Disclaimer: Any work you recognize is (if not precisely quoted) the work of William Shakespeare in Sonnet 18 and excerpts from John Keats' poem, 'Ode on Melancholy'. Now, without further ado...

Chapter 4 :

Moonlight Masquerade

On Saturday, Cinderella awoke to a persistent hammering on her bedroom door. In a dream-like stupor, she sat up in bed, wondering groggily for a moment whether a large man in a black suit would kick down the door, point a gun to her, and holler 'FBI!!!" Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes (a brief glance at the window told her that the sun hadn't appeared yet), Cinderella rolled out of bed to find the perpetrator, though she had a nasty feeling she already knew.

In stark contrast to her wrinkled, smurf-print pajamas, first-Butler stood outside her door clad in his neatly-pressed uniform—a traditional tuxedo, pin-striped pants and well-polished shoes. His gloved hand was still raised as though ready to knock again. Surveying her disheveled appearance with distinct disapproval, he announced,

"Cook is already up preparing the hors d'oeuvres for tomorrow's ball. I suggest you scurry yourself out of bed and help her. I myself am extremely busy ensuring that the household is in order." First Butler puffed his chest out impressively at this last bit of authority.

Cinderella did not trust herself to speak, for she was in the state of mind to keel over and fall asleep on the floor. Instead, she nodded dutifully, closed the door and waddled to the bathroom, where she turned the shower on full-blast. Precisely ten minutes later, she walked into the massive kitchen, tucked into her maid's uniform, her ponytail still dripping slightly with icy-cold water.

Esmeralda stood hunched over the long island-table, squirting spinach filling into endless rows of mini quiches. Her eyes looked terribly bloodshot; her apron splattered with flour and what appeared to be dabs of cheese and indistinguishable sauces. Her face broke into a tired smile upon seeing Cinderella, and they worked wordlessly for hours, until the birds awoke from their slumber, chirping and tweeting away and bright sunlight filtered through the silk-curtained windows. By then, Cinderella's fingers ached from rolling and pinching bits of dough into tiny cups—her arms were white and floury, but nothing compared to Esmeralda's, whose hands seemed to be encased in solid crust.

As their fifth batch of quiches baked in the oven, First Butler stomped in with a bundle of crisp white napkins, scowling furiously, but nevertheless, maintaining his usual air of propriety. He was soon followed by Second Butler, who strode in with an air of dignified superiority. He went about refolding First Butler's swan-shaped napkins with an ostentatious flourish, again and again, until finally:

"They were perfectly fine the way they were!" First Butler blurted out, his face turning an odd shade of puce. "You would do better, Cedric," he said, straightening his lapel with controlled rage, "to polish the silverware required for tonight's ball."

Second Butler opened his mouth to speak, but as though a thought suddenly occurred to him, he clasped his mouth shut and grinned sinisterly, his whiskery moustache twitching and his beady eyes narrowing into tiny slits. Cinderella thought that he looked rather like an overzealous rat who'd come across a stray wedge of Brie. It seemed terribly odd. "As you wish."

The gown did not remotely resemble Vanessa's Barbie pink or Vivienne's gaudy gold—but exuded a rich, shimmering rose. Its bodice fitted tightly, accentuating her slender waist and smoothing away her less-than-perfect stomach. Its built-in corset teased at a hint of décolletage, its trumpet sleeves lavished her toilet-plunging arms.

"Turn around! Do a little twirl!" Sebastian ordered, hardly containing his excitement.

Cinderella obliged, her eyes never leaving the mirror in rapt awe. The gown seemed to possess some indeterminable magic that transformed the ordinary household domestique into the a fairy-tale princess—elegant, sophisticated and utterly stunning.

"Well do me now, I did it! You look fantabulous." Sebastian snapped his fingers with glee. "Except…" he frowned at her face in scrutiny, "we need to something about your hair, ugh, it looks like you dipped it in a toilet and combed it with a loofah. And we need to pluck that unibrow," he murmured as an afterthought. "Listen, I know! I'll call in a few favours…" he reached for his Sidekick, hit Speed-dial and waited after a few rings, "Hello Marcell? Hi, darling. Oh, I'm faboo, how's life with that hunky boytoy of yours? Oh, really? That sounds god-awful, I'm shedding a tear for you. Uh-huh, well he was a manwhore anyway. Listen, doll, I have a fun little project going on right now, it's kinda like The Swan meets Extreme Makeover. I was thinking that you and Antonio could come over and help me out with hair and make-up, it'll be tons of fun! Uh-huh. Yeah, we're at the Cummings' Bev Hills manse. Oh good, okay, I'll see you in five then. Love you too." He hung up the phone with a swift beep. "They're just down the street at the Hiltons' manse. We're in business."

"We should probably get you out of that gown." Esmeralda stepped forward, moving to unzip her. She struggled with the jammed zipper for several minutes, until finally admitting, "It's stuck."

"Oh. Crap." Sebastian eyed the situation, growing increasingly panicked. "Can you sit without busting the seams?"

Cinderella attempted to do so with extreme cautiousness, keeping her back completely rigid and her stomach sucked in. The gown, however, refused to allow her to slouch on the bed. The best she could do was lean against the bedpost in an awkward position.

"Okay, Sebby, think, think." The stylist muttered to himself, growing increasingly panicked. "We can probably cut you out of the dress later—nobody'll miss a size 6, even though it is an Elie Saab, but it was for a pregnant celebrity anyway, so it's okay. Um, shit, I guess you'll have to stand while Marcell and Antonio do your hair and make-up."

Before Cinderella could protest at the idea of standing like a full-fledged mannequin for an hour, the doorbell rang, signaling the duo's arrival. Seconds later, first Butler stood stiffly at the doorway.

"There is a pair of gentlemen at the door, they claim to be guests." He announced. His voice cracked, as though he were on the verge of bursting into tears. Even his mousy brown hair seemed rather mussed; it gave him the odd appearance of a harassed mouse.

"Is something wrong?" Cinderella asked tentatively.

"I have just been informed by Madame that my services will no longer be required." First Butler replied solemnly.

"What?" Esmeralda asked, aghast. "Did she say why?"

"I believe her precise words were, 'Go to hell, you lying thief,' " He recited in a voice of dull monotony.

"Thief? But you didn't--?"

"Somehow, the silverware found its way into my bedside drawer. Incidentally, Cedric was prowling about there earlier this afternoon looking for a flashlight."

Cinderella and Esmeralda exchanged a knowing glance.

"Where are you going to go?" Esmeralda asked helplessly.

"Seeing as my working permit is based upon this job, I highly doubt Madame will write a fanciful reference letter or make the appropriate calls." First Butler sniffed disdainfully. "No, I think it's best if I return to Devonshire."

"Why don't you stay here a little longer? There'll be lots of food and they won't know you're here a few extra hours," Esmeralda offered.

First Butler hesitated, standing at the doorway as if unsure whether to enter or leave the room. "All right," he conceded, then after a moment, eyes downcast, humbly spoke, "Call me Paul."

The hour passed by quickly. Marcell and Antonio bustled in, setting up 'shop' in a matter of seconds, transforming a bare dresser into a full-fledged make-up and hair station. If it weren't for the stark white bedspread and pristine surroundings that clashed with the plethora of colourful products and appliances, their corner could have passed for a salon.

Cinderella barely spoke through the entire process. Flummoxed by the three Mouseketeers as she secretly nicknamed them, who sweeped in and out of the bubble surrounding her, Antonio, Marcell and Sebastian worked like chattery little mice, straightening locks of hair, curling them into soft waves and dabbing bits of make-up she couldn't even identify, all the while gossiping about everyone who's anyone in Hollywood. As if this wasn't altogether confusing enough, their speech overlapped one another in brief phrases juxtaposed with run-on sentences.

"Britney--?"

"No duh, she's all in rehab then out, and then oh my god, the whole Lindsay-gate? As if the Paris-scandal wasn't huge enough as it is…"

"Leo cheating—"

"What about mousse? Do you think gel or mousse?"

"Of course he is, have you seen the looks of her—"

"—drinking and boozing, but who doesn't love that, right?"

"Smoky eyeshadow might be too much, I think just eyeliner and—"

"—but the biggest cheater of them all, is of course—"

"No, okay, I think a soft shimmery pink on the lips…"

By this time, Cinderella knew well enough to tune out the Mouseketeers and attempt to listen to the hushed conversation between Esmeralda and Paul.

"—can't let him get away, (a muffled sound, then) do something about it, like—"

Esmeralda's words were drowned out by a loud guffaw. "As if! Seb, you did not sleep with Ricky Martin—"

"I did too, and I can prove it!" Sebastian shouted indignantly.

"—should just accept that Cedric would've done anything for the job—sister in Devonshire—"

Cinderella leaned against the bedpost uncomfortably, part of her hair rolled in curlers and her face packed in artistically dabbed layers of expensive make-up. She wondered vaguely whether either Antonio or Marcell knew of the no-commission package of it all, and if not, how they would react. The idea of them storming out in a huff seemed promisingly amusing; the idea of them dunking her head in a bathtub did not.

Minutes later, curlers pulled out, eyes prickling after being prodded and poked with eyeliner, mascara and approximately twenty different shades of eyeshadow, Cinderella turned to the full-length mirror on the opposite end of the room and stared at her reflection. It did not, however, look anything like herself. The girl in the mirror was not just any girl, her hair perfectly coiffed in an intricate arrangement of loose waves both framing her cheekbones and twisted up to reveal her delicate shoulders—shoulders she did not even know she possessed. Even in the fluorescent glow of Antonio's lamp, her face glowed radiantly, her eyes shimmering seductively, bringing out the chocolate brown hue to an irresistible measure. She looked nothing short of a princess.

"Okay, now, here is your mask," Sebastian pulled out a cranberry, gold-trimmed feathery mask that covered one's eyes and perched on a wooden stick. "Now remember, you absolutely cannot draw attention to yourself, do not come close to Vanessa or Vivienne or Mrs. Cummings or Mr. Cummings, do not fall in the pool, do not trip, DO NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID!" He ended in a shrill voice, his eyes popping out rather insistently.

" Relax, Seb, she'll be fine. Remember if Britney can, she can. What's your name again?" Marcell glanced over at her inquisitively.

"Cinderella…"

"Right, yes, just kidding! Haha, okay, but seriously, are we not getting paid for this?" He turned to Antonio and back at Sebastian.

"Think of it as charity work, like doing something for people less fortunate," Sebastian said smoothly, "So now you don't have to give money to that homeless guy near Saks Fifth, cause you already did your part for the month!"

"Try 'year'," snorted Antonio, "This was no simple feat, you know."

They seemed to forget that Cinderella stood less than a foot away from them. She chose to ignore them—the butterflies in her stomach seemed to have transformed into large frogs on Ecstasy, hopping madly around as they pleased.

"Right, okay," she smoothed down her gown, but immediately took her hands away. Her palms were damp with nervous sweat, creating a minor, indistinguishable stain on her front.

"You look lovely." A hoarse voice murmured. Cinderella turned to see First Butler—no, Paul, seated on a chair near the bed, giving her an appraising look.

"We'll just let you slip out the kitchen door." Esmeralda bounded towards the door, her heavy frame sashaying from side to side.

It seemed inordinately unreal. One moment, she was standing in the maids' quarters uncomfortably…the next, she stood at the doorway leading towards the vast gardens that now seemed to possess the temptation of an enchanted forest.

She turned back towards the kitchen, where the Mouseketeers stood behind the stout Esmeralda, beaming at her. "I just wanted to say...I mean, I know you did this for free, and, I just, I'm—thank you."

"Oh, go on!" Sebastian shooed her out the door. "And don't let us catch you here without a decent man!"

"But be back before midnight!" Esmeralda hissed warningly, "Madame never gets in a minute later or sooner."

Cinderella nodded dutifully, then slipped out the door and into the extravagant gala. It felt as though she'd stepped out into an entirely different world—one with iridescent pink bulbs on evergreen trees that resembled faerie lights, shimmering chiffon draped across pillars and long tables bearing crisp white cloths under trays and trays of endless gourmet delights. Her eyes did not have to stray far—standing alone, obscurely hidden to all others behind a large tree trunk stood Preston Carter in a dashing tuxedo, sipping a flute mournfully.

He looked up and gazed at her from across the garden—there, Cinderella stood, standing foolishly in a gown and shoes that were not her own, but could not gaze at anything and anyone else but him. Surreptitiously glancing about, Preston Carter snuck from tree to bush to hedge like a stealthy spy…or more precisely, an agile, nimble squirrel. Cinderella stood rooted to the spot, transfixed and amused by his ploy, but paralysed with an overriding fear of being recognized.

"Hi," He smiled at her, popping out from behind a rose bush.

"Hello," Cinderella murmured. Demure, she reminded herself, be demure! She couldn't help staring at his ash-blonde hair combed neatly to the side. He looked awfully innocent, his cheeks tinged with pink spots and his emerald-green eyes sparkling from a nearby faerie light.

"I swear this isn't a line, but I feel like I know you from somewhere," He tilted his head to one side, squinting at her as if to remember. "Hang on, have we met somewhere?"

"No!" Cinderella blurted out quickly. "No, I don't think so," She attempted to quell her jangling nerves.

"Oh. All right then. I'm Preston Carter." There was that irresistible smile again—complete with impish dimple and those amazing green eyes… "And you are…?"

"Oh! I'm…Ella. Ella Morgan." God, why hadn't she thought this through in the past hour?

"Ella. Would you like to take a walk with me through the garden?" He offered his arm to her as though he were a Victorian gentleman.

"Sure."

"So, Ella. How do you know the Cummings?" Preston asked her comfortably. They skirted past rows of tall trees until the clatter of plates and voices grew dim in the distance.

"I work for them." Ella answered honestly. "What about you?"

"J.J.'s producing this film I'm in. This isn't really my kind of thing," He shrugged, "but he specifically requested for me to be here, so…" his voice trailed off. "I was relatively hidden up until the point you stared directly at me."

"I wasn't staring!" She replied indignantly.

Preston smiled teasingly. "Okay, you weren't. Maybe I was staring." His green eyes danced humorously.

Ella's cheeks felt particularly warm. She bit her lip to stop from grinning. "So…you don't like parties? What do you do then?"

"I read good books. Scripts. Write a little. I'm kind of a loner," he confessed. "This whole bar-party scene doesn't interest me."

"Really? What sort of books do you read?"

"Mostly historical fiction. Also Shakespeare…I'm waiting to do one of his lesser known plays as a film." He glanced at her inquisitive gaze. "One in particular, actually. Captain Wentworth in Persuasion." His British accent accentuated his last words.

"That's my favourite!" Ella barely contained her enthusiasm. "I've always, always wanted to play Anna, but…" Her voice trailed off.

"Are you an actress?" Preston asked. "I'm sorry, I don't keep up with all the new talent that comes up."

"No, no, just…an aspiring actress." She murmured.

"Ah." He nodded knowledgeably. "Been there quite recently before I hopped over the pond to sunny California. Anyway. Enough about me, what about you, Ms. Ella-the-aspiring-actress?"

"I'm a closet-writer. I've never shared any of my writing with anyone." The words spilled out of her mouth unconsciously.

"Really? Well, we'll have to change that, won't we? What do you write?"

"Poems and things…I don't have much time for it lately."

They wandered into a patch of grass whose green blades lay dully, pressed against the hard earth.

"Favourite poet?"

"John Keats. Ode on Melancholy." Ella answered. She hoped desperately that this didn't sound too sophomoric—what if he was some literature buff who'd gone to Princeton or some other Ivy League and majored in English lit??

"I did my thesis on Keats at Oxford!" Preston said enthusiastically, "But I have to say, one of my favourite poems of all time is ruined by far too much exposure. Shakespeare's Sonnet 18," he recited, all the while melting her with his penetrating gaze:


"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

"Shakespeare is overdone." Ella finally stated. The tenderness of his spoken words soothed her palpitating heart. When at last she opened her mouth again to speak, the words were not her own.


"She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu,"

Through this exchange, her cold, tingling palm had found its way into his warm grasp—his lips, inches way, pressed against hers. She closed her eyes. The world around her paused in time, transfixed in motion and sound to this very second, this moment that was entirely her own. His lips were soft and gentle, seducing her with a hint of passion as his fingers traveled to the nape of her neck, caressing her cheek (could he feel the pounds of make-up? she wondered briefly), until finally, when they broke apart, her eyes now open and drowning in the endless shimmering green of his, she wanted nothing more but to remain in his embrace.

It was, perhaps, an eternity before they finally parted, for here, concealed in this enchanted forest, beyond the prying eyes of any others, they were in a haven of their own. Only reality brought Ella back to her senses, and she broke away from their passionate kiss.

"I'm sorry, what time is it?" She asked breathlessly.

Preston checked his gold Rolex. "11:59. Why, what's wrong?"

"SHIT!" Ella's eyes grew wide and without a second glance behind her, she sprinted across the lawn. The delicate strap of her Christian Louboutin heel snapped under the pressure of her footsteps, but she could not afford to stop. Ella left behind this single stiletto—she may as well have worn idiotic glass slippers.

Gazing at her retreating back, Preston Carter picked up her proverbial glass slipper and held it desolately, whispering into the darkness,

"His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung."

Author's Note: Apologies on the long wait for this chapter, I've been suffering from bouts of writer's block on churning out the events that take place here. Hopefully the next ones will go a lot smoother now that the hard part's out of the way! Comments and reviews always appreciated. )