Just Ella
Authors: Margaret Peterson Haddix
all that
. . . .
You've heard the fairytale: a glass slipper, Prince Charming, happily ever after . . .
Welcome to reality: royal genealogy lessons, needlepoint, acting like “a proper lady,” andâworst of allâa prince who is not the least bit interesting, and certainly not charming.
As soon-to-be princess Ella deals with her newfound status, she comes to realize she is not “your majesty” material. But breaking off a royal engagement is no easy feat, especially when you're crushing on another boy in the palace. . . . For Ella to escape, it will take intelligence, determination, and spunkâand no ladylike behavior allowed.
Be sure to read these other gripping novels by Margaret Peterson Haddix:
Cover design by Greg Stadnyk
Cover photograph copyright © 2007
   by Paul Burley/Getty Images
Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster
New York
Ages 10â14
0801
ALSO BY
M
ARGARET
P
ETERSON
H
ADDIX
A
mong the
H
idden
L
eaving
F
ishers
D
on't
Y
ou
D
are
R
ead
T
his,
M
rs.
D
unphrey
R
unning
O
ut of
T
ime
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division
Â
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Text copyright © 1999 by Margaret Peterson Haddix
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Â
S
IMON
& S
CHUSTER
B
OOKS FOR
Y
OUNG
R
EADERS
is a trademark of Simon & Schuster.
Design by Heather Wood
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Haddix, Margaret Peterson.
Just Ella / Margaret Peterson Haddix.
p. cm.
Â
Summary: In this continuation of the Cinderella story, fifteen-year-old Ella finds that accepting Prince Charming's proposal ensnares her in a suffocating tangle of palace rules and royal etiquette, so she plots to escape.
ISBN 0-689-82186-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-43911-541-1 (eBook)
[1. PrincessesâFiction. 2. Sex roleâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.H1164Ou 1999 [Fic]âdc21 98-8384 CIP AC
FOR
Meredith, Faith, Kristen, and Sarah
1
The fire had gone out, and I didn't know what to do.
I was covered with a king's ransom of silk-sewn comforters and surrounded by six warming pans, so I was still mostly warm. But my nose was exposed and freezing, and I heard no friendly crackling from the direction of the hearth. For some reason the chambermaid in charge of keeping my fire going had overslept or forgotten me. Or perhaps I had awakened too early, before it was time for her to come on duty. I hadn't figured out the palace work schedule yet.
The last time I awoke to freezing air and a dead fire, I simply got up and restarted it myself. “Ella,” I lectured myself, “you're no stranger to tending fireplaces. Just because they put a crown on your head doesn't mean your hands forgot how to work.” Still, I had to force myself to leave the bed's warmth, tiptoe across the icy flagstones, and search for a tinderbox and poker.
For a while I feared none of that was in my roomâdid they think princesses or almost-princesses were too delicate even to see the instruments that kept them warm? But then I found a compartment in the wall by the great fireplace and dragged out equipment bigger and grander than I'd ever used before. Reviving the fire was a struggle, for my hands were clumsy after two weeks of idleness. (I hardly count needlepoint as work.)
At the end, when I was finally able to warm my numb fingers over ever-growing flames, I felt a strange surge of pride. I wanted to brag to someone about accomplishing a chore I'd done hundreds of times in my old life without thinking. But there was no one to tell. Charm wouldn't be interested, even if I saw him, in between his endless hunts and contests. The king was even more remote, and I'd endured enough blank stares from the queen to know I shouldn't confide anything in her. Then there were all my ladies-in-waiting and maidservants and my instructors (one for decorum, one for dancing, one for palace protocol, one for needlepoint, one for painting, and two or three whose purposes I had yet to figure out). But all of them looked at me with such horror whenever I let something slip about my former life. (“What? You had no one to do your laundry?” one of the silliest of my waiting girls, Simprianna, had asked when I'd carelessly mentioned rinsing out my stockings after the ball.) Even after just two weeks, I knew better than to brag to anyone in the castle about doing something that dirtied my hands.
And so I thought I'd keep my fire-building secret. Then
I overheard two of my maidservants gossiping later that day about my chambermaid.
“She was found still in her bed, and it was already past five o'clock,” the one said to the other, fluffing my pillows with a dainty thump. (In the castle, even the maids pretend to be dainty.)