The Fairy Godmother Page 4

  Worst of all, she had learned that no matter how brave and good you were, bad people often won, and that her father was lost to her forever.

  From that moment, she mourned him as if he was dead—and indeed, for all intents and purposes, he might just as well have died. He came less and less to protect her from her stepmother and stepsisters, until at last he did nothing at all. He scarcely seemed to realize that she existed. He totally forgot that he had ever been married to anyone else, and spent his every waking moment trying to find some new means of pleasing “his Madeleine.”

  It almost came as an anticlimax when he sickened and died within that year of wedding Madame. She thought, looking back on it, that she had known, deep in her heart, that this was what would happen. Love spells did not last forever, not even powerful ones, and Madame was not the sort to allow her power to ebb away.

  But this was the peculiar thing; Elena had spent her time 40

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  since her father’s death wrapped in a growing sense of tension and frustration, as if something was out there, some force that would make all of this better, if only she knew how to invoke it. That there was a way to turn this into a happy ending, and that her life was a coiled spring being wound ever tighter until it would all be released in a burst of wonder and magic that would give her back everything that had been taken, and more. The longer things went on, the more she felt that climax rushing towards her, or she towards it—

  But it never happened. Not on her sixteenth birthday—the primary moment of magical happenings according to every tale that she had ever read or heard—nor on her eighteenth, which was the other possibility. No, things stayed exactly as they had been. No Fairy Godmother appeared, not even Madame Fleur, somehow empowered to take Elena out of her miserable existence. No handsome prince, no prince of any kind, appeared on the doorstep to save her. There was not even a marriage proposal from the blacksmith’s son or the cowherd, both traditional disguises for wandering princes. Nothing. Only more and more backbreaking work, and the certainty that nothing was going to change, that Madame had things arranged precisely as she wanted them, and that Elena would be “Ella Cinders,” the household slave, until she died. And her despair grew until it matched the tension inside, until it overwhelmed the tension inside, and the only escape from either she ever had were a few stolen moments inside the covers of a book.

  For years while she still had hope, she had eased her sadness by telling herself stories like those she read in the books The Fairy Godmother

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  and heard old women tell their grandchildren. “Once upon a time,” they always began, “there was a poor orphan girl who was forced to slave for her Wicked Stepmother.” And they ended with, “And the orphan girl married the prince—” or the duke, or the earl, or the handsome magician “—and lived happily ever after.”

  Then, gradually, the stories had changed, and the rescuer had not been a prince. By the time she was sixteen and a day, she had abandoned all thoughts of royalty, and instead, prayed and hoped with a clawing despair for romance. Just a little. Just an ordinary love of her own.

  No, the dreams she had told no one were no longer about the unattainable, but about the barely possible—if there were, somewhere in the town, a man willing to brave Madame’s wrath to steal her away.

  Day in, day out, in the market, by the river, or from her garret window, she had watched other girls with envious eyes as they were courted and wooed by young men. They seemed so happy, and as her sixteenth, and then eighteenth birthdays passed, her envy for their lot grew. As did the stirrings in her heart—and elsewhere—as she spied on them from behind her curtains, or while pretending to select produce in the marketplace, when their sweethearts stole kisses and caresses.

  And if only—if only—

  She dreamed of the handsome young men, the jaunty Apprentices, the clever journeymen, the stout and rugged young farmers—then watched them court and marry someone else, time after time, never giving her as much as a glance.

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  Then she dreamed of not-so-handsome, not-so-young men, the widower with two children, the storekeeper with an aged mother, the work-weary bachelor farmer—who did exactly the same.

  And when she found herself contemplating with wordless longing the balding, paunchy Town Clerk, who at least had kind eyes, only to weep in her pillow with despair when he married the cross-eyed daughter of the miller, she knew that she had reached the end of dreams.

  At least, those sorts of dreams.

  All that had been left her was a single, simple longing. Let me get away. Dearest Father in Heaven, let me get away!

  And finally, at long last, this one little prayer had been answered. Well, now that she had a chance to get away, she was going to seize it with both hands. She would dream of getting a decent place, then working her way up with hard work and cleverness, becoming a cook, or a housekeeper.

  That was real; that was attainable. Not some feeling that her life was a tightly-coiled spring that would shoot her into a life of ease and a path strewn with stars. Feelings were nothing; the only thing that counted was what was in front of your eyes, what you could hold in your hands.

  Tomorrow was the Mop Fair; that was what it was called here, in Otraria. Other places called them Hiring Fairs, she had heard, but here the occasion was named for the mops that women wishing to be hired as servants carried with them into the town square. In fact, it wasn’t just women who presented themselves to be hired, it was men, too; the women would line up on one side of the square, the men on the other. Each of them would have some token of his The Fairy Godmother

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  or her skills about them. A maid-of-all-work would have a mop or a dust rag, a cook would bring a pan, a shepherd would have his crook, of course, a farmhand a twist of wheat in his hat, a drover a whip in his hand or a twist of whipcord in his hat. Each of them would have his or her belongings bundled up at his feet, and those who needed servants would come and examine them, make an offer, and be accepted or refused. That wasn’t the only thing that would happen tomorrow, of course—it was a Fair, after all, and all of the booths and games, the displays and amusements typical of a Fair would be going on in the center of the square as well. It was a very large town square, with more than enough room for a lively Fair with space left to spare.

  But the hiring was the chief thing, and tomorrow she would be ready for it. She would wear her new clothing, with the frying pan in her hand and a dust rag tucked into the band of her skirt, showing that she was an all-around servant. And she would take the first offer that came from anyone who looked kind. That was all she wanted; kindness, and a good master or mistress.

  But she still had hopes, even if they were much reduced, and when the moon had left her window, she fell asleep, thinking of them. A kind old priest, whose housekeeper has gone to live on the generous pension he granted her. A busy scholar, absentminded, who needs looking after. A large family, with a dozen children, happy and easy-natured. A great lord, whose housekeeper is looking for maids who can be trusted….

  And so at last, her hopes became dreams, and her treach

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  erous dreams sent her down paths she had given up, or thought she had—into stories—

  —and the handsome son of the great lord fell ill, and no one would tend him but the brave little scullery maid, who nursed him back to health at the risk of her life. And when he came to himself, and looked into her pale, grave face, and knew what she had done, he fell in love—

  She awoke at dawn, with Fleur’s roosters telling the whole world that it was more than time to be up and about.

  And if there were tears soaking her makeshift pillow, there was, at least, no one to see.

  Fleur’s roosters had the habit of crowing before the sun was actually up—but Elena was used to getting up that early anyway. Madame Klovis had been a demanding mistress, and her daughters took
after her. She had managed to keep a full staff busy; when all that was left was Elena and Jacques, there had always been too much to do, and not enough time to do it in.

  So this morning she woke, as she always did, immediately and alert, and although she could have gone back to sleep again, for the first time in years, to sleep late, she knew that this of all days was no time to be lazy. If she wanted a choice spot at the Mop Fair, she needed to get there soon after sunup, and she wasn’t going to do that by lying in bed.

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  In her belongings had been the tag-end of the bar of coarse, harsh laundry soap. Somehow it had escaped being mashed into the floor, squashed into her clothing, or otherwise destroyed. Appearances were terribly important at the Mop Fair, and she was determined not to be “Ella Cinders,” not when she was trying to make a good impression.

  So once she had finished breakfast, she brought everything she owned down into the kitchen and filled the sinks and all the pots with water from the pump. She packed up everything but her new clothing, a dust rag and the pan in a bundle, then stood naked in the middle of the kitchen and scrubbed and rinsed herself until she was pink, and her hair and skin squeaked with cleanliness. Only then did she put on the new clothing. She bound up her hair, braiding it tightly and confining it under the kerchief. Then she shouldered her burden, and marched straight out the front door. She took a deep breath on the threshold, and closed the door behind her, walking away without looking back, because she knew that if she did, she would never have the courage to go on with this.

  She paused for a moment in the thin, grey light of morning, looking at the silent—well, silent except for the roosters—house next door. She had hoped that Fleur or Blanche would be about—but there was no sign of either of them as she passed their front gate. She closed her eyes, made a last, silent prayer, and strode resolutely towards the square, and (she hoped) her new future.

  The town square had some movement in it, a few people walking about among the stalls and along the shops. The sun was just below the level of the buildings now. The The Fairy Godmother

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  rooftops and ridges were gilded with sunlight, though the square was still in shadow. The men lined up on the cattle-pen side, the women, along the front of the Town Hall. The most desirable spaces were at either end, for those nearest to the ends would be seen first, and Elena took one next to the first-comers, in a place that would be in shade during most of the afternoon. She was one of the first to take her place, right behind a plump woman with a suspicious eye, a pair of young girls with dust rags who looked like sisters, and an old lady with a nursemaid’s cap and a motherly look to her. The stalls and booths for the Fair had been set up last night, but only a single hot pie stand was manned this early.

  Her mouth watered at the smell of the fresh pies—but pies weren’t for the likes of her, without even a sou to her name.

  She had the bread and cheese made up into sandwiches in her bundle. That, and water, would have to see her through the day.

  More and more women and girls straggled up to join the line as the Fair came to life. More stalls opened, and the air began to fill with the shouts of barkers hawking their wares or entertainments, the scent of fried food, sausages, meat pies, sweet-stuffs. Eventually, by the time most folk had finished breakfast and the shops were opening, the Fair was in full voice, and the first prospective masters and mistresses were walking the line, examining what was on offer there.

  The two girls went first, to a woman in a farmer’s smock, who was looking for a pair of maids-of-all-work. They seemed perfectly pleased to be chosen, and Elena took that as a good omen.

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  Every time someone paused in front of her, Elena looked them straight in the eyes, recited her abilities, and prayed.

  Someone kind. Someone kind. But most merely looked at her and moved on. For some, the reason was obvious; women with husbands with hungry eyes, or sons old enough to begin thinking about girls. No one wanted to hire a girl who could, all too readily, become the plaything of someone in the family. It was hard enough to keep a girl away from the trouble that came from fellow servants and farmworkers; at least there she could presumably be relied on to have enough common sense not to fall into a haymow and into pregnancy unless there was a wedding in the offing. But a pretty girl had no defenses against a predatory master. As a sheltered girl of a wealthy family, Elena had known nothing of such things; as one of the lowly servants, she had learned a great deal. Madame’s servants gossiped constantly, and it hadn’t been long before they were ignoring her as so unimportant that it was safe to gossip in front of her.

  For the rest of those possible employers, though, she could not even begin to guess why they passed her by. It wasn’t that she was expecting too much; in fact, she could have asked far more than the wages of a maid-of-all-work.

  The lowest wages, all that she asked for, were set by law; she was a plain cook and general housemaid, and she should get a shilling a week, two suits of clothing (or household uniform), bed and board and twice a year, a three-day holiday.

  So why were so many people looking at her, taking a second look, then passing on to choose someone else? It became harder to understand as the noontime came, and the The Fairy Godmother

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  strongest, brightest-looking, and most competent of the other girls were chosen, leaving her clearly the best of the lot available.

  At noon, a boy with a bucket came along the line with water. Elena took out her sandwiches and the least chipped of the mugs, and got a drink. The bread was dry on the outside, but she had used all of the butter on the inside, and it was no worse a meal than many she’d had under Madame.

  By now, the sun was very warm, and she loosened the neck of her blouse a little, fanning herself with her dust rag; she would be glad when the shadows of the shop-buildings to the west would fall on her and the others still waiting.

  Now those who were examining the women and girls moved down the line more slowly, examining the candidates with great care, for the choices were fewer. And now, something peculiar was happening.

  These people looked her in the eyes, and looked away.

  One or two stopped, and asked her name after she had recited her qualifications. “Elena Klovis,” she said, and after a moment of blankness, they would say, as if to themselves,

  “Ah—Ella Cinders.” Then they would shake their heads and move on.

  Finally, the explanation came, after a harried-looking woman seized on the sight of the old nursemaid with relief and a cry of “Oh, Nanny Parkin! I did not know you would be here!” The old woman quickly made an advantageous bargain for herself, but then turned to Elena just before leaving the line.

  “I didn’t want to blight your hopes, dearie,” Nanny 50

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  Parkin said, in the kindliest of tones, “but no one will hire you.”

  “But—” Elena stammered.

  “They know who you are, you see,” the old woman continued. “Everyone knows Ella Cinders now. Those that didn’t know your tale surely do now, after what happened yesterday. No one wants to face Madame Klovis when she returns. They know she’ll return, and there won’t be anything left here of value when the creditors are finished but you. You see? She’ll want you, she’ll have some rights to you, and if someone else has you, there will be the devil to pay.”

  And she picked up her own bundle, and followed her new employer. Elena stared after her in shock and dismay.

  And when she glanced over at some of the others in the line, she saw nods—or else, averted gazes.

  She almost gave up. But—

  No, she decided. No, I will not give up. There are still farmers here, and merchants, and maybe they need someone. They won’t be able to make a choice until their goods are sold and their purchases made. I will stay. People from outside of town wouldn’t be afraid of Madame. They would know that Madame would never sti
r out into the countryside to find the flyaway stepdaughter. There was still a chance, a good chance….

  But as the shadows stretched across the square, as time passed and stalls and booths closed, as the line of women thinned, and finally the two lines of those who wished to be hired were combined into one, men to the right, women to the left, her hopes thinned also.

  Still, she stayed. Stayed as the last of the food-stalls closed The Fairy Godmother

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  and there was no one left but a dubious-looking sausage-seller hawking equally dubious sausages, as even the disagreeable-looking cook was trundled away by a cross old man. She stayed, until the sun was setting and there was no one left except her, the dispirited sausage-seller, and one other. This was a gangly boy with no tokens of experience, all elbows and knees, wearing clothing that was three sizes too big for him apparently made of tent-canvas. There was another person as well, but he was not hoping for hire—this was the father that was keeping the boy company.

  “Y’ant t’ go naow?” the man said to the boy, who shook his head stubbornly, though his face bore an expression that was as desperate as Elena felt.

  The moment the last of the sun went below the horizon, she would have to go. The Fair would be over, and there would be no chance of finding a place until next year. Oh, officially it wasn’t over until midnight, but no one would be here, looking for someone to hire, after the sun set.

  Laundry, she thought, despondently. I can take in laundry.

  At least, as long as I can keep the creditors from taking the house. I can keep those hens that Blanche offered me. The kitchen garden will feed them and me both. At least, as long as I can keep the creditors from taking the house—

  Then, just as the sun sank behind the buildings to touch the horizon, came an unexpected noise—

  It came from the street leading into the square, the sound of hooves and wheels rattling on the cobbles. Which was odd—the stall-holders would not come to take down their booths and stalls until tomorrow, and anyone coming to 52