Author's Note: Thoroughly disappointed at the lack of Confessions of
an Ugly Stepsister fanfiction around here I took it upon myself to get the
ball rolling. Those of you who agree that Confessions is wonderful please
start some fanfiction as well, and those of you who have never read
Confessions (or have only seen the TV movie which is all right but not
nearly as wonderful as the novel) read it immediately! It's grand and
deserves many a fanfic.
Oh, and another chapter will follow. Hopefully this story will not be like
Heaven Help Me and include procrastinating little chapters that are not
going to be put up for months.
That being said.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the things within this story, it all belongs to Gregory Maguire and I suppose a publishing house or two. I don't have any money, but I suppose you could take my Fischer Price record player if the need be.
I am an ass. A glorious, atrocious, unforgivable ass! What was I thinking? I can see now quite clearly that I wasn't thinking. In one fell swoop I managed to a make a great mess of everything that I ever hoped to accomplish.
I had hoped to defend my master, to hand justice to those who would treat his life's masterpiece so shoddily. Justice seemed to be the last thing on that stupid prince's mind when Clara oh so casually managed to reveal her identity to him. For one who seemed so determined and on my side he certainly did forget what he had come to that house. One glance of his mysterious magical maiden and I and my mission were all but forgotten. Ah, but who could blame him? I know a thing or two about how silly one can act when blinded by their affections.
Affections can make you seize a girl by the wrists so quickly as to frighten her. Affections can make say things about how prettily smudged someone's face has become. Affections can make you dance when you haven't the legs or ability to do so. Affection can make an imbecile out of you.
Not that those feelings matter anymore. No, I might as well forget them because in my blind rage, and my forgetting that the prince had an attachment to Clara Van den Meer, I had forgotten one very important thing. Seeking justice for the Van den Meer's included seeking justice for Iris.
Iris, wonderful, clever, intelligent, lovely, beautiful Iris! How could I have let my anger outweigh my emotions for her? I had feared that I had lost her the very evening before. Could it be that someone other than I could actually see beyond the plain exterior into the beauty and greatness that she holds inside? That inner gorgeousness that seemed to transform her outsides into the most splendid looks I had ever seen. It seemed almost unfair that anyone else should be able to so abruptly see the soul that had before made me tremble at its touch. But he saw it, I could tell. Philippe de Marsillac had seen Iris Van den Meer for what she really is. He had seen past the exterior, and I didn't like it at all.
What could I offer Iris? I'm nothing but a dingy painter's apprentice! With a prince she could have all she had ever deserved. I couldn't buy her nice shoes or dresses; I couldn't even guarantee good meals. If given the opportunity to snatch up a marriage to a prince how could she refuse? If she even had one bit of her mother in her she would gladly accept any advances he would offer her. And I wouldn't hate her for it. She could have been so happy, and that would be enough for me. What a horrid night that ball had brought on. If all balls end with broken hearts and flaming masterpieces I certainly cannot see what all the fuss is about.
I almost wish Clara had never shown her face at that ball. If only Iris had not had underestimated her own beauty she could have married a prince, been situated quite nicely in France somewhere with fancy things and royal children, while Casper the dingy painter's apprentice sat around his master's home in Haarlem pretending that he was not being torn to pieces inside.
But what does it matter now? Any chance I had regained when Clara had entered the ballroom and struck the prince's mind dumb is gone. All because I am an unobservant ass!
I am brought, rather abruptly, out of my wallowing in self-pity by the Master's firm voice,
"Why don't you go out instead of sitting around here doing nothing and disturbing me?"
He is applying several long strokes of color to a new painting of the Virgin while chiding me. Being in a foul mood I don't care about how my next comment might sting him.
"How can you continue painting when you know your greatest masterpiece has been destroyed?"
The question hardly seems to faze him, he only answers briefly,
"If I do not continue, then I will never know if my greatest masterpiece has been destroyed or has yet to be made."
He has a point, but I prefer to continue sulking rather than admit that he may be right.
"Go for a walk," he insists.
"I can't," I answer.
"Why can't you?"
Because I might see her, I say to myself, but I don't want him to know that that is why I refuse to leave the house.
"I don't feel well," I grumble.
"The fresh air will do you some good."
I put my head in my hands and muffle out,
"I'm fine."
"Ah, but I thought you said you didn't feel well?"
"I don't"
"Do you feel well or are you fine? Which is it?"
I grow tired of this talk and give him a suggestive glance.
"You know why I can't go outside."
"I do, and for all the looking you do Casper, I must say that you are not very observant."
That earns a slight smirk.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"That you cannot see what is right in front of you. Iris has been in love you for months now."
I snort.
"Oh yes, I'm sure. I frighten her, I can tell."
"You frighten her because she is afraid you will find out how she feels and will not return her affections."
I sigh and place my face back into my hands.
"It doesn't matter now, anyway. I've ruined it."
The Master smiles broadly at my statement and says quite confidently while staring at his new work.
"I will never know if I have seen the destruction of my masterpiece unless I continue working, and you will never know if you have ruined any interest Iris might have had in you if you do not ask."
He has a point.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the things within this story, it all belongs to Gregory Maguire and I suppose a publishing house or two. I don't have any money, but I suppose you could take my Fischer Price record player if the need be.
I am an ass. A glorious, atrocious, unforgivable ass! What was I thinking? I can see now quite clearly that I wasn't thinking. In one fell swoop I managed to a make a great mess of everything that I ever hoped to accomplish.
I had hoped to defend my master, to hand justice to those who would treat his life's masterpiece so shoddily. Justice seemed to be the last thing on that stupid prince's mind when Clara oh so casually managed to reveal her identity to him. For one who seemed so determined and on my side he certainly did forget what he had come to that house. One glance of his mysterious magical maiden and I and my mission were all but forgotten. Ah, but who could blame him? I know a thing or two about how silly one can act when blinded by their affections.
Affections can make you seize a girl by the wrists so quickly as to frighten her. Affections can make say things about how prettily smudged someone's face has become. Affections can make you dance when you haven't the legs or ability to do so. Affection can make an imbecile out of you.
Not that those feelings matter anymore. No, I might as well forget them because in my blind rage, and my forgetting that the prince had an attachment to Clara Van den Meer, I had forgotten one very important thing. Seeking justice for the Van den Meer's included seeking justice for Iris.
Iris, wonderful, clever, intelligent, lovely, beautiful Iris! How could I have let my anger outweigh my emotions for her? I had feared that I had lost her the very evening before. Could it be that someone other than I could actually see beyond the plain exterior into the beauty and greatness that she holds inside? That inner gorgeousness that seemed to transform her outsides into the most splendid looks I had ever seen. It seemed almost unfair that anyone else should be able to so abruptly see the soul that had before made me tremble at its touch. But he saw it, I could tell. Philippe de Marsillac had seen Iris Van den Meer for what she really is. He had seen past the exterior, and I didn't like it at all.
What could I offer Iris? I'm nothing but a dingy painter's apprentice! With a prince she could have all she had ever deserved. I couldn't buy her nice shoes or dresses; I couldn't even guarantee good meals. If given the opportunity to snatch up a marriage to a prince how could she refuse? If she even had one bit of her mother in her she would gladly accept any advances he would offer her. And I wouldn't hate her for it. She could have been so happy, and that would be enough for me. What a horrid night that ball had brought on. If all balls end with broken hearts and flaming masterpieces I certainly cannot see what all the fuss is about.
I almost wish Clara had never shown her face at that ball. If only Iris had not had underestimated her own beauty she could have married a prince, been situated quite nicely in France somewhere with fancy things and royal children, while Casper the dingy painter's apprentice sat around his master's home in Haarlem pretending that he was not being torn to pieces inside.
But what does it matter now? Any chance I had regained when Clara had entered the ballroom and struck the prince's mind dumb is gone. All because I am an unobservant ass!
I am brought, rather abruptly, out of my wallowing in self-pity by the Master's firm voice,
"Why don't you go out instead of sitting around here doing nothing and disturbing me?"
He is applying several long strokes of color to a new painting of the Virgin while chiding me. Being in a foul mood I don't care about how my next comment might sting him.
"How can you continue painting when you know your greatest masterpiece has been destroyed?"
The question hardly seems to faze him, he only answers briefly,
"If I do not continue, then I will never know if my greatest masterpiece has been destroyed or has yet to be made."
He has a point, but I prefer to continue sulking rather than admit that he may be right.
"Go for a walk," he insists.
"I can't," I answer.
"Why can't you?"
Because I might see her, I say to myself, but I don't want him to know that that is why I refuse to leave the house.
"I don't feel well," I grumble.
"The fresh air will do you some good."
I put my head in my hands and muffle out,
"I'm fine."
"Ah, but I thought you said you didn't feel well?"
"I don't"
"Do you feel well or are you fine? Which is it?"
I grow tired of this talk and give him a suggestive glance.
"You know why I can't go outside."
"I do, and for all the looking you do Casper, I must say that you are not very observant."
That earns a slight smirk.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"That you cannot see what is right in front of you. Iris has been in love you for months now."
I snort.
"Oh yes, I'm sure. I frighten her, I can tell."
"You frighten her because she is afraid you will find out how she feels and will not return her affections."
I sigh and place my face back into my hands.
"It doesn't matter now, anyway. I've ruined it."
The Master smiles broadly at my statement and says quite confidently while staring at his new work.
"I will never know if I have seen the destruction of my masterpiece unless I continue working, and you will never know if you have ruined any interest Iris might have had in you if you do not ask."
He has a point.