Unhappily Ever After
In the farthest nook of the Buckingham Palace, in the kitchen pantry where no one goes save for the cook-who fortunately works in tunnel vision-a woman and her two daughters live the last of their days. They survive by the use of a stolen can opener that the younger daughter, Adeline de la Faye, whisked beneath her apron as they scampered into the pantry on that first, fateful night.
They are dark now, so covered in dirt and so filled with botchelised tuna and expired corn that they blend into the recesses of the pantry. Some would call it ironic that Cinderella was dark once, too. Her step-family knew, as no one else did, of the blackness of her heart. It was not without reason that she clung to the chimney ashes, coating herself with coal, muttering spells under her breath.
The other servants were all afraid of her. Her eyes cut daggers through the scullery maid: found dead in her bed the morning after the altercation. The Baroness de la Faye questioned Cinderella, who revealed nothing, but smiled a curve that would have quivered the chin of La Giaconda.
Jacqueline de la Faye saw Cinderella hypnotize the Prince at the ball, and bit her lip until it bled to keep from crying out. Days before, in a terrifying wood, he had confessed his love to her, run his fingers through her fiery hair, and swore that they would be wed as soon as he announced her as his wife—at the stroke of twelve on the eve of his ball. How it all had unraveled so fast, then—how she’d clung to him after Cinderella ran off, throwing coarse crystals of salt over her shoulder and into the shoe she left behind, bewitching him to follow her footsteps.
Then Cinderella had banished them from the kingdom, commanding that they be buried alive in soot as proper punishment for their treatment of her; her story, tied together by lies, had gone down in books while they were left to die with the truth. The Baroness had had her wits about her—she hurried her daughters into the pantry on the night of the wedding, and covered them with ash to guard against their being seen. Occasionally she slipped holy water from a vial that she kept around her neck into the cook’s soup; she felt it her obligation to save the Prince.
So, with further thought and great feedback, I've decided to treat this piece as kind of a synopsis for a longer one. (We'll see if I ever get past the synopsis...ahh...I'll try). Thanks for all your help! (And, by the way, I'm still editing this and making it prettier, so reviews are still welcomed.)
