"The Royal ball is tonight! It's so exciting."
"I can't wait to see the handsome noblemen! Perhaps one will favor us with his attentions!"
"My lovely girls. I expect nothing less than to hear that a nobleman has taken a fancy to one of you. Be sure to be on your best behavior tonight, and perhaps we'll finally be able to quit this wretched hovel my late husband left for me."
"Pity Cinders is too busy to go. Not that anyone would want to touch her; they'd be covered in soot!"
Cinderella's sisters and haughty stepmother gossiped and laughed as they prepared for the dance.
"Do you need me to fetch any gowns?" Cinderella asked meekly when there was a lull in the conversation.
"No," her stepmother snapped. "Go finish cleaning up from breakfast. Bring us some tea, and otherwise leave us be."
The young woman left to do as she'd been bidden, filling the cauldron with buckets of water lugged in from the well and starting a fire beneath it. While the water warmed, she prepared warm bread and jam, and a kettle of fine black tea imported from distant lands. Her father's house was only a hovel to those who were discontent with their lot, and greedily sought more. There were more than enough bedrooms for the four women who lived there, as well as two elegant studies, a sitting room, a downstairs parlour, and a smoking room, in addition to the massive kitchen and servants' quarters. But there were no servants now: only Cinderella.
Several hours later, Cinderella watched her stepfamily depart for the Royal ball. She stood in the columned courtyard and watched them ride away, cloaked and hooded in the cool, damp night air.
"I wish, just for tonight... Oh, how I wish I could go to the ball. I wish I could be the most beautiful woman there. Just to know, once in my life, how it feels to be something other than a drab."
"Are you certain that is your wish?" a woman's voice asked from behind her.
Cinderella spun around, her hand raised to her throat in shock. "What...? Who...?"
"I'm the village witch. You needn't fear me. Like you, I am misunderstood, reviled, despised. And while I could work magic upon myself to attend the ball... I would rather bestow that gift upon another. But only if you are certain that this is your truest wish."
Cinderella eyed the hunch-backed crone with her long, wart-dotted nose, her gnarled hands half-hidden in the folds of her robe. "I... what price would I have to pay?" She breathed a sigh, recalling from the old stories to be wary of making bargains without knowing all that was entailed by the agreement.
"I would ask for no payment in return. Not now, and not ever. I will give you a gown and clean you up, and provide you with transportation to the ball. The rest will be in your hands."
Cinderella took a deep breath. "Then with gratitude, I will accept your offer. If there is some way I can assist you in the future – so long as the demand is within reason – I will repay you." She thought that should be a safe enough offer, and generous enough to show her gratitude.
The old woman smiled, and her teeth were yellowed and sharp. Cinderella shuddered, but forced a smile to her lips in return.
Within moments, a pumpkin from the garden had been transformed into a coach, mice into footmen and horses to pull it, and Cinderella's grubby skin had been miraculously scrubbed clean. Her customary rags had been replaced by garments that felt strange, soft and snug, shimmering in the evening light. The witch threw a long cloak over her shoulders and tied a cloth mask – the same color as the dress – over the top portion of her face.
"There, my girl. Now off to the ball with you, and may you enjoy yourself."
"Thank you," Cinderella called as she climbed into the pumpkin-coach. "Thank you, dame."
Cinderella mounted the steps to the banquet hall. A porter smiled at her and pulled open the door. "What name to give, Miss?" he asked, bowing her through the doorway.
"Uh... Ella," she said, thinking quickly. "Ella... of House... Dorn." She had been tempted to give her father's name, but then everyone would know who she was – that she was really Lady Beatrice's lowly stepdaughter, Cinderella.
"Ella of House Dorn," the porter announced, and Cinderella caught her breath as she gazed around the crowded room. The ball was nothing like what she had been expecting. There was music, and there was a long table piled high with delectable treats along one wall. But those gathered at the center of the room... She would not call their movements
dancing
, unless one used the term very loosely indeed.
There was more bare flesh than she would have imagined. Some of the men in attendance wore nothing but loincloths or strange, snug bands tied around their loins. A few had straps of black leather crisscrossing backs and chests. Most everyone wore masks of some kind – feathered, gem-studded, satin, or of rougher, coarser cloth. Many of the women seemed to have removed their gowns. She saw corsets with holes, allowing rosy nipples to show through, or corsets laced lower than normal, thrusting breasts up, fully exposed. A few women still appeared to be wearing their skirts, but as Cinderella gazed in stunned amazement, she saw that the skirts were slit up to the waist, exposing pale legs and glimpses of curly hair, rounded buttocks.
"What...?" she breathed, frightened and intrigued and disturbed, all at the same time.
A number of masked faces turned to study her entrance. The porter and several others chuckled, and slow, mocking applause broke from a group of men standing nearby.
"Ah, a modest guest. It's always a delight to initiate a new member into society." One tall young man broke away from the crowd. He was dressed, as she had expected, in long black trousers, a white shirt, and a frock coat over it.
He took her hand and led her farther into the room, past half-naked men and women. "I personally oversee the introduction of newcomers."
Cinderella's eyes flicked back and forth; she was too disconcerted to study any individuals, but she stumbled as she recognized her elder stepsister's distinctive birthmark. Giselle stood facing the center of the room, her back pressed against a middle-aged man's slight paunch. His thick, well-muscled arm was around her waist, fondling her breast through the hole in her corset. His other hand seemed to be holding her groin from behind. Giselle was on her toes, her legs visible through the slits in her skirt, her hips twitching. The older man's lips were sucking at the birthmark that colored her left shoulder and collarbone.
"I want to see what's under that dress!" a man called from the crowd, followed by other cheers.
"Patience," her guide called back, smiling. "I'm sure she'll be well worth the wait!"
"Who..." Cinderella croaked, then swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to her dry mouth. "Who are you?"
