CHAPTER 2


One of the first to notice Anastasia's entrance into the market square was a noble maiden one year her senior; slender, petite though curvaceous, with full red lips and milk-white complexion. She stood five-two; her body fitted neatly into a flowing royal-blue spring dress, her dark brown curls gracefully protruded from her sun-bonnet, her white hands gently gripped the handle of her matching blue parasol, which shaded her sublimely pretty face from the midday sun. Her name was Augustina DuBois.
Augustina's usual warm smile faded as she watched the Tremaine clan parade by, for her inclination to greet them cordially had been snuffed out long ago. Countless times, she recalled, she would happily approach them, only to be rebuffed by scornful stares from the mother, and upturned noses from the daughters.
Often, when her father took her to the ballet or opera, Augustina would sit quietly in her family's private box, cool herself with her ostrich-feather fan, and glance over to the Tremaines' box. She saw that the Tremaine sisters would invariably spy on everyone with their opera glasses, and then point, giggle, and make fun of people. They would recline in their seats, prop their feet upon the seats in front of them, and indulge in snacks. And, if they were bored with the performance, they would amuse themselves by tossing objects into the orchestra below. Whenever they noticed Augustina looking over to them, they would make childish faces at her. In return, she did nothing more than look away, sigh, and silently wish the Tremaine girls would grow up soon.
But the only contact Augustina ever had with the Tremaine girls were exchanges of insults. The best she could ever get from Anastasia was to be repeatedly called "fish lips." Hey, Fish Lips. How are you today, Fish Lips? Over and over again, for years.
Augustina never had anything but contempt for Anastasia. However, there was one in the Tremaine household with whom Augustina had a good relationship with, even loved. At that time, Augustina knew the girl merely as Ella, the Tremaines' maidservant. Augustina became acquainted with Ella during trips to the market, for the maid was never permitted to parties with the nobility, nor to the ballet or opera. Officially, the maidservant was not permitted to speak at length with anyone at the market square, but over the years many people got to know her quite well. Despite her ragged appearance, everyone who knew her was impressed with Ella's sweet disposition, her grace, and her charm.
Augustina didn't know why she was so interested in the lowly peasant maiden, but something drove her to find out more about her. One afternoon, Augustina had the good fortune to catch up with this mysterious girl.
"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?"
The mystery girl at first looked as though she was going to slink away, but then after a pause, she greeted Augustina with a natural, warm smile, and a pleasant "Good day."
"I'd been meaning to introduce myself to you for the longest time. Would you join me for tea?" This was a serious breach in protocol, she knew, for nobility never invited servants to tea. Father might be furious. But why not? The girl had the grace and manners of a princess.
Ella politely declined, explaining that there was no way her stepmother would allow her to anyone else's house, and besides--she still had to prepare supper for the family.
"Did you say, 'stepmother?'"
Augustina was shocked to learn that Ella and the Tremaines were related through marriage. In fact, some of what Ella said implied that she was of even higher birth than Lady Tremaine!
Where was her father? Died several years ago. Cancer, probably. She didn't want to talk about it much.
Did she eat supper with them? Oh, no, never. I eat in my very own room, up in the tower attic of my house. Bread and water, usually. If I'm lucky, I get cheese, too, which I share with my mice friends.
Augustina was appalled. Surely the girl had more of an existence than merely being a slave to her family? Ella admitted that she did have a little bit of time for leisure, that she enjoyed sewing tiny clothes for her animal friends. And sometimes she would sneak a good storybook out of the parlor, and curl up with it in her bed before retiring.
"You like reading?" Augustina asked, browsing her handbag. "Would you like to borrow this story? It's called Beauty and the Beast. It's about how a selfish, hideous-looking creature learns to love, and is therefore completely transformed--"
Ella apologized for having to hurry home, but thanked Augustina for her offer, and she was gone.
That was the first of many encounters with Cinderella. Augustina remembered how Cinderella always reminded her she was not permitted to speak to anyone at length. A pity, too, because she loved the girl. As far as Augustina was concerned, the Tremaines didn't deserve Cinderella to be their superior, let alone their maidservant. And she was sure there was nothing in the world that could ever change her mind about that, as she was sure Anastasia would never be anything but an ill-mannered, selfish brat. She knew that no one's perfect, but Augustina was convinced she was not evil as the Lady Tremaine and her two ghastly daughters.
While she watched the Tremaines strut by, Augustina returned her thoughts to the present--and smiled at the poetic justice--that the girl that Prince Charming married was none other than the maidservant Cinderella.
Augustina remembered that morning after the prince's ball. She and her younger brother Louis had just about finished with breakfast at half past nine when their father came into the dining room, with an odd look upon his face, and beckoned her to the parlor. She was astonished to find the Grand Duke standing there, waiting for her. She was equally astonished to learn that she was to try on a special slipper, in order for him to identify the mysterious maiden who had captivated the prince at the ball. Augustina refused at first, because she knew she was not that mysterious maiden. And that slipper! It looked as though it was made of Waterford crystal, and she had never seen--let alone worn--anything like it in her life. But the Duke reminded her that he was there upon the King's command, and that every maiden--without exception--was to try it on.
She tried the slipper, and was relieved to see that it did not fit. To marry a prince would have been wonderful, but not under such false pretenses.
But, oh! She would have given up her inheritance to get just one look at Anastasia and Drizella's faces when they saw that glass slipper fit Cinderella's foot perfectly. The only thing they--and their mother--cared about was to advance in rank through marriage. They were obsessed with it.
Well, bully for them.
Augustina knew she'd have another chance to see shocked expressions on the Tremaines' faces when they would learn Augustina was to marry the Count Charles D'Arqué in just two days. And the Count was one of the most powerful men in Europe! And to think Augustina had no idea whom he was when they met . . .
She had met the Count three months before, at a banquet in her father's honor. Her father, the King's esteemed general Pierre DuBois, was a close friend of the French ambassador, whose son was in turn close friends with the Count, and thus the invitation. The new guest was a mystery to her; he was introduced to her merely as "Charles." But his wit and attention immediately captivated her. They found they had many common interests, and a profound understanding of each other, but he was stingy on details about his background. He seemed genuinely entranced with her, and was more interested in talking about her--her hopes and her dreams. She was flattered by his attention over the following weeks, and realized she was falling in love with him.
Problem was, he was still a mystery. She did manage to find out he was twenty-six; that yes, he did come from France. But little else. What was he hiding? Finally, after three months of courting, she tearfully gave him an ultimatum: either tell her who he is, or leave her forever.
He sat down, and, almost in tears, confessed his love for her. But he was afraid his high rank would frighten her away, and so he kept it a secret. He was really the Count Charles D'Arqué.
Augustina gasped. She had always known her family was well off, but the Count's estate was worth a hundred times her father's! No wonder he kept his identity a secret.
She knelt down, put her hands in his, and told him she loved him. She told him she loved him whether he was a king, or the lowliest indentured servant. Then and there, she promised to be his bride.

And so, Anastasia and Drizella's excursion into town brought an opportunity that Augustina relished for a long time. The moment she would tell them about her impending marriage would be just too precious. Should she tell them now?
No, she thought. Be patient. Wait for the perfect time--the moment that would cause the greatest pain and humiliation possible.

Anastasia barely remembered the town square; it had been years since she was last there. In recent times she frequently traveled to town to attend the opera, ballet, or parties, but never to go to market. There was never a need for her to go to town for her clothes, as Cinderella had always served as the family's seamstress. But now that Cinderella was gone, the two sisters and their mother were forced to go to the shops for their clothing. Humiliating, Mother had said. And Anastasia had never shopped for fresh foods since Cinderella departed; that became Drizella's assignment. So, this trip to the square was a unique experience for the young redhead. She stared at everything, for everything looked so strange and fascinating.
It had become customary for Anastasia to strut through town, holding her head high with her nose in the air. But today, for some reason, Anastasia felt very small. Silly, she thought, for she was all of five foot eight--taller than Cinderella--and comfortable in size twelve shoes. Drizella was taller yet, at five-nine and a half. And Mother was . . . well, no matter how high Anastasia wore her heels, Mother somehow always seemed to be taller than any of them.
Perhaps Anastasia felt so small because she didn't eat yet today. Hunger was something she hadn't experienced in a long time, and going without breakfast seemed to be doing strange things to her psyche. But she supposed it was fitting punishment. After all, it was because of her lousy cooking that she missed breakfast.
As she kept pace some fifty feet or so behind the rest of her family, Anastasia followed her mother and sister through the tower gate that led into the main square. She paused to look about.
Off to the side of the street, she spotted a vendor's wagon with an odd assortment of wares. Useless trinkets, her mother would say about them. Still, Anastasia thought them worth at least a brief look, and walked over to the wagon.
A plump, wise-looking woman tended to the wagon. She had long silver-white hair that was mostly covered by the hood of her light-blue frock. Anastasia thought she looked sort of like a monk from a monastery. The woman glanced at Anastasia briefly, and nodded her head. Anastasia felt like blurting out, "What are you looking at, old woman?" But, for some reason, the words didn't make it past her lips.
"Bon jour, mademoiselle Anastasia."
"Who are you? Have we met?"
"I think you are confusing me with someone else you know. Sometimes people see my personality in other people. But, I've seen you before. Many times." She smiled to Anastasia again, and nodded. "Everything in the square all new to you?"
"Yes."
"But not your first time to the square, eh?" she asked.
Anastasia shrugged. "No, but it's been a very long time."
The older woman shook her head and laughed. "A lot can happen out here. Magical things. Miracles."
Oh, that's silly, Anastasia thought. Magical things happening among the peasants! She knew that wealth and beauty alone could bring "miracles." Still, she was not in the mood to argue with the lady, for she was fascinated by the glittering objects hanging from the rafters of the wagon.
"They are beautiful, no?" the woman asked.
"They're all right," Anastasia said, pretending not to be too interested.
"One could be a great gift for you. Or your husband."
Anastasia frowned. "I'm not married."
"No, not yet. Well, let's say one could be a gift for your sweetheart, then. The one you will travel with to the ball."
Anastasia was about to tell the vendor she didn't have a sweetheart, either, but she stopped herself. She was growing embarrassed, and hoped the woman didn't notice this. Truth was, Anastasia never had a sweetheart. Until then, she had long considered it beneath her dignity to speak to a man lower in rank than a baron. And, until then, most men deemed consorting with Anastasia as something rather to be endured than enjoyed.
"You like this one, I see," the woman said, noticing Anastasia stare at one ornament in particular.
"May I see it, please?"
She stood up straight, stunned at what she just said. Please? Did that word actually pass my lips? I'm a Tremaine! Tremaines don't have to say 'please' to common folk!
What's happening to me? She shook her head. A typical response would have been, "Gimme that one!" Hunger must be starting to mess with her mind, she figured. She had to regain her haughty attitude. Mother would be very angry if she ever saw Anastasia soften.
The vendor brought down the ornament, which was suspended by a looped black cord. The ornament appeared to be made of precious metal or crystal, and was shaped somewhat like a crucifix.
"What is it?" Anastasia asked.
"It's a wishing amulet. You don't worship it, but it serves to remind you who you are, and for you to focus on what you really want."
She looked up to her, quizzically.
"What is in your heart?" the older woman asked. "What do you really wish for?"
Anastasia grasped the ornament with her hand. She ran the woman's question through her mind a dozen times. She didn't know what to say, and she quietly returned the object.
"You do not know who you are yet, eh, Anastasia? But once you do, you will have your heart's deepest wish. All you need is to have faith. Faith in yourself . . ."
The vendor paused to straighten an ornament above her head. "You know, we all create the world we live in. Do you know what I mean?"
"You mean, you know how I can get rich? Find a rich man to marry?"
"No, it has nothing to do with money. Rather, if all you have inside of you is hate and bitterness and anger, then that is the world you create for yourself. That will be the world you will have to live in. On the other hand, if what you have within yourself is peace and compassion and forgiveness, then that will be the world you create for yourself."
"That's nothing but crazy talk," Anastasia scoffed. This fool talks like Cinderella, and Cinderella was always crazy as a loon. And what kind of world did Cinderella create for herself with her attitude? She was nothing but a slave and a punching-bag for all of us. At least she was, until the night of that ball . . . and that was dumb luck, that's all.
Anastasia's train of thought was broken when she felt a slight tug at her skirt. She looked down to behold an orphan girl, about six years of age. The little girl had flaming red hair, like Anastasia's, tied back under a ragged purple scarf. She had no shoes, and she wore a tattered purple dress. She looked up to Anastasia with sorrowful blue eyes.
"Please, miss," the girl begged. "Please, would you spare me a crumb? I've not eaten since yesterday."
Anastasia stared at the little orphan's audacity. "Get away from me, you little brat!"
The little girl cowered, then retreated. For good measure, Anastasia picked up a clump of mud from the street and hurled it in the little girl's direction.
Anastasia failed to see the cruel irony of shunning a girl who begged for a morsel to eat. But Anastasia held nothing but contempt for little girls. She especially hated rich blonde ones, but even poor redheads incurred her wrath. Indeed, Anastasia scorned just about everybody, and usually greeted everyone with tirades and insults.
She turned back to the wagon, to ask the vendor how she knew her name, but the woman and the wagon had left. Anastasia shrugged and strutted off, to catch up with her mother and Drizella. As she made her way across the cobblestones of the square, she thought she heard someone behind her speak to her.
"Remember the tradition," she heard the voice say over her shoulder. She turned around.
It turned out it was merely Robert, the flower vendor of the square, talking to a young peasant couple cuddling close to one another, obviously in love. Unlike the woman with the wagon, Robert was at least a slightly familiar person to Anastasia. But, she figured, it had to have been at least a dozen years since she had last seen him.
Robert handed the couple the flower garland they had just purchased. "Give these to each other at the ball, and you'll always be together." It was a wreath of wicker and vine, twisted into a heart shape--about a foot in diameter--and adorned with dozens of pastel lavender geraniums. Anastasia stared, wondering what on earth would attract peasant people to one another. And, if love came so easily for them, why had it been so elusive for Anastasia?
When the young couple left, the flower vendor noticed Anastasia's stare. "What about you? Don't you need a garland of roses for the ball?" He held up another wreath, identical to the one he had just sold.
Anastasia was incredulous. Me? Need a garland for my true love? Yeah, right . . . true love. That'll be the day.
Plus, she had an aversion to flowers, as most of them provoked her allergies. Still, her curiosity got the better of her, and she moved in for a closer look.
Robert held the wreath out to her. "Guaranteed to win you his heart."
Anastasia loved it. She had never seen anything like it. If only she could have one, and be like the couple she just saw, together and in love. She reached out to touch the garland and--
"Anastasia! What are you doing?"
Anastasia snapped out of her daydream. "Oh. Nothing. Coming, mother."

They spent only an hour at the couturier. The whole business of selecting a ball gown was both easy and dull for the sisters, as Mother decided on both the style and color of the clothes, as usual. Chartreuse for Drizella, magenta for Anastasia. Small poof sleeves, huge bustles, and short, ruffled overskirts. The same thing they had worn a thousand times over the last twelve years. Drizella seemed smugly content with her outfit, but Anastasia found herself unexcited. Why was that? Mother had always picked out their clothes, and, after all, she knew best, didn't she?
After purchasing the dresses, they rolled the garments up into bundles, and the three made their way down the cobblestone street toward the jewelry shops. Anastasia hadn't noticed that she fell ever further behind her mother and sister. She was hungry, her mind was in a fog, and her thoughts drifted to food--especially fresh baked bread. Perfectly baked fresh bread. She could picture it, even smell it. No, there really was a smell of baked bread in the air. Almost in a trance, she was drawn--almost involuntarily--to the origin of the scent.
The odor came from a quaint little baker's shop, nestled within the houses along the street. Gentle plumes of smoke wafted from the open upper half of the door of the bakery.
Still sniffing the air, Anastasia pushed open the lower half-door to the bakery, and entered the shop. The room was filled with baskets of fresh baguettes, French rolls, biscuits, pies, cakes, and pastries of all sorts. In the center of the shop sat a long table, upon which lay fresh eggs, open sacks of flour, several jars of milk and butter, tubes of pastry filling and cake frosting, a rolling pin, wooden spoons and mixing bowls, and a huge cutting board covered with sprinkles of flour. Gazing in wonder at the shop's wares, Anastasia absentmindedly turned around, and collided with another person in the shop. She turned around, ready to let loose with a tirade. But she stopped cold.
To Anastasia, the room suddenly disappeared. The entire world disappeared. All Anastasia could see now was a face. And cute strawberry-blond hair. And a pair of sparkling blue eyes.
The eyes belonged to the owner of the shop; a baker man a couple of years older than Anastasia. He was tall, but not overbearing; confident, but shy; his face emitted a spirit of great warmth and kindness. He wore standard calf-length work trousers and a plain green shirt, a traditional white baker's hat and apron, which had traces of dough streaked along the fringes. The young man sported a bit of a paunch, the side-effect of spending days on end around starchy foods. But overall, the image Anastasia beheld was that of a cute, humble, and sweet human being.
He looked Anastasia straight into her eyes, blinked twice, then smiled sheepishly. Anastasia, never breaking her own gaze, hunched her shoulders coyly, and half-smiled in return. She felt overwhelmed by a strange but wonderful emotion she had never felt before. And the feeling seemed to go deep into her limbs.
"Everything smells so good," was all she managed to say. Unlike her usual grating tone of voice, that one line came out in a soft, melodious cadence.
"Would you like one?" the Baker said, offering her one of the fresh baguettes from the basket he carried. "Oh! Be careful, they're hot." He, too, had been captivated by sight of her, and he felt as though he were floating on air.
Anastasia had completely forgotten her hunger. She picked out a single baguette from the basket merely to oblige this sweet guy's offer. Again, staring deeply into his eyes, she nodded. The freshly baked bread was not too hot at all--it was nicely warm, and it had a crispy, flaky golden-brown crust. And an aroma to die for. She sniffed the roll briefly, and prepared to take a bite . . .
"Anastasia!"
Before Anastasia could even react, the bread she held was abruptly snatched out of her hands. It was Mother, who, unknown to Anastasia, had sneaked into the shop.
Mother glared at her. "I think not. Everything in this shop is . . . inferior."
Sneering, Drizella inspected some of the rolls in the baskets by the shop window. "You can build a house with these bricks."
"Come along, Anastasia," her mother ordered.
Despondent, Anastasia followed her mother and sister back outside to the square. The Baker cocked his head, with a hurt expression on his face, but said nothing.
"You're not to say a word to that . . . shopkeeper. I forbid it!"
"Yes, mother," her daughter said, sullenly.
And with that, Anastasia left, feeling like her day's sunshine had been snuffed out of her life forever.