Page 38 of The Midnight King
The idea of him holding their hands and moving in rhythm with them nauseates me. My jealousy makes no sense, because I know I’ve had a kind of intimacy with him that they’ll never know… but it still bothers me. And in the light of day, I can admit to myself that I’m dreadfully jealous of his other mistress, too. Which of us will he introduce at the Prince’s engagement feast? Will I even be allowed to attend?
And then I hear Amisa say my name in what she probably thinks is a low tone. “The Prince wants us to bring Cinders tonight.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” says Gilda.
“It’s true,” says Vashli sulkily. “He said we must make sure that our sister comes to the ball.”
“This is an outrage,” Gilda exclaims. “That girl was supposed to help one of you secure the Prince as a husband, not supplant you. She isn’t going, and that’s final.”
“But he said if we don’t bring her, we can’t come,” whines Amisa.
“Are you sure?” asks Gilda.
Apparently the girls nod, because Gilda snarls, “That little fucking traitor. Very well. She’ll go tonight. But we’ll make sure she appears in such a way that the Prince won’t want her. Won’t we, girls?”
My stepsisters chuckle in malevolent agreement. The sound chills my spine. I have no idea what they’ve planned for me, and I curl my fingers around my pocket watch for reassurance.
They don’t know that I have a powerful Faerie godfather on my side. Technically I can call him once more with the watch—or perhaps multiple times since he owes me a few extra favors. I’m not sure what the rules are exactly, but I know he’ll come through for me. Whatever they do to me, he can fix it.
My stepmother rings for me, and when I enter the dining room, she says, “Clear away the breakfast things, Cinders. Today you’ll scrub the floors, do the laundry, and prepare everything for our outing tonight. You’ll be riding into the city with us. Be sure you’re dressed appropriately. We’ll gather in the sitting room before we leave, so I can make sure you have the correct attire. Will you be borrowing another gown from this mysterious family friend of yours?”
So she hasn’t forgotten. My stomach churns with dread that she’ll press the issue and force me to disclose the truth about Killian. But she questioned me just now, rather than commanding me, so I can lie to her this time. I have the space to create a false narrative that could help me shape any further truths I’m forced to reveal. I hang my head and say, “No, my father’s friend doesn’t want to help me anymore. I’ve pressed their good graces too far, borrowing the dresses and carriage.”
“Of course you drove them away.” My stepmother rolls her eyes. “We could have used such a connection.”
I suspect she’d be angrier about it if she wasn’t scheming to control the entire kingdom. With the Prince on her hook, she must not feel the need to investigate my mysterious “friend” more deeply.
“What will you wear tonight?” asks Amisa.
“I do have a dress I was given,” I say.
“By whom, pray tell?” inquires Gilda.
“Someone powerful who cares about me.” The blush on my cheeks isn’t a false one, and they interpret it as I hoped they would.
“The Prince,” gasps Amisa. “The Prince sent you a gown?”
I nod shyly. Vashli slams down her fork and sweeps her entire place setting off the table with her arm, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Excellent.” My stepmother’s eyes glitter like dark gemstones. “We look forward to seeing the dress this evening.”
All day, they’re far crueler and more demanding than usual. Gilda is impossible to please and keeps making me redo tasks to her satisfaction. Amisa smacks my hands and face several times while I’m helping her prepare, and she complains that I smell—which is probably true, since I’ve been doing chores and haven’t had time to bathe.
Killian will fix it,I whisper to myself.
Worst of all is Vashli, whom I realize is wildly in love with the Prince and hates me for stealing his heart. Her words cut the deepest.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, or what you said to my mother to convince her to let you attend those first two balls,” she says, while I’m arranging her hair. “You could never be a good wife to the Prince. You’re a weak-willed little slave who beats and cuts herself because she’s so miserable.”
I don’t reply. I couldn’t reveal the truth to Vashli if I wanted to.
“You’re a fucking worm.” My stepsister glares at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing table. “You have no backbone. You never stand up to Mother because you were born without a will of your own. You were born to be used up by people like us. Youlikebeing trampled and ridiculed and ruined. You’re not worthy of existing, and you’re certainly not worthy of Brantley. Maybe you pretend to listen to him, but you could never understand him like I do. You would make a terrible queen.”
“You’re probably right,” I say calmly.
“Of course I’m right. I’m much smarter than you. Smarter than my selfish fucking mother and my idiot sister. I swear I will kill you before I let you be Brantley’s queen. Do you hear me? I’ll come down to that cellar at night and slit your damn throat. I’m not joking, Cinders.”
I can tell by the blaze in her eyes that she’s absolutely, murderously sincere. She’s been miserable and angry her whole life, under the surface, and she has now centered all that anger and misery on me. I’m the obstacle in her path, the one thing standing between her and the life she wants. She’s desperate, and I understand desperation all too well.