Cinderella and the Colonel
Cinderella
By: K. M. Shea
a
Take Out The Trash! Publication
Copyright © K.M. Shea 2013
All Rights Reserved.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
“How much?”
“If we cut it at your shoulders…two
silver marks.”
Cinderella winced. It wasn’t enough. “What if you take it all?”
The barber jerked his eyes from Cinderella’s brilliant hair and gaped at her. “What?”
“How much will you give me if you take all my hair?” Cinderella asked
, pushing an elbow-length lock of hair over her shoulder.
“
Mademoiselle, you couldn’t want to—”
“How much?”
The wigmaker studied her hair again. “The extra length will mean a finer style for the wig. Five silver marks.”
Cinderella bit her lip. He
was overpaying her. Her scarlet-red hair was unusual, and her hair was thick and luxurious, but even with those qualities, the best she could hope for was four silver marks and a handful of copper coins. But the chateau roof needed patching, and Cinderella could not afford to turn down such generosity. “Done,” she said.
T
he wigmaker wiped his scissors on a clean cloth. “You have fine hair, Mademoiselle.”
Cinderella gripped the arms of the wooden chair until they creaked when the man sheered the first lock from her head. “Thank you.”
Cinderella left several minutes later, her pockets heavier and her head lighter. Folk gave her odd looks as they darted past her on the street, staring at her shamefully short hair.
Her magnificent strawberry
-colored mane was sheered in a pixie cut. She still had a red fringe of bangs that flopped into her eyes, but the rest of her hair was almost peasant-boy-short.
The hairstyle
would bring looks of disapproval until it grew out, but Cinderella didn’t care. She needed the money. Aveyron needed the money.
Cinderella squared her shoulders and glanced at the sky. The sun
was a thin disk, almost entirely blocked by the capital’s walls. “Home it is then,” Cinderella said, turning her feet towards her lands.
At the dolphin plaza
, she ran into a squadron of Erlauf soldiers in their gray and burgundy uniforms. Their armor reminded Cinderella of dragon scales the way it overlapped and hinged together.
The lieutenant lead
ing the squadron watched Cinderella as she walked past them, but he watched just about every Trieux city resident.
Three
years ago, Erlauf invaded Trieux—Cinderella’s country—in a brutally short war and claimed it as Erlauf territory. Erlauf had taken Trieux with little pain, but dislike still brewed between citizens. There hadn’t been any violence since the takeover, but there was plenty of hate to go around.
With Trieux’s soldiers mostly killed or imported deep into the heart of Erlauf, the citizens of Trieux had no way to resist. The sheer number of soldiers present in the city was outrageously large considering the lack of rebellion.
But Erlauf was ruled by the cautious Queen Freja and her equally cautious consort, and both of them intended to keep Trieux in their clutches.
Cinderella left the capital—the Erlauf monarchs
had renamed it Werra, obliterating its original Trieux name, Arroux—and followed a dirt road through the rolling farmland.
The
sky was a canvas of colors when Cinderella reached her home, Aveyron Chateau. She slapped dust from her cloak and ventured into the boundaries of her buildings. She waved to one of the stable boys bringing a pair of draft horses into the stable for the night and paused to count the chickens before entering the chateau.
Gilbert
, the land steward, and his daughter Jeanne, the housekeeper, were talking in the kitchen. When Cinderella entered the warm room, they fell silent. This was not unusual. In spite of her ventures, the father and daughter remained stubbornly formal with her, but the gaping looks of horror they gave her were unusual. They hadn’t been this appalled since Cinderella donned servant clothes as her everyday dress months ago.
“Mademoiselle
,” Gilbert said.
Jeanne cover
ed her mouth to stifle her gasp.
“Your
, your hair—b-but—why?” Gilbert said, laying a hand on a table to balance himself.
Cinderella jingled her pocket
, making the coins in it bounce. “Send for a carpenter tomorrow, please. We can afford to see that hole in the south wing ceiling patched,” Cinderella said, removing her cloak and hanging it near the fire.
“Mademoiselle
,” Gilbert said in a pained voice.
“It needed to be done
, Gilbert,” Cinderella said.
“Yes
, Mademoiselle.”
“
Have my step-mother and step-sisters already had dinner?” Cinderella asked.
“Yes
,” Gilbert said.
“
Pheasant in a cream sauce, baked potatoes, and apple sauce,” Jeanne said, finding her voice.
“Any complaints?”
Cinderella asked.
Jeanne shook her head.
“Good,” Cinderella said, taking a cooled baked potato and biting into it like an apple. The potato crumbled in Cinderella’s mouth and tasted creamy. “I like this potato. What kind is it?”
“Winter Red
, mademoiselle,” Gilbert said.
“It’s one of our winter crops?”
“Yes, I believe they were harvested two days ago.”
“Winter Red
…I will make note of that for the next winter. Any new activity I should be made aware of?”
“Some of the men took inventory of the beehives today. Most of the bees survived the winter
,” Gilbert said. “One of the horses lost a shoe today when cultivating. The blacksmith already gave him a new one.”
Cinderella
nodded. “How much did it cost?”
“The account is wait
ing for you on your dressing table.”
“Excellent.
Thank you.”
“My pleasure
, mademoiselle,” Gilbert said, folding at the waist in a bow.
“A buyer
has approached us. He is interested in a specific painting,” Jeanne said.
“One of the ones I
have listed for sale?” Cinderella asked.
Jeanne hesitated.
“No, Mademoiselle”
“If you will excuse me
, Mademoiselle,” Gilbert said, bowing again before he took his leave from the kitchen.
“Good even
ing, Gilbert,” Cinderella called after him before turning back to his daughter. “Which painting?”
“If it pleases you
, I will show you, Mademoiselle.”
“Yes
, please.”
Jeanne led Cinderella through the dark Chateau
, navigating by the thin slices of sunlight shed by the setting sun. Light meant candles and firewood, both of which were costly or labor intensive. To save funds, Cinderella and the servants resisted using either whenever possible.
Jeanne led the way to Cinderella’s private quarters. She dropped a curtsey before enter
ing the room, which was a shadow of luxury and beauty. Once upon a time, Cinderella’s room was crowded with paintings, bottles of costly perfumes and oils, gold jewelry boxes, the finest crafted furniture, and sculptures.
The
few reminders of those lavish times were the beautiful murals painted on the walls, and a single, ornately framed painting.
The painting was
a portrait of Cinderella, finished before the war. Before Erlauf. It showed Cinderella in a beautiful, elaborate—and uncomfortable, as Cinderella remembered—ivory dress that complimented her fair skin and made the dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks look charming rather than untidy. Her hair was piled elaborately on the top of her head, and pearls and rubies hung from her neck, wrists, and ears. She was surrounded by pink flowers, which made her gray eyes stark in the light-hued image. Cinderella smiled in the portrait. She remembered her father had asked her to be solemn for the occasion, but Cinderella couldn’t help it, so the painter had given her a wide smile.
It
was a personal painting, not one meant for wide-spread admiration.
“The buyer requested the portrait of your likeness.”
“This? They want this?” Cinderella said, thrusting a finger at the painting.
“Yes
, Mademoiselle,” Jeanne said.
Cinderella blinked. “Why?” she said.
She hadn’t bothered listing the painting for sale because she very much doubted anyone would actually
want
it.
“I am not certain
, but the buyer requested it,” Jeanne said. “The offer is a tidy sum.”
Cinderella would
have sold it if someone would take a few copper coins for it. “Does the buyer know the frame cannot be salvaged? I tried having the portrait removed to sell the frame alone, but the art dealer said the frame would have to be broken irreparably to get the painting out.”
“The
y are aware,” Jeanne said.
“Who is it?” Cinderella asked.
“I do not know the buyer’s name. He or she is making the inquiry through an Erlauf broker—the one that has bought a number of chateau belongings.”
“Von Beiler? Hm
,” Cinderella said, studying the portrait. She reached out to caress the corner of the frame.
It
was the last reminder she had of the lady she used to be, and of the opulence she once lived in. “But keeping everyone fed and employed is more important than a vain reminder,” Cinderella said.
“I beg your pardon
, Mademoiselle?”
“It’s noth
ing. Try to drive the price up, if you can, but take whatever they are willing to give you for it,” Cinderella said.
“Are you certain?
Cinderella looked once more at the girl in the portrait. Back then she was nothing but a silly girl who trusted her father to look out for her in all things. She couldn’t go back to that life, not with her father dead.
“I am positive. Thank you
, Jeanne,” Cinderella said, leaving her room and heading back to the kitchen. She didn’t want to see the young housekeeper remove the portrait from her room.
Cinderella watched another Erlauf patrol squad pass through the market. “I
t seems to me they are patrolling more frequently.”
“
Perhaps they are, Mademoiselle,” Vitore, an Aveyron lady’s maid who had voluntarily become the market-stall-minder, said.
“
But why?” Cinderella said as the soldiers disappear deeper into the market. “Vitore?” Cinderella said when the maid did not respond. Most of Cinderella’s servants would not speak familiarly with Cinderella. However, Vitore, a renowned gossip, tended to be less tight-lipped than the rest of the staff.
Vitore made a show of look
ing around the produce stall, but she and Cinderella were the only representatives from Aveyron in the market. “There are rumors someone broke into the Royal Trieux Library,” Vitore whispered.
“Oh.
That’s nothing new. Those incidents started well over a year ago,” Cinderella said.
“Yes
, but I heard they’re close to capturing the culprit,” Vitore said.
Cinderella winced. “
I see.”
When a potential customer strolled closer to the stall
, Vitore remembered herself and bobbed a curtsey, cheerfully calling out to the customer. “Winter wheat, potatoes, and carrots! All of them as sweet as summer,” she sang out like the rest of the market stall merchants.
As Vitore
haggled with customers, Cinderella finished stocking the stall. She secured the chicken eggs so they wouldn’t fall, propped up a basket of goat-milk soaps, and arranged the vegetables.
“You’re set
,” Cinderella said during a brief lull in sales. “A stable boy will check in with you at noon to carry any empty baskets home.”
“Thank you
, Mademoiselle,” Vitore said, curtsying to Cinderella.
Cinderella wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “O
f course,” she said. “I will be…”
