Disclaimer: Gail Carson Levine is the author of Ella Enchanted, not me. I bow down before her and her creative genius.
*Lines in italics are taken directly from the text of Ella Enchanted.
The kitchen was hot and stuffy, smelling both of aromatic cooking and sweating, harried servants. Amid the bustle of an entire household's preparation for the night's elaborate banquet, no one gives the scullery maid in the far corner a second thought. As for the maid, Ella, the rhythm of the metal blade against the wood cutting board as she cuts a large slab of raw meat into small portions seems to overpower the room's activity. Staring blankly at the sooty brick wall in front of her, she doesn't see the knife as it slices through the skin of her finger instead of the meat. Feeling the painful throb of her wounded finger, Ella glances down. Blood running from the small index finger stains the wooden board. She brings the large iron blade of the knife at level with her eyes. In it she sees her own features reflected back at her: unwashed brown hair pulled back with a scrap of dirty cloth, a few loose, limp strands framing a gaunt complexion; eyes that once held a feisty, rebellious glint, now glazed over with an empty look; hollow-looking cheeks smudged with sweat and soot. Had Ella ever been inclined towards vanity, or in any condition to even care about her appearance, she may have found its denigration disturbing. But she can't bring her self to care in the least.
It has been less than four months since the last ball, her last night with Char. She stayed long enough to hear his song. He sang beautifully, the simple, welcoming tune filling her with a harsh sense of loss. Oak, granite, lilies by the road, remember me? I remember you. Once he finished, she quietly took her leave. There was no heartfelt parting between "Lela" and Char; Ella could not bring herself to do it. When Dame Olga and her daughters returned in the early hours of dawn, Ella was already back in her dirty, tattered servants garb, her mothers' altered ball gowns and all other evidence of her actions over that last three nights disposed of. Her existence as a lowly scullery maid, bullied by her step family and ignored by an indifferent staff--with the exception of Mandy--resumed. She ceased writing her letters to Char, letters that confessed everything she could never say to him. Those she had already written would remain unsent, safely hidden away with Char's past correspondences to her. Eventually he would have to put his broken heart back together and find someone else to love, all memories of Ella fading; it would be just as she planned.
With Char--kind, gentle, warm-hearted Char--no longer part of her life, nothing remains to distract Ella from the drudgery of her days. Mandy gives Ella what comfort and affection she can, but gradually Dame Olga, increasingly aware of Mandy's solid devotion to her former mistress's child, finds more and more ways--outside errands, laborious tasks in some other part of the manor-- to separate Ella from her fairy godmother. There are only Olive's relentless demands, Hattie's insufferable gloating, and Dame Olga's arbitrary commands. Nevertheless, she cannot regret her decision to completely alienate Char. Whatever hardships the curse creates for her, they would be tenfold if Char were to share them.
The throbbing pain in her index finger pulls Ella's attention away from the reflection in the knife. She knows she ought to fetch linen from the nearby cabinet and dress the wound, but she make no move to do so. The pain is liberating. These past months she has been nothing but numb. What used to make her smile only serves to remind her of happier days, times with Mother and Char and Areida. Memories that highlight all she has lost and can never hope to regain. She can't dwell on the pain and longing. Every feeling and emotion is pushed aside, suppressed lest it threaten sadness, until there is nothing else left to feel. Now, though, she feels the sharp sting of flesh sliced through, drenched in the warm stickiness of blood, and with it all the thoughts formerly held at bay inside her head.
Tears trickle down her cheeks, washing away dirt and grime. There is no end to this existence as a cast-off, unpaid scullery maid, no proverbial light at the tunnel's end. She is alone. She is trapped. Whatever she does, someone will always be there to command otherwise. Her love for Char is the greatest threat to his life; it will the same for anyone else who wins her affections. If she cannot ultimately choose her own actions, cannot love someone without fear of destroying them, then what is left? Indeed what was there to begin with? It's not as if her life was really ever her own to live; the curse renders her completely unable to exercise free will, that inalienable right of every living creature.
The knife, dripping with her blood, catches her eye again. There is a choice. It may be the only one left to her, but it makes all the difference. She could choose not to suffer Dame Olga and her daughters, disregard an order beyond a few seconds worth of excruciating resistance, cast off her life as it is now. Once done, no command could reverse it, counter it, or change it.
Ella smiles as she lifts the knife at level with her heart.
Oak, granite, lilies by the road, remember me? I remember you
Author's note: Please, please, please review. Feedback, compliments, and constructive criticism are wonderful things. And I have cyber chocolate :)