Charlotte shook her head, locks of hair slapping her cheeks, and backed up, severing contact. “She’s just a baby. Please don’t—”
“So sorry, Queenie, but it’s as good as done. And don’t bother telling anyone what has occurred here. They won’t believe you. And if they do, they’ll murder your precious Ashleigh just to kill me. Oh, and just in case you think to do the same, don’t. It never works.” Leonora released a final breath and collapsed in the dirt, her body unmoving.
Knees threatening to give out, Charlotte tore open Ashleigh’s blanket to discover bronze glowing with health. She would live? She—
Ashleigh’s eyes. They’d brightened to an icy blue, the same color as Leonora’s eyes, before darkening again. Horror doused the flare of elation. Leonora had done it. She’d jumped into Ashleigh. And I let her do it. I helped her.
Charlotte didn’t...she couldn’t... No. This wasn’t unfixable. She might be able to buy some kind of magical extraction. Surely someone specialized in that. If not, she would buy...what? A spell to keep Leonora contained?
Though she had no gold of her own, she had the key. Yes. She would offer the key as payment, and a witch or a warlock would help Ashleigh.
She swaddled Ashleigh anew, then used the bottom half of her gown to anchor the child against her chest. Then, drawing on a reservoir of strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she crouched down to feel the witch’s body for a pulse. Dead.
Charlotte hung her head. Then, she got to work, dragging the witch’s body back into the cell. The next time Philipp checked on her, he would think she’d died of natural causes.
A ring hung around her neck, capturing the queen’s attention. Something inside Charlotte shouted, The ring belongs with Ashleigh. My daughter must have it, now and always.
Though she sensed the wrongness of such a thought, she claimed the necklace for Ashleigh, anyway.
As she hurried to the secret passage, her emotions got the better of her and she sobbed. But she never slowed her pace.
Just as Charlotte crawled back into bed, arranged her nightgown and her daughter, the door opened and Philipp marched inside, another oracle close to his heels. A pretty woman with guarded eyes and a strained smile.
“Well?” the king demanded, waving in Ashleigh’s direction.
Charlotte trembled as the woman sidled up to the bed. Ashleigh was...was...possessed by a phantom; what if the oracle prophesized a terrible end, placing the child in the same predicament as before?
Voice soft and soothing, the oracle stretched out her arms and said, “Come now. Let’s see the little precious.”
The moment of truth had come.
Terror and hope held the queen immobile as the other woman opened the blanket that covered Ashleigh...
A milky film spilled over the oracle’s irises, the first sign the fairy was having a vision of the future. In a monotone voice, she announced, “Woe is she. Woe is she. The Glass Princess, born twice in one day. Two heads, one heart. To purge or merge? One heart, two heads. To merge or purge? One brings a blessing. One brings a curse. Only she can choose. Only she can fight. The ball. The shoe. Diiiing. Diiiiing. Diiiiiiiiing. At midnight, all is revealed. Who will live and who will die when past, present, and future collide? Let the fire rage—let the flame purify. Let the world burn, burn, burn.”
Thick, oppressive silence reigned. Philipp peered at Charlotte, looking shocked to the core. Had a curse just been spoken over the entire kingdom? After what had happened with Leonora...there was a chance.
“This points to ‘The Little Cinder Girl’ fairy tale. But how can that be?” Philipp scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “You and I...we are the prince and Cinder. The babe cannot be part of our fairy tale, for it is finished. We are living our happily-ever-after. Unless...” He stared at Ashleigh through narrowed eyes. “Our fairy tale is repeating because the child tainted my perfect ending.”
How could he say such a thing? “Perhaps you are not the marriage-minded prince but the evil king who despises his daughter.”
“You know as well as I that the tales are symbolic rather than literal. The obvious is never the answer. What seems to be right is always wrong. What seems to go this way always veers that way. But I would take care, were I you.” His voice turned menacing. “The king who despises his daughter has a queen who dies far too soon.”
Charlotte’s breath hitched. The threat both terrified and thrilled her. The queen’s untimely death marked the beginning of the tale for Cinder.
Ashleigh could be its end, loved beyond imagining.
Charlotte almost laughed then, deciding she adored the prophecies, after all.
“You know it doesn’t matter what role Ashleigh plays, Philipp,” she said, smug. “Fate has plans for her. Ruin those plans, and fate will ruin you right back.”
1
Our tale begins with love and light.
Take care, my dears, lest it end with fright.
Ashleigh
The Provence of Fleur
Fourteen years later
Hot tears poured down my cheeks, burning twin tracks of sadness into my skin. The salty droplets trickled onto my tongue, letting me taste my own misery.
The worst had happened. My mother was dead, killed inside our home mere days ago. I’d been right there, at her side, but I’d been unconscious. There to help but unable to do so, thanks to my malformed heart; I’d passed out right before the murder occurred.
A sob mounted an escape, but I bit my tongue, remaining silent. Father expected me to be stoic in times of distress. Mother would want me to be. Never let them know they’ve hurt you, my darling. You’ll only show them where to strike next.
I tried to be stoic. For Momma’s sake, I tried so hard, but I felt like a broken vase glued together with wishes.
Today was her funeral. Queen Charlotte Charmaine-Anskelisa. The greatest person ever to live. Mother extraordinaire. A small handful of family and friends had gathered in the royal gardens to say goodbye.
How could I ever say goodbye? I’d adored her, and she’d adored me, too. Momma might have been the only one. I’d spent most of my days in bed, forgotten by my father and ignored by servants.
Now I watched, helpless, as flames spread from my mother’s gown to her lovely bronze skin. In the Provence of Fleur, my home, we held tradition sacred. When someone died, their body was placed atop a bed of rose petals and sealed inside a glass coffin. One piece of glass acted as a magnifier and, as beams of sunlight passed through it, the body would catch fire and burn to ash.
I whimpered and shifted my gaze to the marble statues that formed a circle around us, creating a hidden clearing in the heart of the garden. Momma’s favorite place. Each statue depicted the likenesses of a past king or queen, with roses of every color twined at the base. I used to watch her from my window as she tended those roses, with birds perched on her shoulders.