Page 39 of The Midnight King

“I don’t want the Prince,” I tell her truthfully. “I don’t know why he’s obsessed with me—”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I realize it the moment the words leave my mouth. It sounds like a boast, like I’m so charming that I captured his attention without even trying.

Vashli stands up and whirls around in one fluid motion. I don’t even see the nail scissors in her hand until they’re slashing across my cheek.

We stand there, facing each other, with her clutching the scissors and me pressing my fingers to the bleeding cut on my face.

“I fucking hate you,” she snarls through heavy breaths.

I can sense that she’s a second away from stabbing me repeatedly with those scissors, so I retreat slowly. “Amisa can finish your hair. Or you can do it yourself.”

“Fuck you,” she spits.

I drop the hairpins I was holding on the floor, leave the room, and descend the back stairs to the cellar. My hands are trembling as I dab a damp cloth along the cut on my cheek.

I could call the Faerie, but I can’t bear for him to see me this shaken. Once I’ve cleaned the cut, I flee outside to feed the chickens and cows. It snowed early this morning, so I gather a handful of the fresh powder and press it to the wound on my face.

Now that it’s colder, the goats are in the barn, too, especially at night. The chickens are huddled in their coop, although one of them, an independent-minded hen I’ve named Ladybird, often struts around in the yard despite the cold. She and Sophie have a strange friendship where they watch each other suspiciously when they’re both outside. Lord Hogmorton has his own area of the barn, with freedom to go into the yard as he wishes.

As usual, being with the animals soothes me. They each have their own personalities and their own ways of showing attachment and affection toward me. I spot Sophie stalking along a rafter in the barn with astonishing balance for such a large cat. I set down the tinned fish I brought her, and she leaps down to the barn floor swiftly, stalking up to the offering with all the dignity of a queen.

Once I’m done feeding the other animals, I stroke Merry’s nose and talk to her softly for a while. I should be getting ready, but I can’t bear the thought of going back into that house, so I linger until I have no choice. Then I return to the cellar, clean myself as best I can at the washstand, and put on the newunderwear Killian gave me. When I take down the dress he left for me, I find a note.

This gown was my mother’s. I’ve tailored it to suit you, and I have no doubt your beauty will improve it. Was that a compliment? Sorry, I can’t help myself. -K

My lip wobbles, and tears pool in my eyes. I feel like crumpling to the floor and sobbing into the turquoise material, but I don’t have time to let myself fall apart.

When I slip into the dress, it’s a perfect fit.

My hair has natural waves, so I don’t bother with curlers. I don’t have time, anyway. I brush out my hair and style it simply with a few pins. It feels odd, preparing for the ball without Killian. He won’t show up until my family has left, and by then I’ll be gone as well.

I have no jewelry except the pocket watch. At least it’s silver, a pretty piece if not a luxurious one. As usual, Killian has forgotten about shoes, so I have no choice but to use the plain leather slippers I typically wear to market. They don’t look right with the dress, but thankfully the gown’s hem brushes the floor, so they won’t be noticeable until I start to dance.

The very idea of dancing seems dreadful when I’m in such a hopeless mood. Will the King be there tonight? Will I have a chance to slip away from the insistent Prince? What is my stepmother planning to do? How will she make me unpalatable to him?

“Cinders! Come up to the sitting room at once,” calls Gilda from somewhere above. My feet start moving toward the steps before I even fully register her words. The magic of the anklet propels me into the sitting room, where Gilda and the girls are waiting in a row. I feel rather like a condemned criminal going before a firing squad.

“That’s a plainer dress than usual,” sneers Amisa. “The color looks terrible on you.”

Vashli says nothing, but she stares at me with murder in her eyes.

“Girls, do you have the perfume we prepared for Cinders?” asks Gilda.

Amisa sniggers and pats the little reticule hanging from her wrist. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good. Don’t use it until you arrive. We wouldn’t want to stink up the carriage. Cinders, submit to being perfumed when the time comes.”

It’s a command, one I can’t circumvent.Fuck.“Yes, my lady,” I reply.

“The two of you go on out to the carriage,” says Gilda, her cold gaze locked with mine. “I want a private word with Cinders.”

The departure of her daughters can only mean one thing. I’m about to be punished in some terrible way that she doesn’t want them to witness.

Once the front door closes, Gilda says softly, “Tear the dress. Use your nails, your strength—rip it apart until it hangs in rags.”

This dress belonged to Killian’s mother. It was his gift to me—a precious gift—I can’t do this—

I cry out as the anklet begins to burn my skin in punishment for even that half-second of resistance. My body obeys her, my hands clutching the lovely fabric and tearing it apart. The dress is well made, so it takes effort.

---