anything else happening before Ella spoke to me. She stopped at the door, hesitating before turning towards my spot on the stairs. Her eyes were glazed over, but I saw nothing but empathy and understanding on her face.  

“I forgive you,” she said. She waited for a moment, possibly for a response, then left.  

There was so much that I wanted to say to her, but I couldn’t find the words. Regret, sorrow, mourning, grief, tenderness, maternity. All of it hit me at once, knocking me to my knees. The Captain followed behind her, leaving me with only the Duke. Both Drizella and Anastasia hid somewhere else in the house, and I prayed that at least one of them walked by. Of course, they didn’t.  

He walked towards me, a sick look on his face. I let out a sob, overcome with dizziness. Ella. My Cinderella. My mind repeated her name. For years after my union with the Duke, I would see her face in everything I did. Her joy, her understanding, her forgiveness.  

Despite my soul willing it to be so, I never saw her again. 

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Sorry for the long post, but this was an essay I wrote for my Creative Writing course last semester, and I got really high marks for it. I’ve been thinking about writing a full-length extended version of it, but we shall see. Hope someone gets something out of it :) 

The Park in the Backyard

When I was little, there was this small park just outside my grandma’s backyard. My aunt Caitlyn (who is 10 years older than me) would take me to hide there when the adults would start yelling or the world just became too much to handle. 

To get to it, she would hoist me over the short wooden fence that marked the edge of the property, waving goodbye to the toffee-colored St. Bernard watching from the balcony above us. She would take my hand as we rolled down the steep hill, staining our jeans green at the knees while blades of grass stook out from our hair. We would then cross a bridge made from planks that had to be older than anyone who lived on the street behind us. Some planks were rotting in places, while others were splintered and cracked. Under them ran a stream, emerging from a patch of trees that to me, seemed to span for miles. I don’t think I was ever able to get completely through them. 

Then, just out of view, there was a park, secluded from the rest of the world. It was nothing much, just a set of swings, tall monkey bars, and an old metal merry-go-round that was so rusted you couldn’t see any of the original silver. 

We would sit on the swings, and she would tell me a story about a woman. This woman was ancient, barely enough meat on her bones to keep her running and a scowl that could kill. She would come down from the hill where we rolled, carrying a basket of linen to be washed. Every day, she could be seen by the stream, washing her clothes in the clear water. 

One day, she stopped coming to the stream. It was said she was never heard from again. 

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been back to that park. Sometimes I wonder what happened to her. She most likely just died of old age, but I like to think there’s more of a story to it. Though I could have sworn I once saw a figure crouched by the now murky abyss, holding a sheet of cloth in blemished hands. 

I guess I'll never know.