The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (6 page)

First, persuade the prince or someone in the royal family to give the ball and tell the prince he’s got to find his bride by then. (Yeah, considering what Bianca and Claire describe of the prince, this is gonna be reeeeeally simple.)

Second, find out where the fairy godmother is. (Actually, why the heck doesn’t she appear in the story earlier? How can she just stay away while Cinderella works her ass off and only pop up when she needs to go to the ball?)

Third, arrange for the fairy godmother to show up AFTER Bianca (would that include me?) has gone to the ball. Cross fingers and pray that the prince will fall for Elle. (He has to. He must.)

I wad the parchment up in a ball and toss it into the waste paper basket. Then, on second thought, I scoop out the ball and throw it in the fire instead. God forbid that Martha or Elle come across my writing.

I can’t do this. This is impossible.

Martha comes to help me dress in the morning. I hope she doesn’t notice my eyes. I’m pretty sure it was way past midnight when I fell asleep. I’d been tossing and turning, trying to devise a way to finish the story, and the best I could come up with was making the fairy godmother my priority. In a situation like this, I need magic.

“Where’s Elle?”

“She went home today,” Martha says, buttoning up the back of my dress. “It’s her day off.”

“She...has another home?”

“ ‘Course she does, miss. Her mother and two brothers live in another part of town. I thought you’d know that already.”

Huh? Cinderella’s mother is alive and she has two brothers? Isn’t Lady Bradshaw supposed to be her stepmother? Then…it hits me. Elle’s last name is Thatcher. Not Bradshaw. That explains her other family.

Martha meets my eyes, and I can see that she’s frowning. Probably she’s still suspecting I have lost my mind. To get her out of the room as soon as possible, I shrug and tell her I need to practice the presentation before Pierre arrives.

The mystery of Elle’s parentage bothers me. I can’t find the godmother unless I can ascertain who her parents are. There is this adaptation of
Cinderella
where the godmother is a family friend, only she hides her magic so humans won’t bother her. Yeah, right. I should go to everyone in the household and ask if one of them is a fairy in disguise.

It’s too risky. Suppose the fairy godmother is still out there somewhere? I can’t be sure she will automatically pop up before the ball. If there is a ball. I still have to work on that. From what Claire and Bianca said of the prince yesterday, I’m not optimistic. Apparently he isn’t keen on marrying, and even if he is, he’s expected to marry another aristocrat.

Oh God, what can I do?

Two hours later, I’m in the hansom, a two-seated buggy half the size of our carriage. I don’t know how I did it—maybe I finally had a bit of luck, because I’d had none so far. I just tell the coachman, Van, that I want to find Elle. He seems reluctant to drive me. Turns out he’s concerned about driving me around the city alone.

“You ought not be going out unchaperoned, Miss Katriona,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It ain’t proper.”

Unchaperoned, my foot. Next thing I’ll be donning a veil and keeping my head covered.

In the end, I manage to bribe him with a lock of Bianca’s hair. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Van is in luuurve with her. Unless Van turns out to be the missing heir to some kingdom, Bianca will continue to treat him like dirt.

Lady Bradshaw has taken Bianca shopping (as if she hasn’t enough clothes already! I’m the ignored sister, and my wardrobe is enough for three girls) and won’t be back until lunch. Without their bossy presences, the servants are in good moods, and who can blame them?

So this is how I find myself clutching my bonnet (Martha was adamant that I not leave the house without it) in the wind and drinking in the sight of the city. For a moment I forget my worries. Everything is so real, yet surreal at the same time. The houses, the people, the streets. I still cannot believe I am living in a world that resembles a Jane Austen adaptation.

The hansom comes to a stop. Schoolchildren dressed in blue-and-white uniforms are meandering across the street. Several of them are happily eating cotton candy. One small girl holds a rag doll tightly. Two boys are tossing a rubber ball between them. Two middle-aged women, wearing fancy hats with feathers, are herding the children along like mother hens. In fact, they don’t look much different from fancy prep–school children in movies.

Then we’re off again. Gradually, we enter a part of the city that doesn’t look as nice. From the well-worn clothing of passersby and the stink of human waste and garbage to the run-down look of the houses, it almost seems a different world. A few children, barefoot and in rags, run past us. One stops and stares, but when I meet his eye, he scampers off like a frightened rabbit.

We approach a tiny, dilapidated house—uh—hut. It smells horrible: rotten meat, soured milk, animal dung, and smells I can’t identify. I rub my hands against my dress and try to keep my head down. What if someone tries to rob me?

“We’re here,” Van says.

I stare at the house before me, trying to ready my nerves. I don’t feel like going in. But then the door is thrown open and a young woman rushes out, nearly colliding with me. I throw out my hands and steady her shoulders.

“Miss Katriona!” Elle gasps. “What’re you doing here?”

Before I can answer, she spies Van and catches my arm. “Oh miss, can you let me borrow the vehicle just once? Please, I beg you!”

“Huh?”

“My mother’s awfully sick, and I need to have a physician for her.” Tears course down Elle’s face. “It’ll be so much quicker if I can use the hansom than flagging down an omnibus.”

I don’t see any reason to refuse her, so I push her toward the vehicle. “Of course. Let’s get the doctor.”

Van frowns. “But she ain’t allowed. Madam won’t be liking a servant using her conveyance.”

“Screw it,” I say. Both Van and Elle wear twin looks of confusion; I cough and quickly say, “I mean, this is an emergency. We can’t afford to waste time.”

Seeing that he’s still hesitating, I grab the edge of the hansom and send him a withering glare. “VAN. If anything happens to Elle’s mom because we were delayed, you’ll be responsible.”

Van’s shoulders slump. He lets out a long, resigned, defeated sigh and climbs on the sprung seat behind the hansom. “Dr. Jensen’s?”

Elle pauses; her knuckles are white against her maroon skirt. “Yes. I can’t bear to lose Mamsie.”

Van flicks his whip, and soon we’re roaring down the street. Children in dirty rags, their faces thin and haggard, jump out of the way. I bite my lip and look down on my lap.

On the way, Elle buries her face in her handkerchief, her shoulders trembling. I’m not sure what I can do, but I imitate what I’ve seen on TV. I put my hand on her arm. “Hang in there, it’s gonna be okay.”

Slowly, she raises her head. “I’m so scared, miss,” she whispers. “Mamsie has had such a hard time since Father left. If she, if she goes, I don’t know what I will do.”

I squeeze her arm. “She’ll be okay. My mom is also—” I start to talk about Mom, then remember my mother’s supposed to be Lady Bradshaw. “—your mother must be a strong woman to be taking care of the entire family. She will be strong enough to fight through this illness.”

Elle nods, but her tears continue to slide. “That’s what I tell myself too.”

The hansom halts before a large townhouse. Elle starts toward the door, but stops. She twists her hands and plucks at her plain, threadbare dress.

“D’ you think the doctor will refuse to see me?”

I take her arm and pull her along. As if I’d let her retrace her steps when we’ve come this far. I look for a buzzer, realize this is Story World, and rap my knuckles against the door instead.

The door swings open. A maid with the blankest expression I’ve ever seen peers at us.

“What’s your business?”

“We’d like to see the doctor,” I say, since Elle is still close to freaking out. “We have a sick patient who shouldn’t be moved.”

“The doctor ain’t here,” she says, her face still devoid of emotion. Maybe this comes from experience as a doctor’s parlor maid. No doubt she has her share of frantic, hysterical family members. “He’s gone to see another patient.”

And she proceeds to shut the door.

“Hey!” I put out my foot and jam it in the space between the door and the casing. Luckily, the thick leather of my boot and the woolen layering of my stocking prevent any pain.

“When will he be back?”

The maid looks annoyed.

“No idea, we’re never sure, when he’s on an emergency.”

My heart sinks. I shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing ever goes well with me in Story World.

“Pardon me, but is Doctor Jensen not currently available?”

A warm, pleasant voice, the accent cultured and refined. I turn around, my foot still wedged in the door.

SEVEN

A young man, I guess about twenty, stands behind us. He has extremely curly hair, large goofy-looking ears, a broad, short forehead, and soft brown eyes shaped like a doe’s. I like him right away. He seems like a person you can trust. Not far away, a carriage has pulled up behind our hansom. Another young man leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest. His expression isn’t clear from the distance, but apparently he is watching us. Perched on the box is another man who is so large and hulky that he probably could have pulled the carriage by himself.

The door swings away from my foot abruptly.

“He ain’t—isn’t here right now, Mr. Henry,” the maid says, her whole face glowing. She holds the door completely open now. “But you’re most welcome to step in and wait till he’s back.”

Whoa. Talk about double standards.

“We’d better go for another doctor,” I tell Elle. “There’s no telling when this doctor’ll return, and your mother needs help.”

She nods, but hesitates. “I don’t know any other. We always have Dr. Jensen over when Madam catches cold.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Henry says. “Although I am only Dr. Jensen’s apprentice, I have practiced medicine for three years. If you can describe the patient’s symptoms, maybe there is something I can do.”

Elle takes a deep breath. “Well, she keeps vomiting, and she has to, uh, go to the latrine a lot.”

“Diarrhea, I suppose,” Henry says. “Go on, please.”

“Her eyes are sunken, her lips are dry and cracking, and her skin is awfully cold and clammy.”

“The color of her skin...does it have a bluish tint?”

“Why yes, sir.” A glimmer of hope flashes in Elle’s eyes. “You know what disease she has?”

“I cannot be absolutely certain, but it could be cholera.” Henry straightens his coat and starts toward the carriage, where the other guy is still waiting. “Lead us to your mother. Is that your vehicle over there?”

“Come on, Elle.” I take her arm and pull her toward the hansom. “Let’s go.”

We return to Elle’s house in a flurry of creaking wheels. I look over my shoulder to make sure that Henry’ carriage is following us. Thank God he didn’t change direction once we entered the poorer district.

“We’re here now.” Elle springs off the hansom. I do the same and am thankful I chose the least fancy dress to wear. God knows what Martha might say if I soiled it.

Elle pushes the door open. “Mamsie, I’ve brought a doctor to see you.”

Inside, there is only one room. One dark, dingy, dirty room. The windows are cracked, the walls decaying, and the floor is only dirt and slime. In a corner there’s a stove and a few blackened pans. In another corner, two small patched straw mattresses. A larger mattress is set beside the two, with a middle-aged woman lying on it. Her face is angular, sickly pale, and her hair straggly and streaked with white.

Elle and I start to go over to her side, but Henry stops me. “Don’t go too close; her disease may be infectious.” He takes out a handkerchief and ties it over his face. “Can you fetch me some clean water?”

“In a moment.” Elle rolls up her sleeves.

Just then a little boy, no more than five, totters into the room. “Elle!” Then, noticing us standing around, he runs and hides behind her. “They...they’re not going to take us away?”

“Of course not,” Elle soothes him. “These people have come to help us, Billy. See that man in black with a briefcase? He’s a doctor.”

“A doctor...” Billy stares. “Someone who saves people?”

“Yes, and he’s come to save Mamsie. Just wait a bit. I need to help the doctor now.” Elle pats his head. “I’ll be right back.”

Elle vanishes out the door. It is then I realize the other guy—Henry’s friend I guess—has followed us inside. I take one glance at him and my cheeks burst into flame. Whoa…where did this walking personification of hotness come from? He has the sexiest eyes ever: heavy-lidded, espresso-brown with a cinnamon undertone, framed with lush, smoky eyelashes. The rest of his features are perfect as well: oval face, strong chin, and a chiseled nose. Dark wavy hair curls down his neck. Oh, and his figure is to die for. Well over six feet, with a body that looks like a champion boxer’s. Actually, he could be a champion boxer. With a face that could give Mr. Darcy a run for his money.

But I don’t—can’t—take advantage of the chance to talk to him. He is looking at me with an impassive, appraising eye, as though I am a mathematical equation he’s trying to solve.

Instead, I squat down beside Billy. He’s awfully thin—his eyes seem to take up his face. “What’s the stuff you’re carrying?” I try to make my voice as friendly and non-threatening as possible.

He hesitates, stares at me for a few seconds, and raises his arms.

“I found three bottles today,” he says proudly. “We can exchange ‘em for a whole loaf of bread.”

I notice numerous tiny scars and scratches on his hands—not even the abundant amount of dirt can hide the injuries. “Why don’t we put them away, Billy? The glass can cut your skin.” I use the same coaxing tone as I do when Paige insists on carrying a heavy soup bowl to the table.