The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (3 page)

The girl with the heart-shaped face bursts in, carrying a large jug, a pail, and some flannel cloths.

“Miss Katriona!” she gasps, dipping into a brief curtsy. “I am so, so sorry that I’m late this morning. Miss Bianca’s needing a new hairstyle, and I couldn’t do it up to her satisfaction.”

The first page of the book pops up in my head. The girl, with her long honey-colored hair hanging in a braid down her back and dressed in a black cap and white apron, looks remarkably similar to Cinderella in the picture.

Oh my God, this girl has to be Cinderella. I’ve found her.

“Miss Katriona?” Cinderella says softly, plucking at her apron strings. “Are you mad at me?”

It takes like two seconds before my brain registers that I am now Katriona, not Kat.

“Um, don’t worry about it,” I say, waving my hand. “I just spaced out for a moment.”

Now her forehead puckers. “Spaced out?”

Oops. I guess their language differs a lot from modern American. “Nothing. I just wanted to say I’m not mad at all.”

Seeing that she has set the jug on the dresser, I move toward her. This ancient room without central heating is still making me shiver. Steam rises from the jug, and I could do with a hot cup of water.

“Excuse me, but did you forget the cups?”

“Cups?” Her eyes widen.

“Yeah,” I say, and mentally punch my brain. From now on, only ‘Yes’ shall pass my lips. “I’m rather thirsty. If it’s not too much trouble, can you get me a cup?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. Did I say something wrong again? My stomach flutters and there’s still a slight throbbing in my head.

It seems hours until she opens her mouth. “This water is for your daily wash, Miss Katriona. It’s not meant for consumption.”

Oops.

“Maybe we should ask for a doctor. It seems that your memory has been deeply affected by that fall down the stairs.”

“No!” I quickly say. If I have to finish the story, I don’t want to be labeled a lunatic. “I’m fine, I just need a little time. I...er...my memory will heal soon. Really.”

“If you insist.” She still looks doubtful. “Does your head still hurt? I can bring you some salve.”

Actually there’s still a dull pain, but the less trouble the better. “No, don’t trouble yourself.”

Cinderella starts pouring water from the jug into this large bowl on the dressing table. Curls of steam rise from the bowl. She then dips the flannel cloth into the water, wrings it, takes a bar of soap, and looks at me expectantly. Since I don’t dare ask more questions, in case she thinks I’m really crazy and goes for a doctor, I try to act like I have done this before.

“Your arm, miss.”

She starts to rub the damp cloth with some soap over my right arm, dries it with another cloth, and then starts on my left arm. It’s kind of awkward in the beginning, especially when I have to put out my foot, but she’s so deft and capable that the wash is finished sooner than I expected. She tosses the cloths into the pail, which is now filled with soapy water.

I rack my brains, trying to remember her name. Last night…there was an older servant called Martha, who thought I lost my memory, and then Cinderella told me her name is Elle Thatcher. Got it.

“Um...Elle?” I venture.

“Yes, miss?”

“How long have you been working as a servant?”

“For as long as I’ve been here, miss.”

Huh? But Cinderella isn’t born a servant. Isn’t it after her mom or dad dies that the stepmother starts treating her like dirt? I don’t get why she’s acting so respectful and polite and servant-ish toward me. I wonder why she doesn’t resent calling her own stepsister “Miss.” But then, in the story she was always kind of a wimp anyway.

“Don’t you ever resent it? Don’t you mind working as a servant here?”

A slight frown creases her forehead.

“I am not sure what you mean,” she says. “Madam has been generous enough to offer me shelter.”

And then she goes to this armchair on the right side of my bed, where a heap of white garments hang over the back. First I have to put on a cotton gown with a plunging neckline, which Elle calls a chemise. Then comes a knee-length garment I have to pull on up my legs, called “drawers.” Silk stockings go on after the drawers, and these stockings are held in place by garters.

I can’t believe this. Garters. Mom would have a fit if she saw me.

But that isn’t the end. Elle produces a corset that looks like a nightmare. Hourglass in shape, massive steel boning around the ribs, a maze of criss-crossing laces in the back.

Nooooooooo!

“Can we, um, do without that thing?” I whisper. Now I fully understand why Keira Knightley in
Pirates of the Caribbean
detests wearing corsets.

“I beg your pardon?”

Before I repeat my question, Elle slips the corset around me. Surprisingly, it isn’t as tight as I expected. It fits my torso in all the right places, the structure snug but not constricting. While I marvel at the comfort, Elle brings out two petticoats—one of plain white cotton, the other made of silk with frills and lace and flounces along the hem.

By this time, I’m sure I look like a snowman.

Elle goes to the wardrobe and opens it. My jaw drops on the floor. A sea of silk and velvet, patterned and embroidered, dazzles me. Gorgeous dresses, all of them trimmed with lace, sewn with pearls, adorned with bows. I feel like an ugly duckling offered a chance to be a swan.

“Here, miss.” Elle pulls out a shimmering dress of silver-lined silk. The hem of the dress actually trails several yards on the floor, making it look more like a wedding dress.

“Um...I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“But you have etiquette lessons today,” Elle says. “Master Pierre has instructed that a longer dress should be used for simulating your presentation to the queen.”

Presentation? To the queen? What am I getting myself into?

At first I’m awkward having someone to help me dress, but the gown looks so expensive and fragile, I don’t want to damage it with my clumsiness. A layer of gauze covers the skirt. Pearl buttons run down the front. Furthermore, when I glimpse Elle lacing up my back, I know there’s no way I could do it by myself. There must be a hundred hooks on the bodice! When she’s finally done, I position myself in front of the mirror. I don’t look bad—it’d be hard to appear ugly in such a lovely gown, but how am I to walk in it?

“ELLE!” Another voice penetrates the air—shrill, angry, demanding. “Where did you misplace my pearl necklace? I can’t find it anywhere!”

“Coming!” Elle gives the sash a final tug, securing it round my waist. “Miss Bianca is needing me. I’ll be back later to do your hair.”

Bianca. That must be the other stepsister...oops, my sister now. Hearing that bossy voice travel through the wall, I’m not too eager to meet her.

“Don’t worry about it.” I reach for the brush. I may not know how to put on this awfully long dress, but I know how to brush my own hair. “I can manage myself. Thank you, Elle.”

She gives me a bemused look. “Did you just thank me?”

“Because you helped me dress?” I say, bemused as well. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She frowns slightly. “But I’m a servant and you never...um, never mind. You’re welcome, Miss Katriona.”

Judging from Bianca’s demanding tone, I guess Elle never expects us to express gratitude. Geez. I suppose this is a different world (I bet their constitution doesn’t say all men are created equal), but is it that difficult to say a simple ‘Thank you?’

I move toward the dressing table so I can sit and brush my hair in front of the mirror. I step on the hem of my gown—I wobble—I grab the bedpost for support.

Geez. Being a noble lady is as hard as the stories say.

FOUR

I go down to breakfast in the silver dress. It takes me ages. I can’t take a step without looking down at my dress. Briefly I wonder if another tumble down the stairs would transport me back to America. Still, I decide not to risk it.

Wonder what the madam—oops, Mother—is like? What will Bianca be like?

I think the stairs will be carpeted, since my room is so luxurious, but they turn out to be cold naked marble. Polished so thoroughly that treading on them feels slippery.

When I reach the bottom, I breathe a sigh of relief. Never in my life have I been so happy to get down the stairs in one piece.

“Katriona!”

A tall slender woman sweeps over to me. She’s beautiful, though judging from the fine lines on her neck, she has seen better years. Her long gown swishes as she walks, and her heeled slippers click against the floor. I don’t know how she manages to walk so fast without tripping. In a few seconds, she has grabbed my shoulders and turned me around.

“What did you do with your hair?”

Oops. When Elle went off to Bianca, I found there weren’t any rubber bands or hair bands available—only ribbons and pins in the carved ivory box on the table. Instinct told me ponytails should be too casual, so I opted for a simple half ponytail instead, pulling the top layer of my hair into a tie and leaving the rest flow down my back.

“I…uh…decided to try a new look?” I attempt a disarming smile.

“And don’t jerk or wobble when you come down the stairs. Have you forgotten your lessons? Always glide like your feet are on clouds.” The woman shakes her head. “I’ve told you countless times—you must emulate your sister. If your gait were half as good as hers, you’d have more suitors to choose from.”

“Don’t bother wasting your time with her, Mother. Some things are born, not made.”

A female voice that I recognize. This time it’s oozing with contempt and snot. Bianca, my “sister,” descends the stairs with the air of an empress.

Holy cow. I can’t speak, even though I had fully planned to retort. Bianca is so gorgeous that she could star in Hollywood with terrible acting. Seriously. You can’t tell we’re sisters. Her eyes are dark and sparkling like large obsidians, framed by sooty lashes that are so long and thick, one might take them for artificial eyelashes in our modern age. Her face is oval but not too long, and her lips look red enough without lipstick. Oh, and the way she moves—elegant, sweeping, confident. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn, though completely lacking the sweetness.

“For pity’s sake, Katriona,” she says, reaching the final step. “You look like you’ve never seen me before. Did Elle mess up my hair?” And she pulls a mirror from her pocket. Wow. She carries a mirror in her own house.

I clear my throat. “Nothing, Bianca. I’m just thinking about...” my stomach happens to rumble at the moment, “breakfast.”

She raises a perfect eyebrow. “Since when do you take an interest in food? Haven’t you vowed to consume only one meal a day until you shrink to my size?”

“I did?” Geez, no wonder I look thinner. So it’s done on purpose.

A light pattering of footsteps echoes in the hall. Elle, along with a few other similarly dressed servants in black caps and white aprons, approaches us and curtsies.

“Madam, Miss Bianca, Miss Katriona. Breakfast is ready to be served. Would you please come to the dining room?”

“I had set strict rules for breakfast to start at eight o’clock sharp,” Madam says with a disapproving glance at the servants. “If you again fail to pay attention to my orders, I shall have to release you from my service. What use is a servant if she cannot do exactly what she is told?”

I narrow my eyes, feeling indignant for Elle. It should be Bianca at fault for hogging her assistance. Actually, why is Elle doing so much? She cleaned my room, helped me and Bianca dress up, and apparently she’s also doing some cooking, or at least laying out the table. I long to ask why my “mother” is working her servants to death, but the words die on my tongue. Like I need to attract more attention.

It’s a fictional world
, Kat. There’s no need to be so into it.

We enter the dining room. I have to restrain myself from gaping at the extravagance of the room. Floral print wallpaper, a crystal chandelier hanging over the table, and delicately-painted china cups and plates and bowls, paired with silver spoons and forks. Servants pull out chairs and wait on us. It’s like being at a fancy restaurant, minus a pianist or harpist.

Bianca’s elbow brushes against a folded napkin, and it falls on the polished marble floor. Elle picks it up, and Bianca takes it without saying thank you or even sparing her a look. So that’s why Elle was surprised when I thanked her. Apparently it’s normal to treat a servant like she’s an inferior human being. Oh, and when Elle stands beside Bianca, it’s SO obvious that Bianca’s the star. There’s no comparison. Elle’s pretty, in a girl-next-door sense, but Bianca’s breathtaking. She could stun everyone at the ball, just like she stunned me a few seconds earlier. If she looks like a goddess in her own house, then how much attention will she get when she goes to the ball? Oh God. Whoever heard of the stepsister being prettier than Cinderella?

“Coffee or tea, miss?” A servant offers.

“Orange juice, please,” I say absentmindedly. At that look of surprise (it is becoming kind of familiar now), I realize that people don’t drink juice for breakfast here.

“Um, coffee. With cream and sugar.”

Across the table, Bianca raises another eyebrow. I’m not sure if she’s surprised by my blunder, or simply surprised that I want cream and sugar.

Whatever. I’m not the one with the mission to attract Prince Charming. My stomach is rumbling again, loudly, so I help myself to scrambled eggs, sausages, and bacon dripping with grease. Who cares about dieting?

Speaking of the prince...

I clear my throat. “Will there be a ball at the palace soon?”

Silence.

Madam looks at me like I’m crazy. “They just held one a month ago.”

“For the queen’s birthday,” Bianca says. “Goodness, you were never bright, but I didn’t know your brain could malfunction.”

I ignore the insult. “So there isn’t any chance of a ball being held in the near future?”

“A ball takes months to prepare, you daft child,” Madam says. “Why are you so keen to find out?”