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“My lady,” Niccolo said, just as my stepmother’s foot touched the cobblestones. “Welcome to the end of your long journey, and your new home.”

“Thank you, Niccolo,” she said, and at the sound of her voice, I felt a shiver move down my spine. There was absolutely no expression in it, no hint of what she might be feeling at all. “You have cared for us well and I am grateful for it.”

She cocked her head then, as if she saw something unexpected in his face. “You are happy to be
back in this place, I think,” she said, her voice warming ever so slightly.

“Lady, I am,” Niccolo said. “In this place I found . . . a surprise. I hope that you may do the same.”

“I have no doubt I will,” my new stepmother replied, and now her voice was dry. I saw her blue eyes sweep up and outward to take in the great stone house. If she thought it beautiful and was surprised by this, she gave no sign. I knew the moment she spotted Old Mathilde and me, for at last Chantal de Saint-Andre’s lips curved in something that might have wished to be a smile.

“We have some welcome, I see,” she said.

“A small one, as yet,” Old Mathilde said, and she descended the steps, her hold on my arm pulling me along beside her. At the bottom of the steps, she stopped and bobbed a curtsy, once again obliging me to follow suit.

“We are not many here, and we had no word of your arrival till Niccolo came to tell us the news himself, just now. Still, we know what we are about. I am Old Mathilde. And this is Cendrillon.”

“Cendrillon,” my stepmother echoed, and I felt her gaze on me, and me alone, for the very first time. Not unfriendly, but cool and remote. And suddenly I knew the truth, knew what it was that Niccolo had been trying to tell me when the arrival of the carriage had interrupted him. My stepmother had no idea that her new husband had a child of his own. No idea that I was now her stepdaughter.

“I have never heard such a name before,” Chantal de Saint-Andre went on.

“I don’t think anyone else has it,” I somehow managed to reply.
Fool, idiot, nincompoop,
I thought.
Your father has never acknowledged you, not once in all these years. Why did you think he would do so now?

But still, I felt the pain of his denial slice straight through my heart. In my simple, homespun dress, my stepmother had mistaken me for a serving girl. And who could blame her? When my own father denied me, who was I to tell Chantal de Saint-Andre the truth of who and what I was?

“The villagers say that, because I am called the child of cinders, the fires in our house will always start, and never go out until I give them leave to do so,” I went on.

All of a sudden, my stepmother smiled. A real one this time. “That’s the best news I have heard since we set out,” she said. “We have been traveling for more hours than I care to count, and all of them cold ones.”

“Then you must come inside and warm your selves at once,” Old Mathilde said. “We will have your rooms prepared before you know it.”

“Thank you,” Chantal de Saint-Andre replied. “I believe that is as warm a welcome as any stranger could wish for.”

“Oh, but you are not a stranger anymore, my lady,” Old Mathilde said, her voice soft but as unyielding as the stones upon which we stood. “You are now the
mistress of this house. I hope you will not mind becoming acquainted with the kitchen first. With so few of us, it’s the only place we always keep a fire going.”

“The kitchen!” exclaimed a sudden voice. “I most certainly will not!”

And that was the moment I realized that I had been so caught up in my new stepmother that I had let all thoughts of her daughters slip my mind. They were out of the carriage themselves now, standing beside it in the courtyard, bundled in cloaks up to their chins, one forest green, the other a deep and fertile brown. Both had their mother’s fine pale skin, her dark and lustrous hair. One had blue eyes, and the other brown ones. The blue-eyed girl was a little taller, more angular than her sister, and I thought her cheeks were flushed with anger rather than with cold.

So you are the one who is not fond of kitchens,
I thought.

She stomped her foot against the cobblestones as if she had read my mind.

“I have not traveled for hours in a dark and freezing coach to sit in the kitchen like some serving maid,” she proclaimed in a bright, clear voice. “I will stand out here if I have to, until a proper room is prepared. Till then, I will not set a foot inside.”

“You’ll just be cold longer,” the girl beside her said, her voice exasperated but not altogether unkind. “Can you not make things easier instead of more difficult,
just this once? It’s only a kitchen, Anastasia. It’s hardly the end of the world.”

“This whole place is the end of the world,” the girl named Anastasia announced. “And I am not going in until my own room is ready. Do you hear me? I am not!”

“As you wish,” her mother finally said. “I agree with Amelie, but by all means stay outside, if that is what you want. I only hope you and your pride don’t catch cold together.”

“I know what you are doing,” Anastasia cried out, her voice as petulant as a child’s. “You’re trying to scare me, It isn’t going to work. I will not sit in a kitchen like some common girl.”

“I don’t see why not,” her mother observed, her own voice cool and careful. “When you have no problem behaving like one. Still, you have made your choice, and you may now abide by it. I will send Cendrillon to fetch you when your room is ready.” She turned to Old Mathilde. “If you will be so good as to show those of us who wish to go in the way?”

“You cannot make me!” Anastasia cried, stamping one booted foot upon the cobblestones. “You can’t! Haven’t we all been made to do enough?”

What her mother might have answered then, I cannot say, for Anastasia stamped her other foot as well. And at that, as if startled from dreams of a clean, dry stall and a pile of fresh hay, the closest of the carriage horses suddenly screamed and reared straight up. Its great front forelegs pawed the air.
Within an instant, the second horse had reared as well. The carriage jerked backward as the coachman struggled with the reins. Niccolo spun around.

And then, suddenly, Raoul was there. Just as Niccolo reached for Amelie, pulling her away from the horse, shielding her with his own body, Raoul caught Anastasia up into his arms. Lifting her, then whirling her away from the horses hooves just as they came slashing down. The coachman gave the horses their heads, sending them flying around the courtyard, then back out onto the road. The dappled gray Niccolo had ridden snorted and pranced, but, at a sharp command from Raoul, it grew still and quiet once more.

“Your coachman is a wise man, lady,” Raoul said, into the great silence that suddenly filled the courtyard. “He will let them run off their fear. It won’t take long, not on these muddy roads.”

Only then did he look down at the young woman he held in his arms. “They will be back by the time your room is prepared, my fine young mistress. Though, if you were my daughter, such foolish behavior would earn you a night in the barn.”

For a moment, Anastasia stared up at him through wide and startled eyes. Then the color in her face flamed bright red.

“Put. Me. Down,” she said through clenched teeth, spacing each word out slowly and carefully, as if Raoul might be too simple to understand them otherwise.

“Do you hear me? Put me down right now! I did
not give you permission to touch me. You’re nothing but a stable boy and you reek of horses. Now I shall need a bath as well, to get rid of the smell.”

Raoul let one of his arms drop away so suddenly Anastasia gave a startled cry as her legs swung down. With a bone-jarring smack, her feet connected with the cobblestones. But I noticed that he kept his second arm around her back until he was certain she was steady on her feet.

“In that case, you will have to reconsider your plan to avoid the kitchen,” he said. “For that is where we heat the water for our baths at the end of the world.”

He moved toward the gray, even as my stepmother began to hurry toward her daughters. “I will see to the horse,” he said to Niccolo. “For something tells me you may be needed elsewhere.”

Entirely without warning, he gave a wolfish grin, and Niccolo grinned back.

“Welcome home, Niccolo.”

“My girls,” Chantal de Saint-Andre said, as she held out her arms. “Are you both unharmed?”

“I am fine, Mother,” Amelie replied. She did not move immediately to her mother’s arms, I noticed, but stood her ground. “For which I must thank you, Niccolo.”

She extended her hand. Niccolo took it, holding it by no more than the fingertips, and executed what I could only assume was a perfect court bow.

“It is my pleasure to serve you, Lady Amelie,” he
said as he slowly let her fingers go, “Though I hope you will not be insulted if I say I hope we never have to do that again.”

“And I hope
you
will not be insulted when I say that I agree,” Amelie answered with a smile.

“Well, I am far from fine,” Anastasia remarked tartly, but I saw the way she went into her mother’s arms and clung, “I am cold and tired, and now I smell like horses besides.”

Chantal de Saint-Andre rested her chin atop her daughter’s head. Just for a moment, she closed her
eyes.

“I think,” she said, as she opened them again, “that it is time for us all to go inside. And if you even think of arguing with me, my lovely Anastasia, you will smell like many more things than horses, for I will take that young man’s advice and send you to sleep in the barn.”

“You wouldn’t!” Anastasia exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, I would,” said her mother, “This long, cold day has gone on long enough. Let us see if a kitchen fire cannot begin to set us all to rights.”

And so, with Old Mathilde leading the way, the mother and sisters I had wished for walked up the steps and into the great stone house.

“How much longer are you going to wait before you tell them?”

I gave a pillowcase a smart snap, then pinned it to the clothesline. Several weeks had gone by and we had reached the end of March. I was taking advantage of a rare sunny day to do an extra washing. With three new people, all of them fine ladies, the last few weeks had brought a number of changes to the great stone house.

The day after Chantal de Saint-Andre’s arrival, and with her blessing, Old Mathilde had gone to the village at the foot of our cliff and hired extra help. Susanne and Charlotte now had more hands in the kitchen. Joseph and Robert, help with the grounds. Old Mathilde had two new girls to help handle the housework. Though we had never neglected it, in less than a month, the great stone house had once again begun to shine with life. I wondered if my father realized what he had done.

With so many other people to look after the house, caring for my stepmother and stepsisters had fallen to me. In the weeks since their arrival, I had acquired several new skills: I now knew how to dress a lady’s hair, the best way to remove wrinkles from
silk, how to starch and iron a fine linen collar. Chantal and Amelie had been calm and patient in their instructions. Anastasia had been a tyrant.

It was her sheets I was hanging on the line. Though they had been freshly changed just this morning, she had refused, point blank, to sleep upon them, insisting they smelled as damp and musty as the weather we had endured all month. My personal opinion was that she simply liked the fact that she could order me about. Giving other people orders made Anastasia feel important.

“And just when would you suggest I tell them?” I inquired of Raoul now. “Before or after I pin up their hair and fasten their gowns? Here, help me with this.”

I tossed the end of one of Anastasia’s sheets in Raoul’s direction. Together, we pulled it along the length of the clothesline, then pegged it so it wouldn’t blow away. Except for when he came to the kitchen for his meals, Raoul spent most of his time in the stable, or out of doors. His mood had been as glowering as the dark March weather, particularly once Niccolo had gone back to court after he made sure my stepmother and stepsisters were safely settled.

“How should I know when you should tell them?”

Raoul asked now, his tone grumpy. “The way she treats you is wrong. I know that much.” I didn’t have to ask who
she
was. We both knew well enough.

“I don’t particularly care for it myself” I answered, as we began to peg the second sheet onto the line. “But I
can hardly just blurt out who I am at this point. I have to find a way to do it that doesn’t make it seem as if I’ve played them false. If I simply announce who I am now, it’s going to look as if we’ve all deliberately made fools of them.”

“All right. I guess I can see that,” Raoul said grudgingly. “What does Old Mathilde say?”

“Nothing.”

Raoul paused, a clothespin in midair. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“I mean nothing,” I answered, my voice grumpy now. “She hasn’t mentioned it at all. Not even once.”

Raoul made a face. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t. Which leads me to believe there’s a lesson lurking just around the corner. I really am thinking about the situation, Raoul. Sometimes, it feels like all I think about. I didn’t just wish for any old stepmother and stepsisters. I wished for some that I might love, some who might love me. But they can’t do that if they don’t know who I am, and they can’t know who I am unless I tell them. The whole situation makes my head hurt, if you want to know the truth.”