Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (34 page)

How pathetic
, Isolda thought. But rolling her eyes in ridicule of the two lovers’ pitiful display of affection was proving itself insufficient to allay her fury.

Ella had stolen away the man that was to be Isolda’s champion; her escort into a world of decadent sin and carnal pleasure she’d been forced to live so long without. Isolda had overlooked wisps of clarity throughout her brief courtship of the mystery man: that he was not Peter, Isabella’s younger brother. In time, it became more than speculation. But Isolda could not forgo the fantasy, the perfect catharsis for what seemed like her perpetual patience. She was entitled to that man and everything that came with him. For all she knew, she even loved Peter.
Though he was not Peter
. Who was he? Some man named Gabriel? Did it even matter anymore? Ella had destroyed Isolda yet again. She’d stolen Isolda’s husband, her daughter, and now her dream for pure joy with ….him.

“You are dead to me, Ella Delaquix,” Isolda said so lightly beneath her breath. “You are
dead
to me.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

King William was so still; his body rested in perfect repose and Leopold kept waiting for his father’s chest to rise. Just a little bit. But it never did. Instead the dead man’s face just drooped slightly to the left, his lips slightly open and curved inward like he was about to sing.

How could I be like you? I hardly even know you!

Leopold had never uttered those words to his father, but he might as well have. He’d been walking around with a grudge smeared across his forehead for the entire time he’d been home from his military service. It was true Leopold knew little about who his father really was but he was as much to blame as anyone. William had called himself a bad father. Leopold felt the need to cry but he remained resolved.

He should have been a better son.

Why had he deluded himself into believing he had more time? Arabella was kneeling at her husband’s side and weeping. The vision of the grieving widow succeeded at giving Leopold the smallest tinge of comfort.

Maybe his parents had loved each other…just a bit.

Leopold placed his hand softly atop his mother’s shoulder and closed his eyes, contemplating on the family he’d never known. Dreaming of the family he might be blessed enough to get in his own life. Was it possible? When he looked back up, Leopold saw Thurlow watching him from the doorway. His heartbeat accelerated. Immediately, he recalled the words of the woman—
what was her name
—right before their discussion had been intermitted by news of his father. She’d said to him that Thurlow was dangerous, that he was not who he said he was. The poor maiden had looked downright scared that her words might land her in a world of trouble. Leopold had not a chance to reassure her that he already knew Thurlow was a menace and not at all trustworthy. Prince Leopold had every intention, since the beginning, of ameliorating the man’s misdeeds and renewing Gwent’s morale by ridding it of those that had oppressed its citizens so violently, even bringing them to justice if necessary. But the woman in pink did not have the chance to reveal some mystery source that could presumably shed some light on the scope of Thurlow’s crimes.

Leopold motioned for the nearest castle guard, a young man named Mario, to approach. The young man swiftly complied.

“The woman I was with tonight,” Leopold whispered into the man’s ear lowly, “do you remember her?”

Mario furrowed his brow in an effort to recall the woman’s face. Leopold perceived his difficulty.

“She was blond with curly hair and she was wearing a pink dress,” Leopold reminded the guard. “I think her name was Ella. Or perhaps Bella. I do remember she told me the name of her mother was Isabella. I think. I am sorry my memory is not precise. I am sure, however, that she was dressed in pink.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Mario replied, still unaware of whom he was supposed recall.

“I need you to find her and have her meet me privately in the dormitory of the northern wing at exactly midnight tonight. Do you understand me, good sir?”

“I do, Your Highness,” Mario replied with feigned confidence. He bowed and made his way rapidly toward the exit of the William’s chambers. Leopold saw that Thurlow was no longer there. The prince was compelled to follow him but as he lifted his hand ever slightly from Arabella’s shoulder, he felt her cold fingers clutch it. He could not leave her side. Not yet.

Miles Gamely entered William’s dormitory, bowed his head and crossed himself in his last reverie to his king. He then looked over to Leopold. The prince’s eyes revealed that he was eager to hear what his former teacher had to relay. He was ready.

Midnight would only be the beginning.

Mario, the castle guard, scuttled through the hallway, desperate to find someone, anyone, who could help him track down one face and a pink dress in what had been hundreds of faces and dresses. Mario was a dutiful servant; he could not fail at this task.

As he rounded a corner, he collided full on with what very well could have been a brick wall. It didn’t budge. Mario lifted his head and saw that it was none other than his commander, Captain Thurlow.

“Forgive me, sir,” Mario said, preparing himself for what would most certainly be vicious reprimand. “I did not see you there.”

“It is quite all right,” Thurlow replied formally, “accidents happen. Where are you running off to in such a hurry?”

Mario was stunned with the politeness. “An errand for his highness the prince,” he replied.

“You seem rather … overwhelmed by this task,” Thurlow asserted. “Is there a way I can help you?”

Mario was skeptical but gave it a try. “Only if you happen to know the identity of the woman Prince Leopold was communing with tonight. Some maiden with blond, curly hair and wearing a pink gown,” he said.

Thurlow clenched his jaw. “Are you referring to Ella Delaquix?”

“He said her name might be Ella and that her mother’s name was—“

“Isabella.”

“Yes. I must relay a very important message to her on behalf of the prince.”

“I know precisely whom you are looking for, young man. Give me the message and I will deliver it to her for you.”

“But I—“

“I am your superior,” Thurlow said, his words designed to pierce the subordinate’s ear with sinister undertones. “And the royal family is and always has been my responsibility. Now tell me his message.”

“Yes, sir,” Mario said, his self-esteem knocked down a peg. He complied with Thurlow’s demand and told the man everything that Leopold had told him.

“Thank you,” the captain said, distractedly. “I will take it from here. Consider your errand complete.”

Mario nodded, saluted his superior, and departed.

Thurlow stepped back and took a breath. Why was he so incensed? He knew that Leopold would take a liking to Ella, for her beauty was unparalleled. Still, his blood temperature began rising and he could hardly contain his exuberance as he reminded himself that Leopold would not be meeting anyone, let alone Ella Delaquix, at midnight.

Aislinn had been offered transportation home in the Duchess of Timmelin’s carriage. Isolda had stayed, persuading the duchess that she was too worried to leave until she knew if her niece was all right. Aislinn did not make eye contact with her mother as she lied to the duchess. It was nothing new to her.

Isolda was not telling a complete lie, however. Her reason for lingering at the failed royal party was entirely motivated by her “concern” for Ella. Or at least, concern of what happened to Ella. In truth, Isolda was not completely certain what course of action she should take to see to it her wretched niece had what was coming to her. But she could not go home; she could not face her daughters, especially Bethany, when their own mother had been so atrociously disgraced. They might not have known it at the time, but her daughters stood to gain the most of anyone from their mother’s doggedness.

Ella was a child; how had she succeeded to usurp everything that Isolda stood for, that she had worked for? There was only one person who could guarantee that Ella got her just desserts for her treachery. Ironically, it was the same person who had been obsessed with having her all to himself for years: Captain Thurlow.

Ella bounced along in the carriage as it rolled along the rocky path and tried to encourage her heart and mind to remain numb. That was the only way she was going to survive. She had done it, just like Marion had told her to. She’d freed herself from the fear of losing Gabriel forever and she had done it by letting him go. On the surface, it had indeed been liberating and the necessary gauntlet for carrying on with life. But the dragon was only sleeping and the next morning, when Ella awoke from her own slumber, it would invade her entire person and scorch her heart. She would not be able to get out of her bed, not even able to pull the blankets from her body. She would have no desire for food, for friends, for air. Ella already had a taste of what she had to look forward to and it all but drove her to flee from her moving coach and run off into her own exile apart from humanity, and fade from existence like a dying star.

At the Delaquix estate, Marguerite was trying desperately to watch the show but Louis insisted on tickling her sides and planting wet kisses on her neck.

“Not right now, Louis,” Marguerite scolded him. “I am trying to watch this.” Louis relinquished his grip on her waist and scooted up alongside his lover at the base of a wide oak tree; his head, like Marguerite’s, also poked out from the side to watch the drama unfold.

“So Marion is dancing with Frome in the moonlight,” Louis said, not entertained enough to disregard his own aching appetites. “So what? I will dance with you right now, love, if you promise we can do it without our clothes on.”

“Stop flapping those lips,” she spat at Louis, smacking him violently across his arm, “or you will never get anything of the sort ever again. What we are beholding right here and now is better than an opera.”

“But there is no music.”

“They will make their own.”

Louis took another glance. Frome and Marion were an endearing couple, Louis mused, but dancing too distantly, too courteously, for his taste.

“You don’t mind spying on them like this?” he asked Marguerite.

“You must be trying to tease me! After all these years, you think I feel anything but elation when I see two people finally admit they love one another, especially after so long of pretending they despised each other. God himself is spying on them right now, my dear Louis.”

Before Louis had a chance to respond, the sound of clopping horse hooves breached the romantic dome that they’d all been basking in that night.

“Speak of the devil,” Louis said as he watched the carriage approach the drive, “and I do mean that literally. That man Gabriel is the devil.”

“Maybe you are right,” Marguerite replied, grinning “but it is an angel who loves him.”

Marguerite and Louis scampered across the lawn and met up with Marion and Frome, who were both puzzled that their friends were coming at them from across the yard.

“Why are they home so early?” Marguerite asked. She looked over to Marion, who did not reply. She simply followed the coach with her eyes until it stopped in front of them. The driver stepped down and promptly opened the small carriage door. All four of the eager adults were holding their breaths. Ella stepped out. She was alone.