A month has passed since her defeat. Looming over her spirit is a sense of resentment that, despite her best efforts to achieve apathy, cannot be discarded. Her eyes the hue of jade, the girl stares at the badly lit, rundown table upon which lies the illustrious silver cutlery she is polishing without really seeing it. With mechanical movements, she dips the ragged cloth into the noxious smelling solution and works her way through the two sets in front of her, her hands getting blacker and blacker by piece.
Suddenly, a burst bubbles up her throat – indignation makes itself known through a muted cry. She has the feeling she should go, open the door and leave. Staring longingly at the only exit, her whim is interrupted by a too lucid thought: Where to?
The tiring feeling of loss overwhelms her once more.
Just as the cutlery is finally scrubbed back to its former brilliance, the damaged clock chimes a broken midnight. Glancing briefly at it, the girl-turned-servant concludes that surely both her step-family as the sour steward must already be abed.
If she goes now, they will not notice, will they?
There's only one way to know, and that is by testing her theory. Without missing a tick, the one they call Cinderella swiftly tidies up the kitchen, putting the silverware away and briefly sweeping the floor. Picking up the lone candle that has been keeping her company, she notices how dirty her hands are.
The last of water has already been used up for her other chores, so she grabs one not-so-scruffy cloth to brush away most of the taint, but to no avail. The girl decides that she can care less, therefore lets her hand be and looks for her poor excuse of a cape.
Sparing one last glance at the pitch-black room she is forced to call hers, she drapes the cloak over her shoulders and exits.
To her left lies the firewood, the neat pile reaching only to her knees; she must assemble some more tomorrow before breakfast. If she's coming back, that is. Will she come back?
Shaking the thought away, the girl reaches the makeshift path, which joins the servants' entrance to the main road. Beyond the path, to her right, lies the grand forest that is partly owned by the royal family, who lives up the steep hill in the heart of the woods.
With an instinct inborn to every one grown up in the quaint town, her eyes trail the top of the trees from north to south, stopping slightly over more than midway. There lies the castle, exclaims a feeling in her chest.
But there's not where she is heading.
Through the thin sole of her too worn shoes, she feels the small pebbles and occasional unevenness of the path, as she makes her way into town.
Will the town people remember her? She had been just a young girl the last time she went there. Will she recognise the town? A vague memory settles in, one which depicts a charming little town bathed in sunlight, a loose sand, large street framed by countless shops, such as the bakery and the atelier, where Mme. Roussant created the prettiest of gowns. She wonders if the infamous seamstress is still around.
A sense of worry chills her; what if no one is around? Commerce starts early and surely everyone shall be abed. But what if someone other is up and about, someone who will wish to harm her?
Hesitating, she halts in the middle of the path and looks back over her shoulder. She has come too far to go back, she'll be safer in the town, which is considerably nearer to her current position than the mansion.
Once the first buildings draw nearer, she halts her breath. Here, at the edge, everything is quiet, almost eerily so. Again, an anxious feeling grips her chest tight, slowing down her steps to a careful tip-toe pace. Then, she starts to hear something: muffled sounds that shift into voices the deeper she dwells into town. It is with relief that she takes the sounds in, they seem rather cheerful, at all non-threatening.
Step for step, she reaches the source of the commotion, a pub in the main street, nestled between the bakery and the hat-shop. The girl now called Cinderella hesitates, not yet wanting to enter the pool of light the establishment is casting onto the sandy boulevard. Avoiding to be seen from the inside, she nears one of the somewhat scruffy windows.
Peering inside, she recognises none of the faces under the meek candlelight. All of them have a mug in front of them, seeping enthusiastically from time to time. She cannot help but notice how their movements seem off, too bold and out of control.
Behind the counter is a woman, pouring a drink for a guest that sits directly in front of her. He is the only one that isn't merry, a slump of his shoulders dragging him down to the stool.
A brief wonder washes through her, but is quickly overruled by a sense of fear. Someone has grabbed her arm quite suddenly.
'Eh…? Wha dowe'ave here?' A misty breath reaches her cheek and her nose recoils at the stench of it. However, fear beats out every sensation, irrationally gripping at her sanity. The servant is caught, Mme. Reillier will know, she will know and the one she calls Cinderella will be in deep, deep trouble.
'Oh… if it isn't little Ella,' he cries out, a bit out of balance. 'Hadn't ya grown up?'
Her hammering heart twists in her chest; this stranger just confused her with her mother. She really didn't know what to think about it.
'Sir,' her creaky voice pleads. 'I think…'
But the man isn't listening, shaking his head dismissively as he lets her go. 'Could'na be,' he mutters to himself and turns away, joining the others inside.
As soon as he walks in, the group at the table in the back cheers and calls out to him, indistinguishable bellows reaching her ears. The man waves, but stops by the counter first.
Gesticulating enthusiastically, he orders a beer. However, something he says halts the woman's serving and catches the attention of the slumping man, who sits by the counter. The latter seems to be posing a question, but the one they call Cinderella can't make out the words. It's only when the man that had accosted her moves his hand in her direction that she has an inkling to what they are talking about.
The man by the counter turns around and his searching gaze wakes her from her reverie. She should go back, she has risked enough as is. Prompted, she leaves the pub behind and starts making her way back to the only safe place she knows.
'Wait!' The cry from behind startles her enough that she halts. A brief glance over her shoulder tells her, it's the man who had sat by the counter. There's a certain whiff of desperation clinging on to his posture, his eyes pleadingly wide. 'Wait, please,' he repeats more softly, as he approaches her unsteadily.
'You're Miss Reillier,' his statement resembles a question too much. So she feels forced to answer.
'Yes.'
Then he peruses her, a perceptive glance running up and down. The turned-servant feels the weight of his gaze, wondering what he is seeing. Does he notice the remains of ashes around her face? The stains on her best and only cape?
Whatever he analyses, the man meets her eyes and tells her. 'I will make it right. I have to make it right.'
