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Chapter Text

She was turning to paper and ink. It felt stranger this time than it had any other time that she had been upon. This didn’t feel like a tearing, gnawing, soul-rending experience. It was just like a page turning over, a cover closing and opening anew.

The terror was the same. Maybe worse.

“I don’t know what to write,” Cinderella gasped. The little girl with the red cloak was already an illustration, skipping off a path into the dark. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“That’s the point, I think.” Rosamund clasped her gauntleted hand, briars and glass cutting their exposed skin. Cinderella looked at her, choked with thorns and marred by nightmares. Blessed with the seven most desirable qualities. Cinderella hadn’t been blessed by anyone, in any story.

“I’m – I don’t – I’m going to mess it up.”

“At least that power is yours, now. I think you’ll do just fine. You’re a clever, strong, brave woman, and you won’t be alone. I’ll find you, alright?”

Cinderella nodded and dared one last squeeze of her hand. Rosamund’s smile became the swipes of a quill, and then she was gone.
Cinderella spent one last moment alone in the vortex of rewriting herself. The inkwell mocked her from its place high above everything, pouring possibility into the world. The weight of that possibility pressed her into the paper behind her.

Her last mark was a salty tear on parchment.
~~~
Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Elegy in the land of Haplee, there was a young girl whose mother and father were alive and well, but had not got on with each other. Her father’s new wife had two daughters of her own, and while Cinderella had done her very best to be sisterly to them, they were much too wrapped up in their own selves to be very sisterly back. Her stepmother was weary from her attempts to tame them, and her father, though a warm and loving man, was old and forgetful.

People get very wrapped up in their own stories they have to tell, even in Haplee. Cinderella went to the ball with her family. She found her prince: found him in all his grand romantic gestures and anxious need for the spotlight. When he placed the shoe on her foot after chasing her through the kingdom, she finally thought things were going as they should. Love isn’t earned, Rosamund had said. She hadn’t said exactly what it was, only that it isn’t something you come into deserving. And certainly he had earned something, proved some dedication and drive in spirit. Cinderella appreciated ambition. And there wasn’t much else she could think to do, once left to her own devices. Before the Times of Shadow, she had a real happily-ever-after this way, so it stood to reason that it would be a good start. She’d figure out the rest once she could… something. She felt stuck, facing a puzzle with missing pieces and no reference.

Palace life is slow, and dull, and in peace times the most interesting thing to do is listening to petty problems. The people do not come begging for desperate aid for plague, or corruption, or protection. They had it. Problems were small, and though she was grateful, she was bored senseless at the repetition of her life and the marriage to her prince very consumed with his own story unfolding. If she’d felt stuck before, this was drowning in mud.

And then Rosamund found her.

Chapter Text

Rosamund had still been blessed by seven fairies, and had easily bested her curse. Her kingdom was awake, thriving, and she had become quite the woman in her new story. It seemed she had no trouble knowing what to put to page.

Cinderella had been anxious since the princess's letter had arrived asking for a visit. To have something to do, she helped ready the guest chambers herself. Deciding the floral arrangement and sweeping under the bed and refreshing the sheets and changing the color of the curtains was all better than letting her mind spin questions she couldn’t produce immediate answers for. Already she had found Rapunzel, and Belle, even Mira. Snow White was still a mystery, and this was the first contact she’d had with Rosamund since coming upon this time. The letter had been cheery, brief, and absolutely devoid of any clues. It wasn’t even a request, just a notification that she was on her way. Expect only myself and my flock x

The fanfare rang through the bright checkered courtyard and whipped Cinderella’s attention back to the gates. She squirmed in her heavy robin-egg blue gown while the singular carriage, pulled by two white horses, trotted through the gates, a page holding out a scroll and starting his pronouncement of the arrival of Princess Rosamund du Prix of the Kingdom of Reverie. He got through the first three words before his voice was drowned out by a chorus of twittering birds bursting through the open carriage door. Pink slippered feet alighted on the flagstones.

“Your Highness,” Rosamund curtseyed deeply. Her golden hair was like a drop of the morning sun itself.

“Your Highness, it is good to see you.” Cinderella returned the gesture, fussing her skirt back into place. When she looked back up, Rosamund was smiling widely. She let her swarm of birds fly up into the mango trees, and approached with her hands spread timidly.

“Oh, could I please give you a hug? I’ve been so anxious to see you.”

“Me too.” Cinderella opened her arms and the princesses embraced. No briars. No glass. Just the silk of their gowns, skin unmarred by horrors. A tension unhitched in her chest, allowed her breath to come a little more easily. She had not noticed she had been so tightly wound.

Rosamund told her everything that had happened with her five companions after the Canonade battle over tea and chilled sandwiches in the garden, surrounded by white roses and tall palms. Cinderella listened with rapt attention, grateful for the shade offering some relief from the already scorching sun. Some details were unsurprising. Mother Goose was mothering, the scary little red one had supposedly run off with the Baba Yaga. Some details caught the princess of Elegy off guard.

“Elody and Gerard… are separated?”

“Yes, they’re very good friends now. Gerard is working on his glow-up, which I honestly could see less of, but I think they are both much better off that way.”

“And Elody?”

“She’s fine! I hear from her on occasion, but she does like keeping to herself.”

“So, they still got married, and everything, just to end it? Why write it that way?”

“Well, I suppose that’s a question for them. I don’t think I have any authority to tell you why.”

“And your story? Do you like what you’ve written?”

Rosamund pursed her lips and sipped her tea for a long moment before responding. “I like that I’ve written it, and that the lessons in the hardships are for me to learn, and not someone else. It isn’t perfect, but that’s life, I suppose. Nothing can be one way forever after. After is a long time.”

“An after needs a before. Doesn’t it feel like we’re still repeating a cycle?”

“Maybe we have many befores, and many afters. A cycle that is not authored by anyone but ourselves, and that freedom is scary. It’s scary to know that things will be hard, but it won’t be that way forever. The way of the world is for things to end, good and bad. I suppose that’s what the Goose and the Gander were all about. Right?”

Clear as mud. Cinderella tried to ignore the drone of bees around them that seemed to be intent on directly drumming on her headache. The heavy perfume of the roses wasn’t helping. “I don’t understand it.”

“To be quite frank, neither do I. It’s new and frightening. But I am so glad we’ve reconnected. Tell me your story, please. I see you’ve found your prince!”

“Hm. He found me, I’d say.”

“How romantic!”

The irony of the statement hit her so hard Cinderella barked with laughter. She clamped a hand around her mouth and glanced around. There was no reason to feel suspicious. Prince Ahmen had been absent from court for over a week now, and was not expected to return from his “interior diplomacy” trip across the kingdom for another fortnight, at least. That was, of course, a generous estimate, and assumed that he would stick to his mission of meeting with town leaders without taking detours to fight any monster he caught wind of. She wondered if he wouldn’t start a new Time of Shadow with how many metaphorical bears her prince poked with his desperation to be a legend.

She could have told him that being a legend was a miserable existence.

“Romance doesn’t begin to cover it,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Everything is absolutely charmed. It’s suffocating.”

Rosamund looked a bit shocked. “So… you’re not enjoying your story so far?”

“I’m not ungrateful, not at all.” Bitter, maybe. Not ungrateful. “It’s just… I wasn’t raised to be a princess. I don’t have the royal training to lead a kingdom or navigate courts, and some prince sweeping me away to his castle hasn’t changed that. I lead armies to war. Armies of ghostly dwarves and supernatural princesses against tsars and their immortal knights. Here, there’s no war, there are no ghosts, I find leadership leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and being married is almost as bad as being a maidservant was before. I thought… I don’t know. Everything feels really pointless.”

Part of her was deathly afraid that she wasn’t meant for peace. A rusting spear in a farm shed.

Rosamund’s delicate tea cup clinked back into its saucer. She didn’t speak for a while, just reached a hand across the tea table to lay her hand lightly over Cinderella’s, and looked at her. It was gentle: parsing her words apart with care, searching for something.

Being sized up put Cinderella on the defensive – someone trying to measure how dangerous she was meant things were likely to get hairy quickly; someone trying to sus out hidden meaning in her words or body language was worse. What she put out into the world was exactly as much as she wanted anyone to have. It was violating for someone to step past the doorway that she tried so hard to block. She envied Rapunzel for her ability to mask her thoughts and feelings so thoroughly, to use her words and smile to disarm and misdirect. Cinderella could only ever say the precise, actionable truth, or say nothing.

She bristled a bit, pulling away and standing. “Sorry. That was a lot. Let’s get you settled in your chambers.”

“No, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright, Princess, I just need a moment to lay down. My head is killing me.” The crushed look on Rosamund’s face softened her a bit. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the Princess’s presence. Rosamund had traveled all this way to finally uphold her promise. “Will you join me for luncheon? Prince Ahmen is gone for now, so I’d appreciate a friendly face at the table. Most of the rest of court has business at midday, and the ones who stick around have the conversational skills of the chairs they sit in.”

“Oh, I love a luncheon. I’d be happy to liven things up.”

She led her through the grand, white-washed stone halls, passing rich tapestries of gleaming knights on horseback and maidens weeping beneath fluttering willows. Cinderella kept her gaze firmly fixed on the narrow floor runner.

They reached the guest chamber and Cinderella opened the door to usher Rosamund in. She swept her eyes across the room to make sure everything was as she’d made it – satisfied, she turned to go.

“There will be a bell for lunch, but I can send someone to fetch you if you want to take a nap or get changed or something. You’ve got the chambers closest to the library, east hall, big blue double doors. You’re welcome to anything you find in there.”

“Cinderella, wait,” Rosamund moved as if to lay a hand on her arm and prevent her from leaving, but held it in the air between them, “I want to say – it’s okay if you’re unsure of things. Nothing scarier than a blank page, as they say.”

Cinderella beheld her for a moment. Rosamund’s skin was smooth, unscarred; the confidence that her pen was in her own hands lifted her spine and let her shoulders rest unburdened by fear. There was absolutely no air of uncertainty to her in this world, and a secret part of Cinderella went rotten with bitterness, whispering that this princess was offering empty platitudes. She couldn’t understand, had never seen the depth of the horrors the way that Cinderella had, and now handed her soothing words that rang hollow with inexperience.

Cinderella wasn’t in the mood to entertain secretive whispers with this damned headache.

“Thank you, Princess. I know you mean well.” She dipped her head in a bow. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Chapter Text

Frankly, she did need to lie down. Cinderella shed her layers of silk and chiffon with the assistance of her handmaidens, unburdening herself of most of the heavy, sapphire-studded gold bands on her arms. She eyed the blue gown being whisked out the door as she tucked a blouse into her loose linen trousers. Why she had even bothered to wear such a garment was a mystery to her. Perhaps there was some lingering desire to prove herself as much a princess as those born into royalty; just as worthy of this role that she didn’t truly feel all that enthusiastic about.

Pain thundered against her skull, hammered by heat and the distant, discordant tones of about five hundred more birds than were normally on the grounds. This line of thought could be left for when she had the wherewithal to follow it. She dismissed the women still flitting about her chamber and stretched out on a mattress arranged in front of the open balcony, hoping to doze off.

She should have known better than to let hope be her guiding force.

After an hour and a half of bobbing her leg, rubbing her aching jaw, and repeatedly loosening muscles that tensed up again as soon as she moved focus, Cinderella resigned herself to slogging through the day without a nap. Her headache was now less of a throb and more of a grizzly bear of pain hibernating at the front of her skull, which oddly made it easier to endure since she wasn’t being tempted with moments of respite. She sighed heavily, reaching for the slender, silver teapot that rested on a bed of coals to pour a cup. One of her handmaidens, Mona, had come up with this blend of herbs to soothe her head when the pain got bad, which was almost every day at this point. The headaches were not new to her; once upon every time, there was a young girl who could not get enough rest, enough peace, enough food, so the hammering in her skull was her constant companion through her adolescence and adulthood. And upon this time, in this world… she didn’t know why she was still plagued by them. It was better to not pick apart the why, or one was likely to drive oneself to the edge of desperate madness.

She leaned over the balcony, squinting at the sprawling herb garden below. A grand, romantic gesture from her prince when he found out about the headaches, and the tea. Within a week, he had ordered the north lawn to be razed of all the bright lemon trees and aromatic jasmine and replaced with rows on rows of just those herbs, and requested a full-time royal physician to be on call just for her every need. Ahmen didn’t ask for more details when the doctor identified stress as the cause of the headaches; he merely kissed her cheek and told her to keep her activities leisurely. He left to gallivant around the kingdom looking to be a hero, leaving her to suffocate in her leisure, under layers of gowns and gold, assaulted by indecipherable subtext and snide comments from nobles.

Reuniting with Rosamund was supposed to make things clearer – she would explain how to write a story that allowed freedom and agency, and Cinderella would do all the steps and finally feel right on the page. What Rosamund had brought her was not a step-by-step plan to craft the perfect tale. She had brought her more uncertainty. The bitterness and dark envy blindsided Cinderella, rearing their heads from their buried places in her chest like the cold undead. It wasn’t fair to Ros, she knew. The Princess of Reverie wasn’t responsible for Cinderella feeling so stuck. It was hardly her fault if she slipped into the pages of a new story like it was another silken gown – easy, natural, everything the reluctant Princess of Elegy was not and did not have. It was also wholly unfair to be upset with her for not experiencing the magnitude of suffering that Cinderella had between worlds. There was not a competition being held, especially because Cinderella knew what Rosamund had suffered; she had seen the briars, choked on the rot permeating the air around the tower, walked past body after body after gold-crowned body, a hundred years of silent, lonely misery thickening the putrid air of the stairwell until the door opened to reveal that blessed, bloody, undoubtably royal countenance. Rosamund had suffered greatly, and still had seen fit to remake the world for everyone to have a chance at freedom. She was an incredible, optimistic, caring woman who should not bear the brunt of Cinderella’s aimless, disgruntled attitude.

And yet.

Cinderella groaned, downed the rest of her cup, and hauled herself to the washbasin to splash her face.

“Don’t fuck this up just because you’re a mess,” she chided the dripping woman in the mirror. “Go be a damned princess and apologize.” For diplomacy’s sake, she reasoned. Luckily, the woman reflected in the glass was very good at following orders.

The Princess of Reverie was, as she had predicted, in the library, curled up on a large purple cushion thumbing through a volume of historical Elegian weaving techniques. A dozen woodland creatures ranging from a wood mouse to a large racoon scampered across the marble floor between the stacks of books and papyrus scrolls. From the top of the stacks, an owl watched her approach with shrewd eyes, hooting low in warning. The princess looked up.

“Oh no, did I miss lunch?”

“No, not at all. It should be soon.” Cinderella lingered a few paces away, shifting from foot to foot. She hadn’t actually come up with a plan, which made a part of her mind that was used to having the reins stand up and scold her. A platter of fig cakes lay on a table by the door, so she picked it up and brought it to sit on a cushion near Rosamund, who placed her reading material in her lap and eagerly plucked a cake with two fingers.

“Did you get some rest? How is your head?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Better. They happen a lot, so it isn’t something to be too concerned about. Sorry to have made such a fuss about it.”

Rosamund scrunched her eyebrows at her, but with her mouth full of fruit jam and bread, she could not speak, and Cinderella could not begin to determine what the look was supposed to mean. She nibbled on the crust of her pastry, feeling exposed.

“I didn’t know you liked weaving,” Cinderella waved vaguely in the direction of the book.

Rosamund swallowed her mouthful with a crumbly smile, oblivious to how pathetic Cinderella felt. “I am thinking about taking it up. Spinning thread is such a delight, but now I have such a stash I’m drowning in spun fibers. The tapestries and carpets here are stunning. Truly inspiring. I thought I might see what it takes to try my hand at it someday.”

“They are gorgeous, aren’t they? My favorite is a battle scene hanging in the ballroom. Every time I look at it, I see a new part of the story, people and animals and things I hadn’t noticed before. I can’t imagine how long they take to craft, with all the detail and color and texture.”

“Oh, would you show that one to me? That sounds delightful.” Rosamund’s eyes sparked with curiosity, lighting some warmth in the other princess that she thought had been stamped out somewhere between a slipper becoming a spear.

“Yeah,” she grinned back, “I’d love to. What would you depict in a tapestry?”

“Not sure yet. I had some ideas, but with all of the ‘salons’ my attention has been pulled in too many directions lately.”

“Ah, yes. Your speed dating events. How have they been faring?”

Rosamund huffed dramatically and tore another bite from her cake. Cinderella laughed.

“That bad?”

“I don’t understand what is wrong with these courtiers! They’re either immediately besotted after two questions about my hair or the fairies, or they make no effort to hide their ambition for power. One of them genuinely twisted his ring and cackled at me.”

“I can respect the transparency.”

“It’s awful.”

“Maybe you should consider taking a break from them if you’re just attracting villains and clingy red flags. If that’s not too bold of me to suggest.”

“No, it isn’t. To be completely honest, I’ve been considering it already. I’m just…” she fluttered a hand and blew a ringlet out of her face, “oh, disappointed, I guess. I want to find love, but love doesn’t seem to want to be found. Romance, I mean. Of course I have love in my life, wonderful love from Ylfa and Timothy and Gerard and all of them, and it’s some of the greatest joy of my life. I just can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on something.”

Something was struck in Cinderella, a mallet ringing clarity from a bell.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I hear you.”

Rosamund looked at her queerly.

“Don’t put too much stock in romance, Your Highness. It’s a fluffy dream that doesn’t have a lot of weight behind it.”

“Are you not enjoying the benefits of a runaway romance?” The Princess of Reverie swept her hand to indicate the luxury surrounding them in this room alone: the rich aroma of jasmine and incense that floated between ceiling-high stacks of parchment and papyrus, a vast wealth of knowledge; the sprawling marble floors populated with fluffed velvet cushions and overstuffed sofas; the white-clad servant standing in the corner with a pitcher of cool water, waiting for the crook of a finger to summon him forth.

“That would depend on how you define a benefit. I’m up to my ears in comfort and pleasure. Anything I ask for, I receive, with great flourishes and obnoxious proclamations of love. I rub shoulders with all the most powerful people in the kingdom. All of it is hollow.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Hell if I know. What do you want from your hunt for romance? How do you think you would know you found the right one?”

Rosamund was quiet for a while. She crumbled the rest of her cake and offered it to a chipmunk, who stuffed its cheeks and dashed away with a wary look at the other princess. Cinderella mirrored her position, resting her jaw on her hand and stretching out a leg, trying to make the silence comfortable for Ros without intruding on her pondering.

“I don’t know, either. That’s what’s been bothering me – the more people I sit down with and interview for a date, the more I realize I have no clue what it is that really makes a relationship. What is the real difference between my relationship with a good friend and a relationship with a partner?”

Wasn’t that the question of the age. Cinderella was working through her own scrambled thoughts about the matter when the bell rang six times, startling the hodge-podge flock outside in the courtyard with its high peals. She winced as hundreds of birds settled back into the trees with as much noise as possible to voice their displeasure. Another cup of tea with lunch wouldn’t hurt.

She stood and brushed crumbs from her body, then reached a hand down to pull her guest up. Once again, Cinderella got to marvel at holding her hand softly, gently, unimpeded by the serration of what their previous lives had scratched into them.

“That’s a post-lunch question,” she said, and offered her arm, “and my mind is sharper when my belly is full. Shall we head into battle?”

Rosamund squeezed her elbow. “I have readied my weapons of gab and gossip, general. Bring on the stuffy ambitious nobles.”

They marched, arm-in-arm, to the dining room, armed with their laughter.

Chapter Text

The open-air dining room was busier than a normal midday meal. The surrounding mimosa trees were bowing under the weight of the birds that lined their branches, disturbing the fluffy pink flowers and sending them drifting to populate the floor, where rats, squirrels, and mice were standing sentinel among the vases. They vastly outnumbered the handful of human guests, who sat on short stools or pillows around a low feast table, side-eyeing the critters. Rosamund had skipped off to speak with an owl before she took her seat by Cinderella’s side, and the animals had not caused much ruckus since, besides looking incredibly forlorn to be missing out on the sumptuous spread the people were eating.

Cinderella poured her third cup of tea while doing her utmost to tune out the droning, all-too-familiar story of Lady Lace’s son and his feats of engineering. Under her breath, she mimicked the intonation: Simply unbeLIEvable! You’d lose your socks just to SEE! Lady Lace had been on a visit from Shoeberg for three months, now, and Cinderella knew more than she’d ever wanted to know about her adult son, Chip, and his total of two inventions, both related to the enhancement of shoe production. What else?

No one else at the table seemed to notice Cinderella’s mouthed mockery. Rosamund was enamored with the conversation. She patted a napkin at the corners of her mouth, eyes sparkling. Somehow, she could make everyone feel listened to, even if what they had to say was the most mind-numbing, self-serving slop.

“Has your son ever traveled to the City of Chimneys?” the Princess of Reverie asked. “I met the Baron some time ago, and he had some absolutely incredible specimens of technology.”

Cinderella raised a brow at Ros, who just shrugged. One of Snow White’s last to-dos before the sisterhood learned about the Lines Between was to “take care of” that enterprising pig and his industrial city. From what she’d heard, whatever was inside Peter Pig’s brick house was not a cute science fair show.

“No, I can’t say Chip’s made it that far across Haplee,” the Lady said.

“You know, this may be something I shouldn’t mention, but it’s just too exciting not to share. I have it on good authority that the Naked Emperor will be hosting an artistic and scientific exhibition of sorts. He’d first imagined it to be a festival of tailors and clothiers, but after one of my salons, he decided to expand it to include all sorts of categories. I know the Chimney Baron intends to participate. And King Cole of Jubilee, a darling man, truly, he’s written to me asking for music suggestions for band of fiddlers. Perhaps your son should inquire! It should be a thrilling opportunity for an innovating mind.”

The Lady beamed at Rosamund.

“One hears all kinds of things about these famed Reverie salons.” A reedy voice spoke up from across the table.

It immediately raised Cinderella’s hackles. The voice belonged to Emir, an advisor to the King and Queen, who was currently lounging about more than was appropriate for a man of his station. Sure, the sovereigns were doing less hands-on ruling, leaving most of the kingdom’s affairs to the eager Crown Prince – but Emir had taken the opportunity to do next to nothing, as far as Cinderella could tell. His new occupation was simply to orbit the new Princess. Any meal she attended, so did he, meetings be damned; if she was in the library, Emir was in the same shelves with a recommendation for some political strategist’s essay or another; she made a point to avoid lingering in the throne room longer than strictly necessary for politeness, lest he bring her attention yet again to the back wall, and the tiled mosaic of the royal family tree.

Now, he brushed a bejeweled hand through his oily, sand-colored hair, his other hand mopping pita around a bowl of molokhia while he hacked to clear his throat.

“I must say, in all the accounts of these events, I never heard someone describe them quite as the meeting of minds that you tout, Your Highness. How reassuring to know there is an added intellectual merit to these gatherings.”

“Well, of course! It’s been a privilege to pick the minds of some of the most educated men from all corners of the world.”

“I’m sure they arrived with quite a different idea of what they had signed on for. Alas, as you exemplified with the esteemed Emperor, sometimes things turn out differently than one anticipates. It is commendable that though you have not announced success in your long running, speed-courting campaign, you are using the opportunity to hone your mind and prepare yourself to be a well-rounded leader.”

The room’s atmosphere went rancid. Rosamund’s flock of birds became unnervingly quiet as she straightened up and narrowed her eyes. Lady Lace and the sweaty noble sitting next to her hushed as well, hands busy with their food but attention honed in on the conversation unfolding.

“Princess Rosamund is a friend I hold in high esteem. I think she’s plenty competent at what she does, advisor,” Cinderella warned. She was already hot from scalp to sole. If he thought he was going to disrespect her guest, she would have to nail a brand-new thought into his head for him.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I have yet to be introduced to you.” Rosamund actually smiled at him.

Cinderella couldn’t disguise the hatred from her own voice. “Princess Rosamund du Prix of Reverie, this is Emir, officially titled as an advisor to the Crown of Elegy.”

Rosamund held her right hand out, presenting a golden ring with the rose insignia of the Kingdom of Reverie. The advisor leaned over Cinderella and pressed his fleshy lips to the ring with a sneer.

“I am humbled to meet you, Your Highness. As I said, I have heard a great many wondrous things of your tale.”

As he sat back up, he leaned over to whisper in Cinderella’s ear, lifting a fan to mask their faces as though he were trying to keep his remarks subtle. The harsh tone of his whisper was anything but.

“Princess Cinderella, I recall you making mention once that your mother had more children after she, ah, departed from your family, am I correct? Perhaps you could refer her to the salons in Reverie. Your half-brothers might benefit from a new social scene that is unaware of their family status.”

“Lady Indigo is still a noble, Emir,” Cinderella growled.

“Your mother retains her title, no doubt, but I have my ear to the pulse of the conversation at court, Your Highness, and I only have your best intentions at heart. The whisperings around your family’s marital fortune are – and I am only repeating what I hear, Your Highness – that you are all perhaps cursed. They talk of your mother’s three marriages, that she had a child with each, not to mention our own dear Princess ran away three times from the ball before she could be persuaded to accept His Excellency’s hand. Your stepsisters have recruited the help of a reputed matchmaker, have they not? There are few left in the kingdom with the pluck to face the Indigo name. I only mean to suggest your younger brothers try their hand in a pool of fresh fish.”

Her ears and face burned. Tea splashed out of her china cup as she slammed it into the saucer, scalding her hands. She paid no heed. There was only angry static in her head.

Rosamund leaned in, too, so that Cinderella was flanked by stage whisperers.

“I thought I might let you know that we can still hear you, good sir. If you’re discussing secrets.” She straightened back up and brought her voice back to a normal, sing-song pitch.

“It’s hardly fair that you know so much about my tale and I don’t know a single story about you! Please, tell me – what is your own mother like? I’m sure she must be proud of the work you do. Oh, now that I think of it, what kind of work do you get up to? The advisors in Reverie never have the time to sit at luncheon with me, even in such prosperous times as this. It always seems they have some meeting to attend, or a ream of papers to whisk from one part of the city to another. It’s amazing you can find the time to leisure with us.”

Emir’s composure didn’t visibly drop, but Cinderella knew that particular pause and cock of the head. He was pivoting wildly in a situation he had thought he was leading.

“Our kingdom is privileged to have three fine heads of state in the King, Queen, and Crown Prince, as well as a robust council of advisors. The burden of leadership is spread so no one man should drown.”

“Four, by my count.”

“Pardon?”

“She said there are four heads of state, Emir. Including myself. The Princess.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense, only that, because of your, ah, humble upbringing, there are many things you must learn about your new station. Remember how amused we all were at your insistence to help the help after meals? It was months before I could convince you to leave them to their honorable tasks. It is my privilege to educate you on these matters.”

“The Cinderella I know is quite capable in many areas necessary for statecraft, advisor,” Rosamund piped up. Her eyes were expertly mapping the conversation in much the same way they had in the garden during tea.

“How did you come to know the Princess Cinderella? I was under the impression that this was the first time Elegy has had the honor to host you.”

“I met Princess Rosamund a long time ago,” Cinderella said, cutting her eyes at Ros. She hoped her intention was clear to her friend. There was absolutely no way she was going to let Emir, of all people, sniff out the true nature of their existence by way of being a nosy bitch.

“Yes! My friends and I travel extensively. We happened to pass through Cinderella’s village on our travels, and her stepmother offered us hospitality. She made a delightful lamb stew.”

“Ah, of course, the charitable Princess of Reverie’s penchant for spending time with homelier folk is well-known.”

“Many of my cherished friends are not what one might call classically educated, or well-bred, but I owe them my life all the same. There are many valuable skills one can hone outside of a tutor’s classroom.”

A caterpillar could gasp and it would have been heard in that room. The sweaty noble got sweatier. Lady Lace’s eyes darted between the three of them. She’d stopped pretending to be busy with her food long ago, and now her napkin was pressed to her mouth as she watched the mess unfolding.

Cinderella thought about showing them exactly what “valuable skills” Rosamund was talking about. Emir could be a pink spray across the marble before any of them could flutter a lash. She could slice his fish lips from his face with the butter knife without getting a spot of blood on any of their precious luxury garments.

And she could prove him right by doing so. At the end of the day, at the nasty, wormy core of his words, he was right. This wasn’t her court to threaten and throw around. If she gave in to the urge to tell him off, there’d be no predicting how it would ripple out to affect the royal family, and the kingdom at large. She knew better than to think any peace was stable or permanent. Their world had cycled through light and shadow countless times. Anything could snuff out the current light, and she was a bumbling idiot with a bucket of water.

Emir sniffed, dipped his fingers in a small silver bowl of water, wiped them dry on his napkin. He appeared perfectly unruffled.

“I would never dare argue against that. I only mean to say that once one carries the burden of the crown, rough-and-tumble street smarts may not be enough to bear it. Once again, I must commend you on your efforts to broaden your mind. I predict you’ll be a fine ruler. Princess Cinderella is fortunate to have your wisdom available to fill the gaps in her own.”

Fuck the ripples.

She slammed her hand on the table and stood up.

“You can shove your fortune up your ass, right next to the stick you mother-”

A swarm saved her. The dining room was a whirl of wings, beaks, claws, and talons. Screaming nobles threw their hands to cover their heads as excrement rained down and small woodland creatures scrambled over them and the table.

It only lasted for a few seconds. The birds resettled on the roof, one owl resting on Rosamund’s shoulder. Her dress skirts fluttered with the last of the squeaking animals’ retreat.

A small, confused whine filled the chamber. Emir was left covered in shit: his hair, his tailored velvet blouse, his hands and their many rings, all painted a shitty white. Every dish that had been set in front of him was overturned, their contents spilled across his lap. All else remained untouched, save for what the guests had disturbed in their panic.

“I’m so sorry, sir, my flock gets startled sometimes. The birds have a high-fiber diet.” Ros stroked the neck of the owl on her shoulder.

Emir gaped at her until a glob fell into his mouth. He spat and sputtered to his feet, glaring daggers as he made his retreat.

Chapter Text

For an awkward beat, no one spoke. Cinderella could only stare at Ros in awe, glee, and bafflement. She waved a Prestidigitation over the mess of upturned plates and the shit-slick space where Emir had been. The owl was leaning into Rosamund’s scritches with it eyes half-closed in bliss, trilling a whoooo.

Lady Lace finally cleared her throat.

“Well, it was certainly an exciting meal. An honor to meet you, Princess Rosamund, and thank you for the recommendation for Chip! I must inquire for him. He won’t be missing this opportunity! I will take my leave, now. Your Highness.” She curtsied to Cinderella.

The sweaty noble bowed, grunted something genial, and scuttled off with the Lady to spread this latest nugget of gossip.

Rosamund, Cinderella, and the hidden servants were left. The only sounds were clicking talons on the roof tiles, the cooing owl getting its reward in scratches, and the subtle shifting of feet in unseen corners.

The whole lunch had been absolutely… absurd. And now there was no evidence of them happening at all. The laugh bubbled up from the bottom of her feet, and soon Cinderella was roaring with laughter. Ros giggled along, slightly unsure.

“Thank you,” Cinderella hiccupped, “I think you might have just saved someone’s neck.”

“He could use a shave, for sure.”

That set her off even worse, and she had to sit with her elbows on her knees until the laughter stopped possessing her. Finally, she sighed and wiped her face.

Rosamund cupped a hand on Cinderella’s elbow. Her eyebrows creased with concern as she squeezed, leaning her weight into the touch a bit. “Are you alright? The nerve of him, I can’t believe…”

“He’s just like that.” Cinderella grabbed Rosamund’s hand to shift their position a little, enough that Ros’s hand now looped through her arm, and popped back up. “Can I interest you in a tour? I want to be anywhere but here right now.”

“Absolutely! Is there a route for your favorite tapestries?”

“I can come up with something.”

On their way out, Cinderella caught more than one grateful smile from servants who shuffled out of their hiding places to clear the meal, robed in white tunics with braids of Elegian blue-and gold. She still held a deep-seated shame at leaving any of her mess for someone else to take care of, no matter what assurances she got that they were “honored to do so” and well-compensated for their work. Her own hands were haunted by the callouses and scalds from lifetimes past. Thankless labor never felt like honor to her.

The least she could do was learn the names of all the staff (right now, Dimitri and Zaynab were stacking the plates; Miriam balanced platters of uneaten food along her arms) and join them in tasks when she found herself idle. Most days, she found herself idle. And a little Prestidigitation took nothing at all.

She hesitated at the entrance, but let Rosamund’s excited chatter propel her away from the chores. Dimitri waved her on with a wink.

They hit all the highlights, starting with the one in the hall just past the dining court. Birds and fish danced in a repeating pattern of burgundy, sky blue, and emerald. Silver accents implied sun glinting on a pond’s surface.

The gallery proper was filled with wondrous artifacts: statues, solid gold vases, enormous paintings, and a scattering of intricate tapestries. Rosamund gasped when Cinderella pointed to what she considered the crown jewel of the collection.

A village, dotted with cheerful houses and bending palm trees, was woven into a hillside. Underneath one tree, an elderly woman raised her hands in imitation of a monster, telling a story to a circle of children arranged in front of her. A young goatherd with a head wrapped in white led a dozen goats to the hills.

“Look closely at the village streets. See the woman with the basket on her head?”

“Oh, how did they manage that? I feel like I can see her tiny little smile.”

“As far as I can tell, it’s some kind of witchcraft.”

She kept her face thoughtful and composed, as though this was a conclusion she’d come to after structured, rigorous study, and not an exaggerated joke. Rosamund puzzled over the piece more, wrinkling her nose and brow as she searched in vain.

“I don’t have Pinocchio’s eye for magic, sadly. Still, it’s absolutely charming. I think this one is my favorite.”

“You haven’t seen The Tiller yet.”

“By all means, change my mind.”

The ballroom was situated directly across the central gardens from the gallery. They strolled through the orchard, brushing by branches laden with ripening fruit. Cinderella waved to the head gardener, Sara, who hoisted a basket of tools to her brawny shoulder and beamed back.

Rosamund’s birds chirped pleasantly as they strolled the grassy path. Three cups of tea in, the day no longer oppressed Cinderella’s senses. She could drink in the sun’s touch to her dark skin. When they paused so Rosamund could pluck some grapes from an arbor, Cinderella leaned her head back and took a deep inhale of the rich aromas of summer in the palace – sun-warmed stone, blooming mimosas, freshly-ripened mangoes, spicy incense smoke. Beneath all of the marked differences between her home back in the village and her new abode here, there was still the steadiness of the seasons. Summer always smelled the same.

“May I ask you a question?” Rosamund blurted.

Cinderella kept her head tilted to the sun. “Shoot.”

“It seems like a sensitive topic, and I never want to overstep, especially not when – what was his name? Emir? – is so nasty with it; so, of course if you aren’t comfortable answering, I wouldn’t be offended. In fact, I hope I don’t offend you.”

“You want to know about my mother.”

“Yes.” Rosamund sighed, relieved. “But you don’t have to tell me! I’m just hopelessly curious about what’s different in your story now.”

“How much do you already know? Pinocchio mentioned that the six of you had been to… what was left of the cottage. And obviously, you had my book.”

“Ah. That we did.”

They both cringed at the memory of the betrayal in Snowhold. Rosamund turned as pink as her gown and closely inspected her handful of grapes. Cinderella rolled her neck from side to side before finally shaking her head with a smirk.

“I still have to look at that damn cat all the time because of Minerva’s little matchmaking scheme. With full honesty, and knowing that I regret a lot of what happened before, especially in the Canonade: killing him was immensely satisfying and I sometimes think about doing it again.”

“If I’m being completely honest as well, I don’t think Pib can be killed in a way that truly matters. Not anymore. We may have created a monster.”

They chuckled lightly, but it was enough to dissipate the taut atmosphere. The other princess finally looked her in the eye.

“The mice in the cottage told me what they knew, which, for very traumatized little rodents, was a tremendous feat.”

“I always felt bad for those poor fuckers. None of us asked for any of that.”

“I promise none of us read it.”

Cinderella’s grin slid away. The weight of the earnest insistence caught the Princess of Elegy off guard for the third time since the carriage door had opened only this morning. Rosamund was being more than honest. She had seen something that Cinderella had kept unsaid, and laid it bare in front of them. It was a simple thing, and really, not a crazy hangup to have – it was reasonable to be uncomfortable with someone being able to read a version of her life’s story with all the details picked for thought-provoking value by some entity with no stakes in the outcome aside from their amusement and some “lesson”. Reasonable people like their privacy.

The caveat was that she hadn’t said that. Specifically, she’d said nothing. She’d tried to slide assumption in another direction: that she didn’t care, or perhaps she was upset, but only about that stupid cat attacking her with her own book, or maybe because they’d tried to keep her it from her. Rosamund had side-stepped her traps and landed squarely on the core of it. She saw Cinderella’s fear for what it was and met it head on. It was the feeling of peeling back a bandage left too long on a wound, pulling off the scab to expose the tender, raw skin beneath.

Just like before, her instinct was to bolt. Turn and run from the nauseating reality of her own fear, a fear so small and so stupid for a warrior. A princess.

Rosamund’s free hand hovered between them, an aborted movement to grab her hand before she remembered that morning’s tea.

“When we had the chance to give you your book,” Ros said, “all I wanted was for you to finally have it back in your hands so you could decide what was in it and who would see it. I wish everything could have gone differently. You’re not the only one with regrets about what happened. But I promised to help you figure out your story, and I made it before the Canonade. I made that promise back in the tower, when a knight in shining armor revealed a path in the briars. You showed me that I was not the only one being choked by destiny. I can’t ever thank you enough for that, so the least I can do is let the most important version of your story be the one that you decide to tell me.”

Her hand still hovered: a question, an offer.

Cinderella stared at it while her stomach roiled. Her mind overlaid the bloody image of that same hand bursting with thorns.

And then it was overlaid with the image of the skin soft, unviolated by scars; a hand that belonged to a princess who’d just woken up in a tower for the second time she could remember, in a space between worlds, at the top of a set of stairs that served as a reminder of just how much work was expected to be worthy of the treasure behind the door. That Rosamund had clung to the fragments of a burning narrative. And that Cinderella – the warrior in glass, the battle-hardened world-hopper, sure of her mission and her purpose – had given that Rosamund wisdom: we write our stories.

It looked like Rosamund had taken it to heart even as Cinderella’s surety and purpose had crumbled.

Perhaps it was time to clean the wound and lay a fresh bandage. Cinderella clasped the offered pale fingers in her own, which seemed to relax the other princess.

“Thank you, Ros. If you swear to never call me a knight in shining armor again, I’ll tell you about my mother.”

“She asks yet another vow from the poor damsel!”

“Consider it part of your thanks.”

Cinderella led them to the bench beneath the arbor. The air beneath the shade was heady and cool. She let a moment stretch before she spoke, trying to make sure her layered memories were shuffled to the right arrangement for this life. It should have been easier. This was the only life she could recall where her mother actually survived past Cinderella’s infancy; unfortunately, she’d spent so much of her previous lives dreaming of what could have been that memory and wish were often equally tangible to her mind.

“Okay. Once upon a time, a woman named Veya Indigo died. Then another time, and another, and all of them, because apparently, I needed to learn lessons in order to teach them. Until this one, when I guess she just… never needed to die, so she didn’t? She gets to live, I get to have a mother, and come to find out, she and my father don’t like each other. Maybe they did at one point. I don’t know. All I know is between one week and the next, I had to send letters to my mother in the next town over instead of calling for her from the next room. She met a man she liked enough to marry again, and then didn’t like him anymore, and then again. You heard Emir. She can’t seem to settle.

“I still saw her; it’s not like she stopped being my mother. It’s more than I’ve ever gotten before. I don’t know. None of the situation mattered to society all that much until I married the Prince. Suddenly, everything my family does has something to do with my ‘fitness’ for the role. They think I’m going jump ship because it’s too hard for a country wench like me, and they’ll be left embarrassed.”

“You’re hardly the first commoner to be married into royalty. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal here.”

“It’s not. Emir has made it his personal mission to make my life miserable, either because he’s still bitter about me leaving the ball, his precious prince isn’t giving him all of his attentions anymore, or he truly thinks my family is cursed. It doesn’t matter any which way.”

“He’s stepping far outside his own bounds. You’re the princess in this situation.”

“By title, yes.”

“So, tell him he’ll lose his position if he doesn’t bugger off!”

“Ros, this isn’t my court. He isn’t my advisor, and the kingdom has relied on his council for longer than I’ve been alive. If the new little commoner girl starts crying because the most veteran advisor is giving her advice, it doesn’t just look bad on me, it looks bad on the entire royal family, and my own by extension. Charlotte and Eloise are trying to secure their own matches right now. It isn’t fair to them if my complaints start hurting their already low chances even more. I just want this good stretch to last. I wasn’t trained to navigate this battlefield like you were. As awful as he is, Emir is right about a few things. You have a thing or two you could teach me in the ways of propriety.”

“I think you’re perfectly charming.”

“That’s different from proper, Princess.”

“Alright, if you think it would help, I’ll dig some of my old finishing books out.”

“Do I get to call you Miss?”

Ros shuddered in horror. “Absolutely not. If I feel like I’m becoming anything like my tutor, I’m cancelling classes for good.”
Cinderella took her own handful of berries and popped one in her mouth. Sweet summer fruit burst between her teeth.

“One more possibly sensitive question?” Rosamund asked.

“I doubt you can get more sensitive than my mom. Go for it.”

“Will you read me the story you’ve written in your book?”

From its place deep in her bones, fear lashed out and sucked all the warmth from the day. The berry turned bitter in her mouth. Cinderella fought against every screaming urge to bolt up from the bench.

This was what she had come for, after all. This was the promise. And Cinderella had done things far more terrifying than making life decisions. She’d helped deliver death to a knight who had outrun it for eternity. She’d slept in the same castle as an army of ghosts. She’d told Rapunzel to her face once that her dessert was undercooked. If she could survive all of that, she could tell her friend the truth.

She took a deep breath and leaned her elbows on her knees. The other princess gently threaded her hand through Cinderella’s, who hadn’t noticed that she was clenching them so hard. She her eyes shut against the memory of thorns shoving through Rosamund’s bloody flesh to keep it mobile, defying death mid-battle.

“I haven’t written anything,” she whispered, trying and failing to look the princess in the eye – Rosamund, who was graceful, beautiful, cunning, whose talents were as innate as they were honed, who had remade the world and come out the other side to make sure strokes on the page.

“Well, that’s alright,” Rosamund said. “Maybe we could just look at what’s already on the pages together.”

Cinderella shook her head.

“It’s been with my mother since I got married. I never even opened it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m one of the last people who should be touching that ink.”

“Oh, Cinderella.”

“Please don’t patronize me.” Now she stood up from the bench and paced, only realizing in its absence how much Rosamund’s touch had been grounding her.

“You seem to have it figured out. Everyone else seems to know exactly how their book should go, and where they should start, and where to place an ending. Everyone had a once upon a time they dreamed of. We didn’t have another dream. I wasn’t ready for a blank page.”

The only thing she’d ever truly dreamed of was a mother resurrected. In the Times of Shadow, that wasn’t an option. So she’d shut out the idea of options and marched the only path the sisterhood had seen: end the world, end the suffering.

Rosamund looked perplexed. “That’s nonsense. I don’t have a thing figured out. We are all trying this for the first time.”

“It isn’t my first time, though, Ros, and I was doing everything I could for so long to make sure that last run really would be my last. The last. The end. Now we have another fucking time to be upon and I can’t touch the damned ink. My whole story is going to escape me again while I’m paralyzed with indecision.”

Something soft brushed against her foot. She looked down and saw a field mouse, looping between her feet like a cat. It hopped onto her foot, rose on its hind legs, and looked at her directly. Intelligently. Her heart jumped into her mouth for a moment – was it going to speak? Had her fairy godmother returned to inflict more needless suffering?

The mouse didn’t speak. It just stood on her foot and looked at her for a long moment before it patted her leg with a tiny paw.

The warrior of glass finally cracked. Cinderella squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to block the tears. Soft arms embraced her. She let herself cry into Rosamund’s shoulder, quietly, wrapping her arms around her waist and squeezing her closer to replace the dread with her rosy scent. The other princess squeezed back.

“I’ll say it again: I don’t have the foggiest idea how any of this is meant to work. You think my book doesn’t have scribbled-out lines? I’m unhappy with many of the pages I’ve filled, to be quite frank. But there’s always the next page. It will stay blank for as long as you need it to, and no one else is going to put anything there in the meantime. If it was easy to make these kinds of decisions, I imagine you’d get quite bored.”

Slowly, Cinderella calmed. Shame crept over her. Her outburst seemed selfish and silly, now. Of course she wasn’t the only unsure person in Haplee. And of course Rosamund knew how she felt, because that was the whole point of her visit.

She pulled back just enough to finally meet Rosamund’s hopelessly kind gaze. Some of the shame melted away at the pure understanding in her eyes.

“You’re right.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“I apologize for snapping at you. It’s a little selfish, considering our -”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. As my friends and I say, stray together. You’re not in any of this alone, and we can help each other figure out how to navigate whatever world it is we created.”

Cinderella smiled and stepped back to compose herself, swiping her face and heaving a breath.

“Let’s finish the tour,” she said, holding her arm out to gesture back to the path. Rosamund nodded cheerily and skipped out of the shade.

The trees in the rest of the garden were aflutter with chatty birds, a new flurry of them bursting from the direction of the courtyard. Ros snatched another handful of grapes.

“These are delightful! I just can’t get enough. What variety are they? I’d love to grow some in our own gardens if we can.”

“Sara will be able to answer that better than I can. Would you like to ask her?”

“If it’s not too much trouble! I wouldn’t want to interrupt her work.”

“Trust me, she’d love to talk your ear off about her fruits.”

She led the way to the greenhouse tucked in the corner of the orchard. As she’d expected, Sara was more than happy to talk shop. Cinderella leaned against the doorframe and watched them chatter excitedly about harvesting windows, soil types, and what spells to use to keep the bugs from eating the leaves. She felt a bit raw, still, but her heart was as warm as her skin. In just a few short hours, Rosamund was swiftly and expertly brushing away the layers of black ash she’d buried herself under. Her shame, her regret, her bitterness, her despair and dread were all cowering in the forceful presence of the Princess of Reverie’s unadulterated hope.

She was smiling at nothing in particular when she noticed Mona sprinting down the rows of fruit trees towards them, disturbing a few birds.

Cinderella left the startled gardener and other princess behind and strode quickly to meet her handmaiden.

“Mona, what -”

“Your Highness, the Prince has returned.”