Sinful Cinderella

Stepmother stands at my bed, unfolding a bright quilt. My old one is slung on her arm. “Hello, my darling.” She smiles at me. “I noticed your cover has grown thin so I brought you a new one. The nights are becoming chilly.”

Nice alibi. “Thank you, Stepmother,” I say while scanning the room. My rats must have taken refuge behind the trunks and broken tables at the other end of the attic. Good boys.

I keep my eyes on Stepmother because I don’t want her to catch me looking at the cupboard. She saunters toward me with a carefully poised smile. “I think you’ll be more comfortable now.”

“That’s very nice of you, considering the awful headache you have.” I say it kindly but hope she gets my meaning. I’m not fooled.

She regards me steadily. “Yes, it lifted just after you left. I notice that’s often the case. But I’d still like the powder to save for next time.”

I hand her the parcel. She hooks her long fingers over it, still watching my face.

“What happened to your eyes?” she asks softly. “They look different today.”

I play dumb. “Different?”

“Yes, more... blue.”

“Maybe it’s the light-”

“It’s not the light.” Her voice becomes strained, like thin ice under a boot. “And your hair.... Every year it seems to gets lighter. Your father was not so blonde.”

Ah. So she noticed. I was never sure. The changes I made to my appearance were gradual, since white magic always took ages to save. Loony and Moody, I know, never noticed, too dense and selfish to see past their own freckles. But at times I have caught Stepmother looking at me, a question folding a line in her brow.

I shrug. “Maybe the sun did it. All those long walks you love to send me on.”

Stepmother’s eyes narrow and her tone takes a sharper turn. “What’s in the cupboard, Cinderella?”

“What cupboard?”

“Do not play games with me. The one you keep locked at all times.”

“Oh that?” My mind dives for a quick answer. “Nothing. That cupboard has been locked for ages. I lost the key years ago.”

“You mean the key you wear on a string beneath your dress?”

I want to curse. There are times when the key slips out and dangles, like when I’m scrubbing floors or bending to light fires. The old hawk’s eyes are sharp.

I can’t think of an answer. Her lips curl up in the barest smile. “Open the cupboard.”

I meet her frosty gray eyes. “No.”

This surprises her. She is used to docility from me. “What?”

“It’s my cupboard.”

“It’s my house.”

“No!” My hands start to shake. I want so badly to strike her. “It’s my house. Mine and my father’s. You are the interlopers!”

Stepmother looks stung, offended but not hurt. I can’t hurt her because she doesn’t love me. Only the people we care about can hurt us.

“Stupid child. You understand nothing!” She swishes past me to descend the attic stairs.

“Get out of my room,” I say to her back. “And leave me alone so I can finish making these hideous dresses for your foul... hideous... DAUGHTERS!” I screech the last words just as Stepmother closes the door.