The Princess and Her Son

General Gerard's eyebrows rose. "L'Escroc?" he asked. "You want to appoint L'Escroc to command the princess' bodyguard?"

Eugene sat down on Etienne's desk. "Don't tell me you're going to sneer at his background."

"It isn't his background that concerns me," Etienne muttered. His chest rose and fell as he let out a sigh. "Des Voeux! Do you want some coffee?"

"Yes, I wouldn't mind," Eugene answered. "I came down here without any breakfast."

"I thought it was a little early," Etienne said, checking his watch. He blinked, "So, what is her highness doing about her repast?"

"Why do you ask?"

Etienne shrugged. "It isn't really my business, but… how are things, between her highness and her majesty?"

Eugene was silent for a moment. "I… I understand why Cinderella feels the way she does but… it wasn't his fault."

"But it was his hand," Etienne pointed out.

"I know, that's why I said that I can understand why Cinderella feels the way she does," Eugene replied. "I just wish that she… that she felt differently. I wish that she could… I wish that she could… get over it."

"That's not why you came here, is it?" Etienne asked.

"No, of course not!" Eugene declared. "I even told Cinderella that she could have breakfast in her chambers by herself if she liked. No, I'm here because-"

He fell silent as footsteps sounded outside the office, moments before the door creaked open and des Voeux entered, carrying a tray upon which sat a pot of coffee and two cups.

"I took the liberty, sir," he said, his voice soft, almost as soft as the smile playing upon his face.

"You are a prophet new inspired, des Voeux," Etienne said. "You have my gratitude."

"Thank you, sir," des Voeux said, putting coffee and cups alike down on the table. "Will there be anything else?"

"Not at present, but don't go anywhere, I may want you to run an errand shortly," Etienne told him.

Des Voeux came to attention. "Very good sir," he said. He bowed to Eugene. "Your highness." He backed out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

Etienne stood up, gripped the tin coffee pot – it had been through the war in America, and was a little battered and bent in places in consequence – in his hands, and poured the steaming hot, black liquid into the two cups.

"I notice your man's oracular powers didn't extend to the milk," Eugene observed.

"I take mine black," Etienne replied.

"I suppose I can manage that too, on this occasion," Eugene said, picking up his cup and taking a drink. From the expression on his face, he regretted it. "Wait until it's cooled just a little, I think," he said, his mouth twisting in distaste.

Etienne smiled, although the smile swiftly faded from his face as he asked. "How are things, between-"

"Between Cinderella and my father?"

"I was going to ask between you and your wife," Etienne replied. "But we can talk about the other, if you wish?"

"The former is easier to talk about," Eugene admitted. "Things are… things are very well between us." He grinned boyishly. "A gentleman doesn't talk, of course, but if I were not a gentleman there are… things that I could talk about."

Etienne's brow furrowed. "And are those ungentlemanly things which, you being a gentleman, cannot speak of… things worth speaking of."

Eugene nodded. "I have been… in my own bedchamber since the girls were born. Until last night."

Etienne was silent for a moment. "I… see," he murmured. "Your decision, or hers."

"Mine," Eugene confessed. "A source of vexation to Cinderella. She thought that I… that I no longer found her beautiful."

"An obvious inference," Etienne observed. He judged that the time was right to try some of his coffee and so he did so; it had indeed cooled down just a little, although not so much that it was not satisfyingly warm; it was also pleasantly bitter upon his tongue.

"An incorrect one," Eugene declared. "I was… afraid."

Etienne glanced down into the black liquid swirling in his cup. Eugene had no need to tell Etienne of what he was afraid. It was obvious, even to someone who did not know him so well as Etienne Gerard; Etienne wondered that Princess Cinderella had not worked it out for herself.

But of course she had survived, hadn't see? She had passed through the ordeal, shaken perhaps but… but then the princess had always demonstrated a remarkable capacity to bounce back from her reverses and misfortunes. She could smile and smile in the face of things that would have broken a lesser man.

Except for being attacked by her father in law, it seems. But then, I suppose there is a difference between smiling in the face of misfortune and smiling in the face of your attacker.

"I understand-"

"No, I don't think you do," Eugene said. "With Katharine… I told myself that it was bad luck, the doctor-"

"It was bad luck," Etienne said, "and the doctor."

"After Cinderella as well it started to feel like a curse," Eugene muttered.

"You didn't lose the princess," Etienne pointed out.

"No," Eugene murmured. "No, I didn't, thank God." He took a drink of his coffee, a very long drink. "Thank God," he repeated. "I didn't want to risk losing her again."

"But…?" Etienne invited.

Eugene chuckled. "Cinderella wasn't having any of it," he said. "She… set me right. Apart from anything else she wants more children."

"Already?" Etienne asked.

"No, not yet, I think, not for a little while, although if… if God willed it I doubt she'd be too upset," Eugene explained. "But in the meantime… she has no desire to be an anchoress and who can blame her? I didn't desire it myself but… Cinderella has a way of making me seem very foolish, which seems as though it should be humiliating but it isn't, because-"

"Because you really are being foolish?" Etienne suggested.

Eugene let out a bark of laughter, "Well, that too," he admitted. "But I was going to say that it's because… because she only wants to help, even if it also helps her as well." He paused for a moment, smiling. "I'm glad she did," he added, without disclosing anything else. He was a gentleman, after all. "When I'm through here," he added. "I'm going to join her in spending the day with the children. After all, there isn't much of anything else to do."

"What a good father, to spend time with your children when there isn't much of anything else to do," Etienne said dryly.

"You know what I mean," Eugene insisted. "Cinderella makes sure to spend at least an hour with them, but it will be far more today, for both of us."

"Philippe, too?" Etienne asked.

Eugene sighed. "Yes," he said. "Philippe, too." He glanced at Etienne. "You know, if you wanted to come and see him, you'd be more than welcome."

"He has a mother now, you've told me," Etienne said. "And a father, it's beginning to seem. He doesn't need me."

"But he might like to have you, still," Eugene pointed out. He raised his free hand. "But I understand I'm in no position to give out any lectures, so don't take what I have to say too seriously, it's just a thought."

"A thought I will… consider, nevertheless," Etienne agreed. In truth… he did miss Philippe somewhat. He and the boy had never been that close, but there had been a time when Etienne had seen him regularly, before his father and stepmother and grandfather entered his life. Since then… Etienne had missed him. "How is he?"

Eugene did not, thankfully, tell Etienne that he could find out for himself. "Cinderella would know better than I do, and yes, I know that that reflects badly on me," he said. "But I think he is happy. I shall find out for myself later today. And what about you? How is Madame Gerard?"

"My mother is-"

"I was actually asking about your wife," Eugene pointed. "Although if you want to tell me about your mother than by all means. Have you heard from her?"

Etienne shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "It just feels strange to have Lucrecia referred to in that way. I know that she is Madame Gerard, or at least she is a Madame Gerard, but… she is very well. She's thinking about taking on an apprentice to help with her work."

"Business is good then?" Eugene asked.

"It is," Etienne declared. "It was not always… an advantage for Lucrecia to be known as the princess' dressmaker, but-"

"Now that Cinderella is no longer an objection of scorn and snobbery but rather of respect, people want to patronise her dressmaker?" Eugene guessed.

"That is it precisely," Etienne said. "And, now that everyone expects that we are to host a great congress of Europe, it seems as though everyone needs a wardrobe full of new gowns to prepare for all the inevitable balls and galas."

"I don't know if Cinderella has done likewise," Eugene said. "I shall be sure to tell her to place her orders quickly while there is still time."

"Lucrecia will always put her highness at the head of the queue, trust me," Etienne assured him.

"Is that good for business?" Eugene asked.

"Perhaps not, but some things are more important," Etienne said. "Loyalty, for one."

"Then convey your loyal wife my compliments," Eugene said, raising his coffee cup in salute. "But I'll still suggest to Cinderella that she think about it, if she hasn't already." He drank some more of his coffee. "So, she's thinking of taking an apprentice?"

"And getting a maid," Etienne said. "I was thinking of hiring an Aquitainian."

Eugene shook his head. "Don't do that, not just yet, we have… not changed our minds, but… we aren't going to move so swiftly with it. Cinderella is going to try and build support with the people first."

"I see," Etienne replied. "That's probably quite wise of you, I have to admit, it wasn't likely to be very popular as something just imposed upon people." He paused. "How are you going to persuade the people?"

Eugene let out a little chuckle. "Well… that's the question, isn't it? A question which can wait, for now." He put down his coffee cup, almost empty at this point, upon Etienne's desk. "L'Escroc," he reminded Etienne.

"Ah, yes," Etienne murmured. "L'Escroc. Right back where we started."

"You don't approve?" Eugene asked.

Etienne hesitated for a moment. "It… is not his background, or the fact that he came up from the ranks. Taurillion has proven to be an excellent choice, after all, and his background is… to be honest, I think they probably have the same background, just L'Escroc is older and joined the army. But if you asked him, you'd probably find out he came from the same back alleys and rookeries as Lieutenant Taurillion and Lady Bonnet did."

"So what you're saying is that he's the continuity candidate," Eugene murmured, a slight smile upon his face.

Etienne snorted. "Are there any other candidates?"

"Is there anyone else who fights like he does?" Eugene asked.

"I'm sure you could find someone, if you asked around."

"Is there any reason why I should when there's a perfectly capable fellow right in front of me?" Eugene demanded. "Someone has to replace Taurillion, he can't – he won't want to – remain in Cinderella's household once he's married. He and Lady Bonnet will both be taking their leave, whether you or I or even Cinderella herself likes it or not. She needs a new guard commander, why not L'Escroc?"

Etienne drained the last of his cup of coffee. "It's only a hunch," he said, "but I doubt that her highness will find his company as congenial as that of Lieutenant Taurillion. Lieutenant L'Escroc is… something of a coarser sort."

"I can't say I've noticed."

"That's because he was always on his best behaviour around you."

"Then he can be on his best behaviour around Cinderella as well," Eugene said. "After all, as much as she might like to have an officer whom she can consider a friend he'll be there to protect her, not to keep her company."

"It's who he will end up keeping company that concerns me," Etienne muttered. "I acknowledge that he has qualities that recommend him for the role, but I'm not altogether sure that I want a man who slept his way through the American war anywhere near my sister."

Eugene blinked. A frown disfigured his features as it furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about? I've never heard anything about this?"

"Fortunately you had better things to do than listen to camp gossip," Etienne said.

"But you didn't, brigadier general?" Eugene asked, a touch of sarcasm entering into his voice.

"I had… sufficient time on my hands to hear about various women," Etienne said. "Apparently he married some native woman."

"Nothing wrong with marriage," Eugene said. "Man should marry. Best thing we ever did."

"We didn't go out and find other women afterwards," Etienne muttered.

"You, we, of all people," Eugene declared, "should know that gossip is not always a reliable guide. You don't know that he's married to some native girl, you don't know that any of these scandalous rumours are true-"

"And yet I can believe it," Etienne said. "He's a very handsome man, in case you haven't noticed."

Eugene's eyes narrowed. "Do you think so?"

"You do not?" Etienne asked, surprised.

"I'm a better judge of women's beauty than a man's," Eugene murmured. "But… really? That awful scar?"

"I think that awful scar is precisely what a great many women find handsome about him," Etienne said.

Eugene was silent for a moment. He folded his arm across his chest, turning his head slightly away from Etienne. "These… these women who may or may not exist… were they willing?"

"I have never heard it said otherwise," Etienne conceded. "If I thought otherwise I would have done something about it."

"I'm sure you would," Eugene assured him. "But, that being the case then… what of it? Scar or no, handsome or no, Cinderella would never-"

"It is not the princess that concerns me," Etienne interrupted him. "I have to have a care for Marinette."

"I'm sure that Marinette can care for her own virtue perfectly well, and in any case Cinderella would never let her come to any harm," Eugene said. "If L'Escroc turns out to be unsuitable then he will be gone and… I will admit that I was wrong and ask your help in making a better choice next time, but if there is nothing else then I would like my wife to be protected by a man who can fight. You understand that, I hope."

"Of course, your highness," Etienne said softly. "Des Voeux."

The door opened, and des Voeux poked his head inside. "Yes, sir?"

"Fetch Lieutenant L'Escroc of the Sixtieth," Etienne commanded. "Tell him to get over here on the double. His Highness wishes a word."

"At once, General."

"Cinderella? What are you doing, child?"

"I… I'm sitting down for dinner, Stepmother."

"Here? At the table? With my family?"

"Well, I-"

"You forget yourself, girl. Downstairs, in the kitchen, is the place for you. You can make yourself some… some soup, or the like. Or you can always wait and see if there are any leftovers remaining."

"Couldn't I just-"

"No, you could not."

"… I… I see. Very well, Stepmother."

"Oh, and Cinderella? Make sure you come promptly if I ring for you."

Cinderella was quiet, silent in fact, as Duchamp helped her to dress. She stood as still as a statue, or as one of the suits of armour that lined at least some of the palace corridors and hallways, as still as the guards who stood on either side of the grand hallway leading into the palace from the front. She stood still, her head half bowed, her eyes cast down, only moving in response to Duchamp's requests, or tugs upon this arm or that, she practically allowed Duchamp to lead her about the room as though she were a child, to dress her as though she were half a child, lacing her into her corset and gown, brushing her hair.

Her dress was white, with a blue ruffled collar falling off her shoulders, and short white puffed sleeves beneath ending in more ruffles and a little blue bow upon the side. A blue sash, tied into a bow around her waist, separated the bodice from the skirt, while the skirt itself – a full ballgown that expanded out around her – was ribbed in descending lines visible beneath the white silk. A sash of pale blue ran around the skirt just above the hem, rising and falling in undulating intervals, and upon each rise was topped by a little blue bow.

Cinderella barely noticed it. She was consumed by thought and memory. She couldn't stop thinking about her stepmother, and her stepsisters, about the way that she had been banished from the dining table, banished down to the kitchen to take her meals alone, set apart from the family.

And she could not stop thinking also about the way that Philippe had embraced her when she had suggested that he could have breakfast with her this morning, the way that he had sounded so surprised as though he couldn't believe the idea.

"Ma'am?" Duchamp asked. "Ma'am?"

"Hmm?" Cinderella murmured. "I'm sorry, Duchamp, is everything alright?"

"I think perhaps I ought to ask you, ma'am," Duchamp murmured. "Although first I intended to ask about your jewellery."

"My… jewellery," Cinderella murmured, surely it couldn't be time for that already? But it was; she was sat in front of the vanity mirror, in front of her dressing table – Duchamp must have guided her over there, Cinderella barely remembered standing in front of the full length mirror, let alone the vanity – not only dressed, but Duchamp had also put her white bow hairband in her hair, and applied a faint pink blush to her cheeks.

"It seems you've done a very good job without any help from me, Duchamp," Cinderella observed.

"You're kind to say so, ma'am," Duchamp replied. "But… the jewellery?"

"Yes," Cinderella said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes, the… the jewellery." Her jewellery box lay open before her, necklaces and bracelets gleaming and glowing, pearls, sapphires, diamonds all waiting for her selection. And yet her hands – ungloved, at present, her white gloves were sitting on the dressing table next to her jewellery box – remained upon her lap, her fingers laid upon the fabric of her skirt, which was soft beneath them.

Cinderella glanced down at them, and as she glanced her hands curled into fists.

She felt a hand upon her arm, Duchamp's hand, squeezing her arm gently above the elbow.

"If you'll permit me to ask, ma'am," Duchamp said quietly, "what's the matter?"

Cinderella's brow furrowed as she wondered how – or whether she ought to – broach this particular subject with Duchamp. Perhaps she ought to keep it to herself, it was family business after all, but at the same time she wanted to tell someone, and Eugene wasn't here and Duchamp was and… well, Duchamp had always kept her confidences in the past.

"I'm sorry, Duchamp," she said. "I was just… I was just thinking."

"Clearly, ma'am," Duchamp said. "May I know what you were thinking about?"

"About… about Phi- about His Grace," Cinderella said. She paused for a moment. His Majesty had created Philippe the Duke of Morlaix, but it seemed not only strange but, in the circumstances, perverse to refer to him so. "No, not His Grace; about Philippe."

"I see, ma'am," Duchamp said, although Cinderella couldn't have said just what it was that Duchamp thought she saw.

"When Madame Clairval was still alive – this was all some time before she passed away, you understand – she asked me to look after him. She didn't…" She didn't trust Eugene. Cinderella decided not to share that with Duchamp. "She trusted me. I'm not sure why."

"Are you not, ma'am?" Duchamp asked. "I should have thought it was perfectly obvious."

Cinderella glanced at her. "I mean she barely knew me, Duchamp."

Duchamp smiled fondly down at her. "Some of your virtues, ma'am, do take some time to become obvious, but others are more immediately apparent, if you'll permit me to say so."

"That's very kind of you to say, Duchamp, but…" Cinderella trailed off. "And then, later… when she became ill… I think… I think that she must have known that she didn't have… didn't have very long left because… because she asked again."

"I know that he isn't your son, and I know that… I know that you have children of your own now but nevertheless, as one mother to another I ask you… don't forget him. Please, your highness, I would have your promise that he will not be forgotten."

"You have it, of course you have it. I promise, with all my heart I promise, I won't forget. Philippe will never be alone, I swear it."

"Thank you, your highness, that is… I must make a confession. There are times… there are times when I hated the way he looked at you. The way he spoke to you, the way you were. The way that he and my Katharine never got the chance to be. But at the same time… I was always glad that he had you, that you were there, and never moreso than now."

"No one in this palace would say you have not kept your word, ma'am," Duchamp observed.

"Have I?" Cinderella asked.

"Do you not think so?" Duchamp asked in turn. "How can it be doubted?"

Because he was so excited to eat with me, Cinderella thought. "Duchamp, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, ma'am," Duchamp replied. "I am at your service."

"How long have you been here, in the palace?" Cinderella asked. "You were here when I arrived, and you were trusted to be my ladies' maid; His Grace introduced you as someone reliable. I feel as though you must have been here some time, to be trusted like that."

If Duchamp was confused at the question, if she felt the change in subject at all abrupt, she gave little sign of it. She nodded her head slightly. "I have been in service to the crown since I was… younger than you, ma'am; I was ten when I started work here."

"Ten?" Cinderella repeated, unable to keep the gasp out of her voice. She had been younger when she started labouring for her stepfamily, but she had thought that she must be very unusual in that regard. "I had no idea that it was normal to begin so young."

"How old were you, ma'am, if I may ask, when you entered service?"

"Seven or eight," Cinderella admitted. "I don't quite remember. We didn't celebrate my birthday that year. And it… it was a somewhat gradual process." It had started by being asked to do certain things, as if they were favours; could she just clean up that mess, could she just pick up that laundry; she had been glad to do her part, even if as she noticed that others were not exactly doing theirs. The stripping away of all her luxuries, her clothes, her room, her banishing up to the tower, that had all come later.

As had being banished from the dining room.

"And you had no servants of your own before that?" Duchamp asked.

"No," Cinderella said. "No, we didn't. Mother used to take care of everything." Although that probably had not done her health much good. "And then, when my mother died, Father remarried, and then…" she trailed off, and looked at Duchamp. "Ten years old?" She felt rather guilty, although she hadn't been taking advantage of Duchamp's labour at that time.

Cinderella had managed to raise Duchamp's wages, taking advantage of the fact that Eugene had granted her her own income to pay Duchamp – and the chambermaids – a little more than they would have received otherwise, but even so… there were times when Cinderella felt very guilty for having servants as she had once been a servant – for all that she recognised that she couldn't have managed without them, especially without Duchamp – and this was one of them.

"How… how did you come to be in service so young?" Cinderella asked.

"I… needed work, ma'am," Duchamp said. "Suffice to say that I had a little education and no better prospects."

Duchamp spoke politely, but it was clear to Cinderella that she did not wish to say more, and Cinderella chose to respect her wish. "I ask, I suppose what I really wanted to know is… where you here when Her Majesty, Prince Eugene's mother, was alive?"

Duchamp nodded. "Yes, ma'am, although I was not her ladies' maid; I was too young, and too junior. But I was here in the Queen's Tower then, scrubbing pots in Her Majesty's kitchen."

"You didn't know Queen Isabelle, then?"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid I can't say I did," Duchamp said. "May I ask why you ask?"

"I was just… curious, I suppose."

"About anything in particular, ma'am?"

"About the queen," Cinderella explained. "And about Prince Eugene and how… how close they were, I suppose. I'm not explaining it very well, but I'm really not sure how I can explain it."

"I see," Duchamp murmured, in a tone which made it clear whether she actually saw or not. "I'm afraid I can't be of an assistance to you there, ma'am; perhaps if you were to ask His Highness himself."

"Yes," Cinderella said softly. "Perhaps I will. You're right, of course, Duchamp, but thank you for indulging me anyway. Um…" she returned her attention to her jewellery box, and this time her hands did not lie idle on her lap, but rather reached into the box and took out a necklace of decently sized pearls, from which string dangled an incredibly large sapphire, larger than a playing card, set in a band of gold. "This one, today, I think, Duchamp."

"Very good, ma'am," Duchamp replied, taking the necklace from Cinderella's hands and – as Cinderella lifted her hair up and out of the way – clasping it around her neck. It was a snug fit, and the sapphire made it feel a little heavy, but it was very beautiful to look at in the vanity mirror.

"A bracelet, ma'am?" Duchamp asked.

"Not today, Duchamp, thank you," Cinderella said, pulling on her gloves. "Just the necklace, I think."

"In that case, ma'am, I do believe that you're ready," Duchamp said, taking a step backwards.

Cinderella took one last look at her reflection in the mirror. With one hand she reached up and adjusted her necklace ever so slightly, then she slipped her wedding and engagement rings onto her left hand. "Yes, Duchamp, I think I am." At least I very much hope I am. She got up from the stool upon which she was sitting. "Thank you, Duchamp," she said, smiling. "Thank you very much, indeed."

Duchamp curtsied. "Ma'am."

Cinderella left the dressing room, lifting the hem of her skirt up out of the way so that she did not trip over it as she walked into the sitting room, taking her seat upon the velvet green settee, as she waited for Philippe – and for His Majesty.

She did not have to wait long, as Philippe arrived very soon after, escorted by Madeline. Well, Madeline followed after him as Philippe bounded into the sitting room, a bright smile upon his face that made his brown eyes – he had his father's eyes – light up.

"Hello again, Mother!" he cried excitedly, so excitedly that it was like a dagger piercing Cinderella's heart.

Nevertheless, despite the feeling of guilt welling up inside of her, Cinderella returned Philippe's smile, and hoped very much that it reached her eyes. "Hello again to you too, young man," she said. "And don't you look very handsome and adorable this morning." Philippe was dressed in a sailor suit, with a white shirt with blue cuffs trimmed with a white stripe, and a light blue kerchief, with another white stripe at the border, tied loosely around his neck. He wore short trousers, blue with white stripes, that left a little of his legs bare beneath the knees, down to his high white socks and little brown shoes that fastened around his feet with brass buckles.

Cinderella glanced at Madeline, "Thank you, Madeline, that will be all for now."

Madeline curtsied. "Just ring if you need me, your highness."

She backed out of the room, disappearing from view.

Cinderella got to her feet. "Philippe," she said, "breakfast isn't ready yet, but I want to have a talk with you first. Come here and sit next to me." She gestured to the settee.

The smile remained on Philippe's face as he walked briskly – almost running – across the room, crossing the distance between them swiftly as he moved around the other chairs and settees that littered the sitting room, almost but not quite tripping and falling at one point.

"Careful," Cinderella admonished him. "You could scrape your knee, or crack your head against this table. And then what… just be careful, please."

"Yes, Mother," Philippe said, and though he sounded as though he were being nagged and was weary of it, he did slow down and seemed to take things more carefully afterwards, until he reached Cinderella, who picked him up and set him down upon the settee, next to her.

She looked down at him. When he was grown he would look very much like his father, but for now baby fat rendered his features softer, his cheeks rounder and a little chubbier.

He looked happy, at least; Cinderella believed he was happy. But was he as happy as he could have been?

"Mother?" Philippe asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Cinderella said at once, and then regretted. "I mean… how are you, Philippe?"

"A little hungry."

Cinderella chuckled, covering her mouth with one gloved hand. "Well, that's very good to hear, since we're about to eat," she said. "But what I meant was…"

Philippe waited, clasping his hands together between his knees. He wriggled a little upon his seat, his feet kicking up and down, but he said nothing.

"Where do you usually have breakfast?" Cinderella asked, ashamed that she didn't know the answer. "And dinner too, in your room?"

Philippe shook his head. "There's a little room downstairs."

Oh, yes of course; her ladies in waiting used that for their meals, although she supposed they ate later than Philippe did – certainly for dinner.

"But you eat by yourself?" Cinderella asked.

Philippe nodded, although without any enthusiasm.

Cinderella reached out, taking one his small hands in her arm, wrapping her gloved fingers around it. "Does that get lonely?" she asked.

Philippe did not reply.

"You can tell me," Cinderella urged. "You can tell me anything, Philippe, anything at all."

Again, Philippe nodded. "Since Grandmother… went away," he whispered.

"Oh, Philippe," Cinderella whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry, but… why didn't you say anything to me? In the morning, or at playtime, or bedtime-"

"Maddy said you were too busy," Philippe said. "You and father and grandfather."

Cinderella pursed her lips together. Madeline had meant well, she knew, but she should not have said that; it was not her place, rather she should have told Cinderella that Philippe had these concerns. Cinderella would have to have a word with her, and make clear that it was not her responsibility to shield Cinderella from Philippe's problems, but rather to bring them to her. "I see," she murmured. Again she said, "I'm sorry, Philippe."

"Sorry for what, Mother?" Philippe asked.

Cinderella did not reply to him straight away; rather she took pause for a moment, "Philippe," she murmured. She let got of his hand, clasping both her hands together upon her lap, one white glove laid on top of the other. "Have I ever told you about my family?"

Philippe shook her head. "No," he said. "But…"

"But what?" Cinderella asked.

"I've heard… did you not always used to be a princess?"

Cinderella laughed. "No, I didn't become a princess until I married your father, before then I was… I was only a servant, like Madeline. How I met and married your father is a very wonderful story, but now… my mother died when I was about your age, and my father… my father loved me very much, but he felt that I needed a mother to take care of me, and so he married again. He gave me a stepmother, and two stepsisters."

"Like… like you," Philippe said quietly. "And Isabelle and Annabelle?"

Cinderella's face fell. She feared that Philippe was more right than she would have liked, but nevertheless, she said, "No, not like me or your sisters. You see… my stepmother didn't like me very much. And when my father died… she made me work as a servant. I had to cook for her, and clean for her, and… and I wasn't allowed to have dinner with the rest of my… my family. Because they didn't think of me as family."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"Oh, Philippe, I'm not telling you this so that you'll feel sorry for me," Cinderella told him. "After all, my life is so wonderful now. I'm a princess and a wife and I have three darling children whom I love. I told you that because… because I should have remembered what it was like, to eat on my own, with no company, no one to talk to, no one…" No one who cared about me. "When I met you I promised that I would be a better stepmother to you than my stepmother had been to you and yet… and yet I still let you go through exactly what I did and I'm so terribly sorry." She paused. "In future… in future, you will be eating every day, breakfast and dinner, with me, and with your father too, I hope." In the past she might have spoken to Eugene about this first, but she was at the point in her marriage – and in her occupancy of the palace – when she felt confident in taking these decisions for herself, and explaining it afterwards rather than asking permission.

Philippe's eyes widened. "Really? You mean it?"

"I mean it," Cinderella vowed. "And I want you to know that if there is every anything troubling you, anything that you want or need, anything at all, you only need to ask because I… I am determined every day to be a better mother to you, my sweet boy." She put her arms around him, holding him close, drawing him in, pressing him against her side.

She felt Philippe's arms around her as well, through her bodice and corset, attempting to reach all the way around her, even if he could not quite manage it.

"Thank you, Mother," he murmured.

"You have nothing to thank me for," Cinderella replied. "Nothing at all."