Author's Note: Yes, another Cinderella drabble. I also wrote this one for creative writing, but I like it much better than Eye of the Beholder. I hope you all do as well!
Disclaimer: How many times do I have to tell you people that I don't own anything?
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Rochelle Delacroix huddled on a carved stone bench in her Galacia rose garden, taking solace in the relative silence there—the only sound coming from her own choked sobs and the water flowing from the mouths of doves in the copper fountain situated in the center of her flowery alcove. Hidden behind the ornate columns and topiaries bearing resemblance to mythological creatures, such as phoenixes and unicorns, she shed her tears under the watch of their pristine, unwavering eyes. Her tears flowed in glistening rivers down her porcelain cheeks, cutting through the black dirt on her face, and then falling onto the creamy lace of her gown, staining the delicate fabric. Miniature fires danced in her tears—her liquid regrets—mirroring their larger brethren crackling a few feet from Rochelle's seat. In the farthest corner of her florid niche Rochelle had dug an earthen pit—cracking and tearing her dainty nails and soiling the lace cuffs of her gown as she did so. She had ringed the hole with stones to contain the fire and carefully placed a large parcel within the pit—then set a match to it. Now the firelight glinted off her honey gold hair, making the ringlets that cascaded down her back seem to be spun from the finest gold and it highlighted the hollows of her cheeks, making them seem less sunken and emaciated. The glow danced across her features, caressing them with comforting warmth as the tendrils of heat twined around her form and settled there like a cloak. Like a midnight lover the fire sent gentle fingers gliding through her hair and down her spine, which caused the hair on the back of her neck to prick up. It tickled the nape of her neck and wrapped a smoke ornament around her ring finger, covering the ghostly white obstruction that disturbed the flow of her otherwise unmarred skin.
That miniscule band of death colored skin was once the same smooth, fair color as the rest of her skin, but the pigment had drained from that small region on the day that her Nicolas slid a ring onto her finger. The beautiful bauble that had once concealed the pale spot was rosy gold, adorned with a blood red ruby. Rochelle sighed forlornly, she knew that the trinket had probably been destroyed by Nicolas, or pawned to some common street peddler.
Rochelle had begun weaving this intricately tangled web months ago, when she became acquainted with Nicolas on the eve of her eighteenth birthday at a masquerade ball held in order to celebrate the event. This commemoration was no minor event, Rochelle's stepmother, Lamarie, had given her nothing short of a coronation. Beautiful ice sculptures in the likeness of swans decorated the balconies and the pathways of the rose garden had been lit with glass lamps that contained live fireflies. Invitations had been sent out to every duke, count, and lord within a three hundred mile radius of the town—everyone who was anyone had been at this grand event, including the prince himself. It had been a night of beautiful ball gowns, lilting laughter, and dashing courtiers. Rochelle had been the belle of the ball, clad in a beautiful blue and purple dress ornamented with silver embroidery and diamonds.
Lamarie had never been exceptionally kind to Rochelle, often treating her no better than a scullery maid. She knew, of course, why her stepmother had gone to such extents to put on a grand affair such as the phenomenal ball. Rochelle was of marriageable age, which meant a dowry for the bride's family when she married—Lamarie had never done anything unless she benefited from it. Even though this ball had been thrown because of her stepmother's ulterior motives Rochelle had enjoyed herself immensely, conversing with old friends, acquainting herself with royalty of the surrounding locale, and waltzing for endless hours.
As the clock struck seven Rochelle made her appearance—regally descending the marble staircase into the ballroom—her purple shoes, dyed to match her gown, clicked on the stone and the diamond studded train of her dress pooled on the steps behind her. As she entered all the chatter between her guests stopped as everyone turned to stare at her—her best friend later said that everyone had thought she was a fairy princess. Once she reached the bottom of the stairs Rochelle flashed a nervous smile at her guests and made her welcoming speech.
"Good evening—lords, ladies, counts, countesses, dukes, and duchesses." Said Rochelle, greeting each of the royal hierarchy. "Thank you all for attending my coming-of-age celebration. I appreciate all of you having traveled such distances, whether they are far or near. Now, let the merriment commence."
When Rochelle had finished her speech the musicians took up their instruments once more and began playing a whimsical tune as a dozen butlers paraded into the room and proceeded to seat the two-hundred or so people at the circular tables situated in the dining hall off the side of the ballroom. Counts, dukes, lords, ladies, duchesses, and countesses mixed and mingled as they proceeded to the dining hall, comfortably seating themselves where, and with whom, they pleased. Rochelle showed herself into the hall and sat at the long, linen covered table that overlooked the rest of the room as she admired the fine china that Lamarie had purchased especially for this occasion. The dishware was simple but elegant—ecru in coloration with a sage green border of Celtic knots. After she studied the plates Rochelle turned her attention to the rest of the room, admiring the other decorations—this room was decorated just as beautifully as the others. Garlands of fragrant flowers were draped across the wrought iron curtain rods, and the draperies were thrown open to give a full view of the night sky—scattered throughout the room were fifty or so small tables, which could seat three to four guests—every table had been draped with a creamy linen table cloth and was outfitted with no less than two bowls, three plates, two goblets, four spoons, two knives, and seven forks for each person. The tables filled quickly with guests and Rochelle signaled to the butlers to begin bringing in the food.
On Rochelle's que butlers began bringing in large silver platters laden with food—sweet aromas of roasted chicken, potatoes, carrots, pork, venison, and other numerous delicacies danced through the air, invading the noses or Rochelle and her guests, which made their stomachs growl with hunger. Gratefully she took the chicken offered to her and she began to cut it into dainty, bite-sized pieces. For a few minutes all that could be heard was the chink of silverware against dishes, then a few intermittent conversations sprang up throughout the hall, then everyone was talking, the volume going from a manageable buzz to a dull roar. The noise level had reached such a high level that Rochelle had to half shout in order for the prince, who was her dinner partner, to hear her.
She had been in the middle of explaining how she came to be in Lamarie's care to the prince when she noticed a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. Rochelle turned her head slightly and caught sight of her best friend, Caprice, beckoning to her. She mumbled a polite 'excuse me' to the prince and cordially dropped a curtsey before she wove her way through tables, stopping every few feet to converse with someone. Fifteen minutes, and twice that many conversations later, she finally reached Caprice, who wore a look on her face that plainly spelled out her annoyance with her best friend.
"Took you long enough." Sighed Caprice sarcastically.
"Have you ever tried throwing a ball with over two hundred people attending? They all want to talk to you…correction, the courtiers want to 'talk' to you…" Replied Rochelle as she sat down across from Caprice.
"I'm assuming you refused."
"Naturally."
"Good girl!" Said Caprice enthusiastically. "So, do you see anyone you like? Particularly, anyone young and handsome?" Caprice asked her friend as she waved her arm in a sweeping gesture to indicate the young men in the room.
"Well, the prince is nice…" Said Rochelle slowly.
Caprice giggled. "Talen?" Rochelle nodded and Caprice continued. "I suppose I should let you be getting back to him, then shouldn't I? Now scoot!" She waved her hand dismissively and Rochelle willingly went back to her seat.
Talen flashed his dinner partner a small smile as she returned to her previously vacated seat, then went back to his conversation with Lamarie—which suited Rochelle just fine. She leaned back in her chair and signaled for butlers to start clearing away the current dishes and bring out dessert. Then Rochelle leaned back in her chair and attuned her ears to different conversations around her, catching snippets of sentences before they were lost in the din. "We lost…acres of crops…raiders attacked…four times…eighty died…four children…horse races…annual fair…peace treaty…"
A hand tapped Rochelle's shoulder and she gasped, startled by the unexpected touch. She turned and saw a butler hovering near her right elbow. "Yes?"
"Do we begin serving the dessert now, Lady Delacroix?" Asked the butler, seeing his mistress nod he bustled back to the kitchen and reappeared a few moments later with four other butlers, each pushing a silver cart heaped with plates of chocolate strawberry cheesecake. They worked their way around the room methodically, putting a plate before each guest, and then moved on. When a plate was placed before Rochelle she picked up her last remaining fork and began to eat, letting her mind wander until she had cleared her plate of the luscious dessert. After finishing she tapped her fork against her glass to call the attention of her guests. After a few moments they all fell silent and turned their heads toward her.
"We shall we proceed with the dancing—please make your way to the ballroom." Said Rochelle, then she left her table and proceeded to the ballroom, stopping only to tell a butler to begin cleaning up the remaining dishes.
As the procession of guests entered the room the musicians struck up a waltz and a few people paired off and took to the dance floor. Rochelle hung off to the side, chatting amiably with a duchess from some town or another when a duke approached her.
"May I have this dance, Lady Delacroix?" He asked, extending his hand.
Politely Rochelle took the offered hand with a smile. "Of course, M'lord."
The duke led Rochelle onto the dance floor and they began dancing—joining the others already on the dance floor. Politely Rochelle allowed the duke to guide her across the marbled tiles for several measures of the waltz, before someone asked to cut in. Gladly she traded out the old, somewhat obese, duke in favor of a much younger—and much better looking—courtier. For a long while the ball continued in this manner for Rochelle—she would dance a few measures with a courtier, then switch partners when another approached her. After she had circulated through thirty or so dance partners Rochelle excused herself from the dance floor and went and sat on a satin covered armchair, located in one of the many candle-lit alcoves situated at strategic points along the outside walls of the ballroom. Rochelle removed her purple gloves and laid them across her lap, then picked up the silver pitcher that was situated in the center of a small table, surrounded by matching goblets. Carefully she poured herself a glass of water and took a small sip, then set it back on the table and leaned back in her chair—groaning as her feet began to throb.
"I should have stopped after that twentieth courtier…" Mumbled Rochelle to herself.
"'Chellie?" Called a voice, using Rochelle's nickname.
"In here 'Rice!" Said Rochelle, calling out to her best friend—Caprice was the only one who called her 'Chellie—Caprice was the only one she allowed to call her 'Chellie.
"So…found anyone you like?"
"Well, there was this one courtier I've had my eye on—Nicolas de Moore—you know him, we used to ride together when we were younger."
"Oh him?" Questioned Caprice, raising an eyebrow. Rochelle nodded then Caprice laughed. "Well I guess it's your lucky day then, because he is coming this way right now."
Rochelle gasped and pulled on her gloves quickly then turned to see Nicolas standing behind her. "Good evening Monsieur de Moore."
"Good evening Mademoiselle—would you grant me the honor of having this dance?" Asked Nicolas as he offered a hand.
She was just about to refuse, because her feet hurt, but Caprice swayed her decision by jabbing her sharply between the shoulder blades. "Of course." Said Rochelle, taking his hand.
Nicolas led her onto the dance floor and bowed as she curtsied, then they joined hands and began gliding across the polished floor. Throughout the course of the dance Rochelle was enraptured, and she was thoroughly disappointed when the song ended—but that disappointment dissipated when Nicolas took her hand and laced his fingers in hers, leading her to on of the many balconies off the side of the ballroom.
"This is a little sudden, but I find the moment appropriate, and we have known each other since we were children…so I must ask, would you be willing to court me, Mademoiselle Delacroix?"
For a few moments Rochelle just sat there with a shocked expression on her face—then she nodded. "Yes."
Now, in her moonlit rose garden, Rochelle regretted that decision with her whole heart. She reached out with her left hand and plucked a rose from a bush with her dirt covered hands and held the crimson flower to her pale tear and dirt stained cheek, letting her tears gather upon the petal. Rochelle sat that way for several moments, and then she held the flower at a distance, examining it closely. It was so like every other rose in her garden, so like the ones she received from Nicolas. With a shaking hand she began plucking the petals from the stem, then cast them into the fire where they crisped and blackened, before the flames consumed them, in the way that a starving person would eat a meal.
"He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me…he loves me not…" Whispered Rochelle as she continued to pull apart the flower and recalled the day Nicolas asked for her hand in marriage.
It had been a warm spring day and Nicolas had surprised her with a bouquet of yellow roses and took her on a picnic, then to town to do some shopping. They walked down the cobblestone streets hand in hand, Rochelle stopping every few feet to look at something in a store window or on a vendor's cart—much to Nicolas's annoyance. They reached a bookshop and Rochelle had almost dragged Nicolas inside. She went a searched through the shelves, looking for a new book or three, as Nicolas trailed behind her, shaking with silent laughter.
"Ma Cherie," said Nicolas, breaking the relative silence of the shop.
"Hm?" Asked Rochelle absentmindedly as she flipped through the pages of a leather-bound poetry anthology. "I want this one." She told the clerk who took it to wrap it up, and Rochelle turned to Nicolas. "Yes?"
Seeing that he had her full attention Nicolas sank to one knee and pulled a velvet box out of his pocked, then took Rochelle's hand in his. "Je t'aime—Rochelle, will you marry me?"
Rochelle let out a small gasp, and then nodded—unable to speak for a moment. After a few second she found her voice. "Yes, yes!" She cried as she clapped her hands together in delight.
"He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me…he loves me not…" Rochelle whispered as she let the last ruby petal fall into the fading fire. For some time she had wondered if Nicolas loved her the way that he claimed he had—or if it had all been a façade, just a way to get the family estate or some such thing.
The bell of the tailor's shop tinkled as Rochelle stepped out into the street, the noon sun shining brightly over head. In her arms she carefully carried her heavily jeweled wedding dress wrapped in brown paper to protect it from the elements, and the eyes of common jewel thieves. "Thank you!" She called over her shoulder to the tailor as she left the shop, with a smile on her face and butterflies in her stomach—her wedding was barely two weeks away.
Rochelle meandered down the street, stopping to look at a pair of emerald earring in the window of a jeweler's shop and to examine an amethyst bracelet on a vendor's cart—she bought neither, seeing as she had enough jewelry already, and continued on her way to the florist.
The glass door squeaked as Rochelle stepped into the florist's shop and was assaulted by an assortment of smells. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the sweet aroma of the flowers. After a moment she approached the wooden counter and smiled at the person working there. "Is Jacques in?"
The young boy nodded and disappeared to the back room, returning a moment later with a black-haired man in tow, who appeared to be his father. "Ah! Mademoiselle Delacroix, what can I do for you?"
"Just stopping by to make sure that you remembered that I wanted lilacs and white roses for my wedding." Rochelle replied with a smile.
"Of course I remember, you have only been in here everyday making sure! I am going through a lot of trouble for your wedding mademoiselle!"
"I know, I know—but I'm sure the flowers will be beautiful!"
"Would I give you anything else but beautiful flowers?"
"You never know…"
"Go on now, I have arrangements to work on for your wedding!"
Rochelle laughed lightly and thanked Jacques for his time, then pushed open the glass door of the flower shop and stepped onto the street again. She wound her way down the road and paused when she saw something of interest in a shop corner of when someone beckoned her over to congratulate her on the engagement. At the corner of Hawthorne she stopped for a moment and debated whether or not to take the long way home—she thought for an instant and decided to take the shortcut through the alley. She ducked into the dark side street and grimaced at the smell as she sidestepped a pile of refuse. Rochelle detested un-cleanliness, but she wanted to get home—she had wasted enough time in town already between chatting and window-shopping, by her guess it was almost one o'clock and Lamarie was expecting her soon.
Carefully Rochelle made her way through the alley, her eyes flitting everywhere, hovering in the darkest areas of the shadows and behind the largest piles of filth—she had to be especially watchful in the back alleys, she never knew what kind of lowlife inhabited them during the day. Rochelle had almost made it to the end of the alley when a hand reached out from the darkness and pulled her into one of the many small niches carved out of the brick wall, where drunks usually spent their days sleeping off liquor before the evening came again.
"Hello there…" Said a sinister male voice as he pulled Rochelle closer to him. She tried to scream, but her attacker put his hand over her mouth. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, understand?"
Rochelle nodded and she saw the man's rotting teeth as he grinned and his hands began roving across her body. She squirmed at his touch, but that only seemed to make him more excited as he fondled her breasts through the thin material of her spring dress. After a moment he roughly pressed his mouth against hers and Rochelle bit down on his lip fiercely.
"Filthy wench!" Spat her captor as he clapped his hands over his mouth to stop the bleeding. Free from his grasp Rochelle turned and ran to the end of the alley and onto the sunny street—knowing that an alley crawler would not follow her there, but that knowledge did nothing to calm her racing heart, or stop her from running—wishing to put more distance between herself and the dark street.
As Rochelle ran people stopped to stare at her for a few seconds before continuing on their way. Once or twice she bumped into someone then mumbled 'excuse me' and kept running. When she reached the end of the third block she couldn't run anymore and she sank to the worn cobblestones in defeat, knowing her attacker would catch her once the sun completed its descent in the western sky. She crouched on the cobblestones and cried in fear and shame; the few people who came down this street gave her a wide berth, thinking she was a lunatic. Someone touched her shoulder later, Rochelle did not know how much time had passed, she had been lost in her own fear.
"Rochelle?" Questioned a male, a worried note apparent in their voice.
"Nicolas," sobbed Rochelle, instantly recognizing her fiancé's voice as she threw herself into his arms.
"What happened?"
"I cut through an alley to get home and someone…someone…" Rochelle faded, unable to get the words out.
"Someone what?" Asked Nicolas.
"Someone…tried to rape me…" She whispered.
"I don't believe you." Said Nicolas simply.
Rochelle looked at her fiancé in horror. "Why would I lie about something like this? You know I would never…"
Nicolas pushed Rochelle away from him. "I've heard stories from my friends when we go to the tavern at night…about what you like to do, and how you lie…I didn't want to believe them…but…"
"They are just drunken stories!" Cried Rochelle.
Nicolas scowled and slapped her. "Cheating whore."
Tears welled up in Rochelle's eyes and she pulled the ring off her finger and threw it at Nicolas. "I'm breaking off the engagement Nicolas! After the first beating I excused it as a drunken action—but I refuse to be treated this way!" She gathered up her wedding dress and walked briskly away from her former fiancé.
The last flame of fire transformed into a gray wisp of smoke and drifted lazily into the night, disappearing like an evanescent memory. Rochelle got up from her bench and shuffled over to the earthen pit she had dug in the middle of her garden hours before. The roses around it were wilted from the heat and the grass was charred. She looked down into the pit and let her tears fall onto the blackened remains of her never worn wedding dress.
"Some day my prince will come."