Cinderella Must Die

By W.R. Gingell

Cinderella is married to The Prince, and the Evil Stepsisters are banished to a pocket dimension for their punishment and rehabilitation. It's Happily Ever After.

Or is it?

 

Jane and Charlie have been imprisoned for two years now, serving a sentence especially chosen by their stepsister as justice for her sufferings. It seems that they're the only two people in the world besides Ellen who know that Ellen's "sufferings" were a carefully manipulative campaign to win a prince and a crown; the two stepsisters merely collateral damage.

 

But now, trouble is brewing at the castle: death threats, torn gowns, ruined books.

 

Is Ellen up to her old tricks, or is someone really trying to kill her? And when even their closest friends didn't believe them innocent the first time, can Jane and Charlie escape the blame a second time if Ellen does die?

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.R. Gingell
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201835545

W.R. Gingell

W.R. Gingell is a Tasmanian author who loves reading, bacon, and slouching in front of the fire to write.

Book preview

Chapter One

"I ’m no good at washing. I’ve never been good at washing."

Then consider it a chance to practise, Jane said. Nobody is good at washing. It’s not a talent you’re born with; you have to learn how things work.

I don’t want to learn how things work.

I know, darling. It’s one of the reasons we’re in this mess.

Jane, if you’re going to blame me for what happened with Cinders Ellen—

No, no, nothing like that. I just think it may have influenced the punishment she chose for us.

Punishment! The punitive little beast might call it that, but we did nothing wrong! Nothing!

You put pinching spells in her glass slippers, Charlie.

She tore my best dress to ribbons and said that mice did it! Mice! If she was going to go to the ball in a gorgeous frock when I couldn’t, the least she could do is suffer for what she did. Why are we the ones suffering?

Because Ellen is significantly better at telling lies than we are, said Jane bluntly, rubbing the two sides of a stain together. Goodness knew how Ellen had managed to work jam so deeply into her neck warmer—it had certainly been an act of deliberation, since there was no reason for her to be wearing a neck warmer in the dining hall or her vast bedroom suite.

Just like most things that Ellen did, it had been an act not only of deliberation, but of precision and malice aforethought.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we could only use magic, grumbled Charlie.

You can’t even light a candle, Charlie.

Well! You’re the one who said it’s all about practise! It’s not like we don’t have enough time to practise in here!

That’s very true, said Jane, giving up on the jam stain. It would add time onto their sentence if she couldn’t get it clean, but if she was honest with herself, there was no chance that either she or Charlie would get out of this situation before they were roughly fifty. Ellen had made very sure of that.

The original sentence had been ten years, but Ellen had made a big point of their slothfulness and laziness, and the decision had been made that to rehabilitate Jane and Charlie, the sentence would be a fluid one. For every act of slovenliness or laziness, their sentence would lengthen by a day. For every act of service or goodness, a reprieve.

That, of course, might have been perfectly reasonable if the standard by which those acts had been judged was itself reasonable.

Ellen, of course, had made sure it was not. No magic was permitted in performing tasks, and any failure to perfectly clean every item that passed through the spell in which they were imprisoned was punished by a further day on their sentence. Not content with giving them the whole of the castle laundry to clean, their stepsister had made sure that her own clothing was included in the work—and that it always was a great deal of work. Jane wasn’t sure exactly how many extra days they had had tacked onto their sentence for incorrigibility, but she knew that those days collectively numbered in the range of two to three extra years already. As for acts of service—such things had to be toward people other than each other, and apart from Harvey, she and Charlie saw no one.

Trapped in this little bubble of reality, far away from the rest of the world, their sentence lengthened by the week, while an endless continuity of the same weather and surroundings made it hard to tell when one week ended and another began.

"Jane, I can’t get this stain out! I’m certain Cinders Ellen has been rolling in the fireplace again, because this is more like a scorch. Look, the fabric is all pulled and shrunken."

It is, Jane said, after leaning over to look. It’s no good trying to fix it. You’ll have to patch it.

It’ll add another day anyway, Charlie said. Why bother?

Because then she’ll have us for not doing our best as well: another day, I should think.

Charlie opened her mouth to reply, but there was the distinct tightening of magic around them, a drawing in of the threads that made up the pocket of reality in which they were imprisoned.

"What now?" she snarled.

Harvey, I should think, Jane said. "Darling, I know you’re cross, but must you spit in my face every time the portal opens?"

Oh, sorry, said Charlie, apologetic at once. Her emotions might be volatile, but if you waited a moment, they were always sure to change, and she was as quick to forgive as she was to blow up. Have a hanky.

No thanks; I’ll use my own.

Rude, Charlie said, but she grinned and shoved the grimy piece of cotton back in her pocket. Back in their other life they’d had muslin and silk for handkerchiefs, but Charlie’s had never been any cleaner for their finery. Jane, I do think that of all the punishments Cinders Ellen inflicted on us, Harvey may be the worst.

You only say that because he points out whenever you get a spot.

And that’s another thing! Charlie said in indignation. With the pox all over his face, I don’t see how he can point out a single spot of mine with a straight face, I really don’t.

It’s hardly the pox, protested Jane. Harvey was certainly a pox on existence, but his face, like Charlie’s, had begun to clear of its youthful spots. His tending-to-lantern jaw still had a remaining redness to it here and there, but it wasn’t the bumpy, all-consuming rash it had been when they had first seen him at fourteen, raging across his chin and cheeks and right up to his greasy-golden hairline. Now at nineteen, he was beginning to look quite fresh-faced.

He’s got more than I have, at any rate, Charlie said, still prepared to argue the point. "And for him to be pointing out the one that came up because I had to use goose grease on my chest and touched my face in my sleep afterward—!"

It’s gone away now, said Jane. It had been a very small spot, but Charlie’s face had been very much like Harvey’s for too many years to count, and she was still very conscious of each and every spot that came up. Harvey, apparently careless of his own spots and likewise careless of the feelings of anyone else who had the affliction, helpfully pointed them out whenever he saw them in either of the sisters.

Jane was quite well aware that it was a flaw in his understanding, not his personality: she was convinced that the rest of his behaviour, on the other hand, was deliberately calibrated to cause as much annoyance and offence as possible.

She was also guiltily aware that at least a part of the behaviour levelled at them by Harvey was perhaps her own fault. She had once, in a fit of kindness that had backfired spectacularly, tried to warn Harvey about Ellen. At that stage, Jane had been seventeen, very much in love with the prince and sure that he was at least passingly interested in her. Ellen had been inclined to consider the favours of every male nearby her own to command and had been very cleverly undermining that interest by employing the pawns she already had in play. Harvey, still just fifteen, awkward, disorienting, and sometimes very bright, was a dangerous piece for her to play. He was not yet quite caught, and he was still independent enough to break away if he could be made to see sense when it came to Ellen.

His father, one of the king’s officials, owned the only other manor nearby; Jane had tried gently, as a good neighbour and a friend, to help Harvey to that sense. He had gone away thoughtful and bright-eyed, and Jane had congratulated herself on doing the difficult, and Harvey on having better sense than she had quite expected of him.

The next day, he had returned, absolutely convinced of Jane’s romantic interest in him, and equally determined to see her to the prince’s ball that night. She had had to disabuse him of that notion, rather flushed and annoyed to think that she might have to deal with the overtures of a boy two years younger than herself when she was hoping to be courting those of a man five years her senior. Harvey had taken her annoyance in very bad part. He had also thereafter, if Jane wasn’t very much mistaken, allowed Ellen to fill his ears with exactly the kind of toxic thing that she was so good at spreading and that Jane had been trying to prevent.

The result had been to make him more than ever Ellen’s pawn, and he had remained so even after she married the prince; his sole delight apparently in making sure that Ellen’s two stepsisters found life as difficult and irritating as humanly possible in their imprisonment.

Jane sighed. You finish the rest of the washing. I’ll take the dry clothes back to the cottage and go over the check-list with Harvey—and see what fresh atrocities they’ve sent over to feed us this time.

She left Charlie at the water-smoothed laundry stone, making patterns on the sun-warmed rock with her wet fingers, and went in search of the tightening to the pocket. Harvey had a habit of appearing in a different place every time he visited, but if one knew how magic worked, one could follow the reaction to its source and arrive just before Harvey did. Jane did know; she had always been very good at magical theory, and she was just intuitive enough to be able to understand magic while being practical enough to make good headway in use of it.

She knew better than to be so quickly on the spot, however; it would almost certainly make Harvey think she was up to something. So Jane strolled across the warm, green grass, the pretend sun above that she could never quite see shining down on her head, not too hot and not too cool, and didn’t increase her speed even when she saw the tell-tale pink glow up ahead around the side of the cottage.

That was the transportation spell interacting with the interior of the reality bubble, tainting the colour. Within that spell would be a pink-toned Harvey, cautiously waiting until the pink faded to begin moving again, his golden hair spiked pink at the tips.

Jane rounded the corner of the cottage, sighing faintly once again, and stopped short in shock, her fingers suddenly gripping tightly to the laundry basket.

It wasn’t Harvey.

Instead of broad shoulders and hands shoved into pockets, a slight slouch belying its true height, the figure that stood before her was slender and aristocratic, perfectly straight and true, its ink-black hair short and neat.

Unnervingly matched to cobalt blue eyes was a military frockcoat of the same blue, beneath it riding trousers of an unsullied egg-shell hue and covered almost to the knee by impeccably shining riding boots.

Jane saw her reflection in them, and thought it conferred no great dignity to either herself or the boots: certainly her skirt was damp here and there around the knees from washing, and her fine, brown hair with the faint touch of early white was wisping around her face, but the boots oughtn’t to be as polished as they were. It was obvious that they had not been used for riding at all. Were riding boots really riding boots if one didn’t use them for riding?

Were people really people if they didn’t live in the real world?

Was a prince really a prince if he falsely imprisoned his subjects?

Beside that point was another: what was the prince doing here, of all places? What was he doing here, looking at her once again with wounded blue eyes and an uncertain air?

Had he—could he possibly—have come to apologise? wondered Jane, with a quickening of her heartbeat.

She had always known that Alaric was intelligent. Too intelligent, she would have said, to fall for Ellen’s kind of lies; but she had been proved quite wrong there. He was, at any rate, too intelligent to have been married to Ellen for the past two years without finding out exactly who it was that he’d married.

Perhaps by now he’d also come to the conclusion that the crimes for which he’d had a part in condemning Jane and Charlie had either been greatly exaggerated or not taken place at all. Her heart hardening, Jane reminded herself that if he had done so, it was by far too late now.

Feeling heat at the back of her eyes, she put her washing down very carefully then straightened, setting her chin and shoulders both.

When it came out, her voice was politely cold. Why are you here?

Jane—

I think, said Jane carefully, under the circumstances, that you ought to go back to calling me Miss Tellington. Your highness.

He took in a breath when she added the last two words of formal greeting, as if the speaking of them had stabbed him unexpectedly in the chest, and Jane felt again the same bewildered pain she had felt that night at the ball when Alaric, glittering in blue and diamonds, had released her hand and gone to stand by the side of the light-pink, frothy Ellen with her golden hair and blue eyes all luminous with tears. He had looked back at Jane once, with sad, angry eyes, and had looked only at Ellen thereafter.

As if she instead of he had been the betrayer.

Why are you here? she asked again. When Harvey had gone from professing love to happily doing Ellen’s bidding, Jane hadn’t felt betrayed: just sorry for his sake. Alaric was different. She had thought he knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn’t do the things Ellen claimed—or that he had at least liked her well enough to give her the benefit of the doubt until he knew better—and his betrayal had very nearly gutted her right there in the ballroom, leaving her panting and leaning on Charlie’s shoulder for the strength to stand.

"I wanted to say—I wanted to check—Jane, where are your shoes?"

There was that hurt bewilderment again. As if he hadn’t been a part of the proceedings that had led to Jane and Charlie being shut up in this tiny bubble of existence without recourse to anything except what they were given or could garden for themselves.

Shoes cost money, your highness, she said, with a brief look down at her bare feet. She had worn holes in the soles of her shoes quite some time ago, and since either the provision of things with which she could fix them or shoes themselves would have cost another year or so of sentence, she and Charlie had elected to go without. Life in the bubble had no seasons; it was a continuity of sameness that was somehow worse than the biting cold of winter and the soggy heat of summer outside. Jane felt her chin tremble slightly, but her voice stayed clear and cold, and that was enough. She added, Or time, which is more important to us.

I didn’t— he began, and Jane wondered if he was really going to say that he hadn’t known. He shut his mouth, then tried again, jerkily. "I didn’t realise that shoes were included in extra comforts."

I see, said Jane. She would have felt angry if she could, but all she could feel was weariness. She asked, once again, Why are you here, your highness?

And why now? she could have added. She and Charlie had been imprisoned for close to two years now. If he had felt guilty, or if he had come to understand that Ellen wasn’t the most conversant with the truth, wouldn’t he have come earlier?

There have been…problems in the castle, Alaric said.

There would be, with Ellen living there, Jane thought. She knew Ellen too well to think that even rising as high as princess would be enough to sate her.

Unsurprised, she said, Yes, I suppose so.

Alaric studied her for a perplexed moment, and said, It started three months ago; first there was a dead rat beneath Ellen’s bed, then a drowned one in a barrel of her favourite wine. Someone tore one of her favourite gowns to pieces and ruined the official portrait in the grand hall. Soon after that, she started getting notes—nasty things. She only showed me after the third one arrived. They were threats to tell me something she’d supposedly done before we married, threats to ruin her life—even to kill her.

I beg your pardon? Jane asked, shocked almost to speechlessness. "You came to find out if we were likely to be threatening Ellen? From in here?"

Alaric tumbled into speech. "I’m sorry, Jane! I didn’t know—my father and Ellen have been discussing it between them, and they came up with the conclusion that you were likely to be responsible because of your—you know, magic."

Jane very carefully repressed a frustrated sigh. The fact that she was capable of doing magic was the only one of Ellen’s lies that actually had some truth to it. Of course, of all the trouble around their manor and the castle over Ellen’s pursuit of the prince, exactly none had been Jane’s handiwork: Ellen was herself an extremely practised magician with the added benefit of a fairy godmother at her shoulder. In fact, she was so good that if Jane hadn’t once heard her calling on the godmother and seen the intensely pink haze of magic seeping under the door of Ellen’s room, she would have thought that her stepsister was simply a first-rate practitioner.

No one had ever believed either of those two things, of course.

I know you’re not responsible, Alaric said despairingly. "But if something—if something more happens, you’ll be the first suspects."

"Why would we be the first suspects? Magic or no, we’re in here; or has the castle forgotten that?"

My father knows—my father thinks that with magic, anything is possible.

It certainly is, Jane said grimly, thinking of Ellen’s transformation two years ago.

And I thought you ought to know. Just in case something happens.

If something happens, said Jane evenly, we’ll be as guiltless as we were of everything else Ellen accused us of. It’s nothing new to us. What exactly can we do about it?

I don’t know, he said. He looked wretched, and despite herself, Jane couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it; maybe it’s just one more thing to worry about. But if something happens, they’ll come here for you, and—

He’d wanted to make sure she and Charlie were safe; to give as much warning as he could. The thought was a warm one, but Jane didn’t dare to trust it. She’d trusted Alaric once before, and it had not gone well.

He added quietly, passing over what he had left unsaid, I thought you might know of someone else who might have a grudge against Ellen; someone who might want to hurt her.

No one stupid enough to give her a warning first, Jane said bluntly, pushing away all other thoughts. There were a few girls at school—a few boys, too. She wasn’t universally charming back then; she had to work a lot harder.

Alaric opened his mouth, possibly to ask what had changed since then, and shut it again.

Answering the question he wouldn’t ask, Jane said, She managed to imprison a fairy godmother in her final six months. She would never admit it, but it made quite the difference.

Acquiring fairy godmothers is against the law, said Alaric. His voice sounded dry.

Not to mention a rather disgusting form of slavery; but I don’t think that’s what the king is worried about.

Magic of that sort, he said, is against the law for a very good reason. And if my father suspected that Ellen had a fairy godmother in her service, even being my wife wouldn’t have protected her. You shouldn’t say things like that.

That shouldn’t have hurt. It should have been a long time since distrust from Alaric could hurt her, but Jane still felt the sting of betrayal. After everything he must have seen and gone through with Ellen, Alaric still wouldn’t believe anything against her.

Jane found herself smiling wryly. Ellen had been more fortunate in her marriage than she deserved; and although Jane might like to think better of Alaric’s intelligence, she couldn’t think badly of his character. He was, as he always had been, a good man.

It was a pity he couldn’t have thought better of Jane—but then, it was likely he hadn’t been in love with her at all, and he was with Ellen.

Very well, she said quietly. Then if you wish to hear specifics, I’ll get to them. There probably isn’t much use in rehashing old memories now, but if you look into Germaine and Gordon Henning, and perhaps Miss Mabel Hallow, the former ancient languages mistress, you might have a better idea of the kind of people who wish Ellen harm.

I don’t see that a languages mistress could be much use, he said. But I’ll look into it. Jane—Miss Tellington—thank you.

Well, said Jane, even more wryly, we are entirely at your disposal, your highness. If you should wish for more information, we will be here.

That made him wince a little, but Jane didn’t regret saying it. She felt tired and stretched too tight, like the bubble of reality in which she and Charlie lived: ready to explode at any time, or perhaps just to peel softly away and perish into dust. She very much wished to be at the end of the interview.

Perhaps Alaric guessed as much. Perhaps he was tired, himself.

He said, I should go back now; I don’t want to piggyback on Harvey’s spell to go back. They don’t know I’ve come here, you see.

He looked at her keenly as he said it; then his eyes dropped, and he turned to leave. He didn’t have to turn; he could have started up the transportation spell around himself. But perhaps it was more comfortable for him to walk into the transportation spell, leaving her behind him. Perhaps he wanted her to know that he trusted her enough to turn his back to her.

Jane was left in the lingering pink light, wondering what he had meant when he said piggyback on Harvey’s spell. Why, for that matter, he’d said it. She thought about it, her brow creased, until the pink light of the transportation spell glowed off the particles of magic in the bubble once again.

This time, it really was Harvey arriving. For perhaps the first time since she and Charlie had been banished, Jane found herself actually pleased to see him—or was it just that the general awfulness of a Harvey faded in the light of the more dreadful interview that had just taken place?

Loafing about as usual, I see, Harvey said, with the pinkish light of the transportation spell still washing over him. It would stay there for another thirty seconds or so: if she moved too close to him, he would look warily at her and back away minutely, as if he expected to be attacked.

There was some reason for his attitude: a year into their imprisonment, Charlie had once been so incensed to see him arrive that she had leaped right through the still-moving particles of reality and magic and tackled Harvey to the ground, from whence she had proceeded to hit him as often and hard as possible.

Jane, however, had never done anything of the sort, and she resented the unspoken suggestion that she would do so.

Waspishly, she said, You’ll notice the washing basket at my feet. Come on in, Harvey; there’s no need to be shy.

Harvey might have reddened slightly. I’m not afraid of you, and I’m already in.

What’s the problem today? Not enough shine on the royal shoes? Too little softening used in the washing?

There was always a problem—always something for Ellen to send back and add another few days onto their sentence. Some weeks, they even added more days to the sentence than they actually worked. The castle housekeepers, thought Jane, even more waspishly, must be so glad to have such a close over-seer in the princess: goodness knew how Ellen explained that to the royal family.

Here’s your list, Harvey said, passing the official notice.

Jane took it with a faint smile: Ellen did so love to make things official. She didn’t bother to look at the time added due to incorrigibility column because there was bound to be more there than she really wanted to know about. She did look briefly at the schedule of work to do because Harvey had brought with him two carry-all satchels, and there was usually a good week’s work in a single one of those.

She eyed them both with regret while Harvey gazed around him.

Where’s the other one? he asked.

Charlie, said Jane, with a very faint inflection on the name, is finishing the washing down by the washing rock.

Harvey was perfectly well aware of Charlie’s name. Jane suspected he pretended to forget it on purpose as a way of reminding Charlie that she wasn’t as important as she thought she was. Charlie did much the same thing back at him, and Jane wondered when—or perhaps if—it would occur to them that they disliked each other so much because they were so very similar.

Harvey snorted. Hiding, probably.

Jane’s heart sank a little, but she couldn’t help the amusement that sprang up with the apprehension. What happened?

She put something nasty in one of the princess’ dresses, Harvey said, one golden eyebrow cocking slightly, as if he couldn’t quite stop it. You should really try to stop her, Jane! It’s not fair on you! And Ellen really didn’t like it—well, I won’t say what happened, but it was pretty slimy.

Something like what you did to your sister when she came home from finishing school, I assume, Jane said dryly.

She didn’t miss the involuntary grin that sprang to his face, or the way he had to clear his throat and take a moment to smooth it away before he could reply in a manner sufficiently stern.

My sister has nothing to do with this, he said stiffly. And I’ll thank you not to bring her up.

You don’t seem to have any problem discussing my sister, pointed out Jane. Well? How many days did Ellen add on for that?

He didn’t reply at once, and Jane felt her brows rise.

Months?

That was unprecedented—not to mention plain nasty.

Even Harvey, who in the beginning had entered into the spirit of punishing Jane and Charlie with far more enthusiasm than anyone other than Ellen, hesitated before he said, A year.

Ah. That must be difficult for him to explain to himself, even as much as he was Ellen’s servant.

Dear me, said Jane. She felt a churning anger deep down, but it was no good indulging it. Harvey would only laugh at bursts of temper such as Charlie displayed, and Jane rather thought that would make her temper far worse.

She’s trying to discourage things like this, he said. Who knows what you could send through next? It could be something dangerous.

Fresh from her interview with the prince, Jane felt the sting of that keenly. Even here, prisoners of Ellen’s spite, they couldn’t escape the imputed evils of her tongue.

Maybe it’s a good thing your mother died before all of this, he added thoughtfully.

One could, thought Jane, somewhat mechanically, if one thought from a completely emotionless point of view, think that.

I’ve never thought it was a good thing to have my mother die, she said. But I gather Ellen has been telling you a lot of nonsense about her, too.

I knew your mother very well, he said, stiff again. She was very kind to me. I think there must have been a misunderstanding between her and Ellen.

Jane could have tried to set him right about that, but it was no use. She retreated to her only place of safety: silence. There was no good in arguing, so why bother?

Harvey shifted his feet just slightly, as though weighed down by the silence. "I didn’t mean—all right, I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to say."

No, I suppose not, Jane said. It didn’t make her feel much more kindly toward him. Look, I’ve already told you that Charlie’s down by the river. You’ve given me the list, so once you’ve checked that she’s actually here, you can leave.

Harvey’s feet shifted again. At last, he roughly nudged one of the bags aside with his boot and said, If she’s not down there, I’ll set off the alarm this time.

He strode away in the direction of the stream, leaving Jane to heave the carry-all sacks inside with the irritated thought that if there could be said to be one benefit of the bubble in which they were imprisoned, it was that they only had to put up with Harvey once a week instead of every day. The worst of it was that she could understand him, and Jane felt it very hard to understand someone while bearing the brunt of their displeasure. She would much rather be able to hate him comfortably like Charlie did.

She had just brought in the second bag when someone flitted past the doorway and flicked a bit of bogweed at her.

Jane shrieked and clawed it out of her collar, shivering as the blobby wetness of it stuck to her skin. Charlie!

Aren’t you glad I’m not Harvey? Charlie said, laughing at her. Careful—no, I’ll get it out. Hold still.

Jane stood still, but she said, in exasperation, Harvey was looking for you.

Never mind that now, said Charlie, her eyes dancing with mischief as she fished out the last bit of bogweed from the back of Jane’s neck. I’ve got something to show you, Jane!

It can wait until after you’ve checked in with Harvey, Jane said firmly. If you don’t appear in the next few minutes or so, he’s bound to set off the alert and tell the castle that you’ve escaped, and we really can’t afford that kind of thing at the moment!

Charlie stared at her. Do you mean more time added onto our sentences? But that’s nonsense! No matter what we do, she’s always going to make sure there’s more added on than we can work off. That’s why—

No, I mean that there have been threats against Ellen—

How nice. I like people with good taste. Maybe we can be friends.

—and the king is still as much convinced as ever that we used magic and are still doing so. If they start saying that we’ve been nipping in and out of prison to play tricks on Ellen—

Ohh, Charlie said, pressing her lips together. "I see what you mean. All right, I won’t do anything naughty: not today, at any rate. I’ll go and see

Reviews for Cinderella Must Die

[Rachael · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've read a lot of Cinderella retellings and this is one of the best. Love the back and forth banter from the main characters!