Dearest Cinderella

Dearest
Cinderella

Sandra
Said

To Tiana,
you’re the greatest writing buddy a girl could ask for. Your
patient in the face of all my nit-picking, doubts and questions was
incredible.

For my heart,
my soul, Nona. The woman who annoyed me into finishing this story.
You will forever be in my heart and prayers. This story is a
testament to your will. R.I.P.

Thank you also,
to Axel Antas-Bergkvist for the beautiful art work.

PROLOGUE

In life there are single moments
that can determine a character. Shining fragments of time,
blindingly beautiful to behold. They are cherished for a lifetime
and become a beacon of hope during times of despair. These are not
the moments that define us. Darkness and fear, the creation of
doubt and sorrow. Times when you fear that all hope is lost but are
nevertheless capable of arising from the darkness, striding in the
sun, walking towards the future. These were the moments that
plagued Cinderella's early childhood.

Indeed, it seemed that
Cinderella's fate had been chosen for her before her conception,
borne by her mother’s cruelty and her father's deception. She was
born in the middle of May, on a thoroughly inconsequential day,
faded from the memory of most who attended. Her mother,
Mademoiselle Bouchelle, a courtesan involved with Cinderella's
married father, an Earl, had been engaged in an affair for months
before Mademoiselle Bouchelle discovered that she was in love.
Driven mad by the idea of the Earl at home with his saintly wife,
she became with child in the hope that he might be taken with
running away with her. Escaping from English society and raising
their new-born babe in Italy, away from his wife and together. The
notion of his refusal or even his amusement at the idea had never
occurred to Mademoiselle Bouchelle but nevertheless she continued
growing. Ignorant that as her womb expanded, so did the spaces
between each of the Earl's visits.

On the day of Cinderella's birth
the Earl didn't appear. As her mother cradled her child in her arms
she wept, the baby hadn't worked. She knew, Cinderella was without
point if her mother was without the Earl. She stilled the baby
against her breast and motioned to her nurse to leave. Cinderella's
mother lowered her naked babe onto the bed and crossed over to her
dresser where she opened a drawer and slowly retrieved a small
switchblade. If it had have not been for the intrusive knock on the
door Mademoiselle Bouchelle might have carried through with her
nefarious actions. Alas, the door swung open to reveal the Earl,
immaculately dressed and regal. His features tightened at the site
before him.

"What the devil, woman" he
strode over to his daughter and protectively held her to his chest.
"Put the knife down!" Mademoiselle Bouchelle, sensing her immediate
danger at the wrath of the Earl's hands, artfully burst into
hysteria.

"I didn't intend to hurt her,
I-" her voice wobbled as she attempted to steady herself by placing
her palm on her chest. "My love?"

Without a response, the Earl
turned on his heel. Sweeping the now crying baby into his arms and
carrying her out of the fashionable town house, away from the
wailing mother. It was perhaps the only gentlemanly deed of his
life. He paused to look back at the small townhouse he'd often
frequented and then down to consider the child in his arms before
hurrying into the carriage quickly. Praying that nobody had seen
him exiting a known courtesans home with a child in tow. Later,
when the Earl returned to the townhouse to request Cinderella's
mother's immediate departure, he found that she was gone. She'd
found that there was no point to her life if there was no Earl in
it.

At the Earl's insistence, he
couldn't bear the idea of his daughter roaming the city beyond his
control, or worse, working in a brothel, the Earl's wife was forced
to welcome Cinderella into her life and acknowledge her as a
distant cousin. She was heralded off to a young maid of five and
twenty to be raised away from the family. On the occasion of her
birthday Cinderella was granted the brief attention of her father
before being deprived of it for another year. When Cinderella had
reached her fifth birthday the Countess announced her pregnancy, of
which Cinderella heard from her only friend and mother, Nurse
Fairgem. The Countess birthed two healthy girls that she named
Anabeth and Rebecca, after the Earl's two sisters. The arrival of
Cinderella's sisters filled the young child with excitement of
others her age to play with. However, it was soon made very clear
to Cinderella that her dream would remain unfulfilled. Her orders
stipulated that she was not to see her sisters. She was to address
them by Miss Anabeth and Miss Rebecca and under no circumstance
would her naming them as sisters ever be condoned. As they grew up
it became increasingly obvious to Cinderella that she did not have
an ordinary childhood. She ate her meals with the servants whilst
the rest of her family ate together in the grand dinning room.
While her sisters took lessons in Latin, singing, dancing and
etiquette, Cinderella was taught English and how to keep a house by
the servants that took pity on her.

The Earl passed away on a Monday
night to Cinderella's utmost despair. She cried for weeks over his
death and the lost opportunity that she hadn't tried harder to see
him more often, accepting that she should wait for him to seek her
out. Her sisters also cried. Everyone cried bar her stepmother who
masked her tragedy with a stoic silence.

When her sisters practiced the
pianoforte and etiquette in the hopes of catching a husband,
Cinderella spent her time cleaning, singing and dreaming. For she
found that dreaming was the surest route out of the darkness.
Often, when her sisters took their lessons in the parlour she would
sit in the sitting room directly above them. On a day when the
acoustics were particularly loud Cinderella could almost pretend
that she sat next to them, asking questions and learning, seen as
an equal.

By the age of one and twenty
Cinderella had been demoted to the work of a servant. Her
stepmother treated her horribly, delegating degrading chores to
complete that even the lowest of servants were exempt from. Forcing
her to sit before the fire, her head within such proximity that it
scalded her cheeks and turned them a fiery red. Tasked to make
certain that not one cinder licked the carpet, a job easily
accomplish through the purchase of a fireplace gate. However, when
Cinderella asked why her stepmother would not procure one, she
simply laughed and said,

"Good heavens child, why should
we buy one when we have you?" To which any sane person with some
degree of resentment in their heart would surely respond with anger
and vehemence. Cinderella simply smiled politely and bowed her
head. She paid specific attention to her stepmothers exact words so
that she could remember to copy it down in her diary the next
morning when the rest of the house were still asleep. It was only
there comforted in her solace, she found contentment. She'd found
that even solace, the one enemy of her childhood, was still
preferable to the grim shame and humiliation she was forced to
endure every day. Her diary did not insult her, nor did it demand
its breakfast or tug her hair. It listened, recorded and
remembered. Often she wrote letters, never addressed with the
intention of distribution. She wrote correspondence to her birth
mother, wishing she could have met her. Letters to her father,
wishing she could have known him. Most frequently, she wrote
letters to Nurse Fairgem, wishing that she had not been sent away.
Cinderella relived that horrid day every time she wrote to her
Nurse. The day filled with sunshine, where laughter was in
abundance. Cinderella had been taken with the notion of delivering
flowers from the garden to a nice elderly lady in the village who
had recently taken ill. As they promenaded through the garden,
Cinderella picking flowers and depositing them into the basket her
Nurse held, they entertained each other with small, clever riddles.
Amongst the giggles they both heard the distinct sound of a thick
twig being snapped beneath a boot. They turned around to find
Cinderella's stepmother.

"Nurse Fairgem, is this why I
pay your salary?"

"No your ladyship, we were
merely taking a constitutional. It is a lovely day for it."

"I should think not." Her gaze
traveled to the basket in Nurse Fairgem's hands. "What is that you
carry?" she asked, though she knew well. "Are those your
flowers?"

"No, my lady." Cinderella
recalled the slow sinking feeling in her heart as she mutely
watched the conversation unravel before her.

"So you acknowledge that you are
taking that which is not yours"

"No my lady-"

"That it is theft to pluck the
flowers of my garden without consent"

"No-"

"Excellent. We are in agreement.
You shall pack your things, communicate with Cinderella no more and
be gone of this house. Before afternoon tea, without papers and
this weeks salary as compensation for damages. Is this clear?"

"Deceitful woman! I have done
nothing wrong by you. You cannot separate me from my daughter"

"She is not your daughter" her
words harsh and formidable. "You will quit this house immediately
before I alert an officer to your insolence and he assists you in
quitting this house. Good day." She hadn't seen Nurse Fairgem in
four years. Often, when Cinderella was given the task of purchasing
ribbons from in town, she would imagine happening upon her old
friend again so that she could ask her to take her away and be rid
of this house.

Cinderella's journal was hidden
in the forest, for fear that her stepmother might find it in the
house. At the base of an old oak tree was a small burrow, just
large enough to store her journal and a pen. Every morning, before
she prepared breakfast and her family was up to order her about,
she would sneak out to record the events of the previous day. She
hid it meticulously, every morning. Except once.

CHAPTER
ONE

Prince Mark was blessed in many
ways that Cinderella was not. He had an abundance of wealth,
respect and the ability to do as he pleased without a care for
others. The only times in which their lines crossed was when it
came to companionship. The Prince wasn't lonely, rather he had too
many people around him and not enough that he cared for or trusted
particularly. As he led his platoon into the depths of the forest,
he listened to them all joking with each other. Laughing and
shouting, actions they'd never consider doing with the Prince.
There seemed to be some type of impenetrable wall between himself
and everyone else.

They came across a particular
area that offered them shade enough to be protected from the
glaring sun, sparse enough to be able to conduct movements without
fear of bumping into a tree. Mark positioned himself in front of a
great oak tree, his small platoon organising themselves into three
orderly lines of six. He led them in new military moves, relishing
the morning exercise and the level of coordination between him and
his men. They didn't question his orders nor did they say anything
when he pushed them beyond their limits. They took his orders and
implemented them. When Mark grew weary he allowed his men to rest
and walked over to sit at the base of the oak tree. He sat there
silently, controlling his breathing, refusing to show weakness or
fatigue, when a glimpse of blue caught his eye. Almost directly
beside him sat the corner of what looked like a book. It was almost
fully immersed in soil and took him more than a minute to dig out
of a small hole that reached underneath the tree itself.

Dear diary
, it read.
Immediately it occurred to Mark how unethical it was to read the
thoughts of another, but as he flicked through the pages he found a
drawing that stopped him immediately. It was quite possibly the
poorest drawing he'd ever seen. He chuckled as he looked down at
the image. It depicted a robust cow with a sharp nose, dressed in
red and with straight hair that reached the floor. Behind her stood
two sheep, each fouler than the last. The Prince sat there laughing
until he made a decision.

"I wouldn't suppose there's any
chance one of you has led on their person?" He was faced with the
blank looks of fifteen of his men and a chorus of "No, your
Highness" as a reply. He groaned and looked down at the journal
again. Perhaps it was for the best that he had not written in it,
it would most certainly have resulted in anger from the author. It
was a good thing that he did, however, notice the pen inside the
hole as he went to place the diary back where he'd found it.
Unaware of the questioning look his soldiers where giving him, he
turned to the next page of the book and penned two sentences.