the girl who fit the glass slipper. Honestly, from what I know about this girl, I don’t think that such a union would be good for Charles, or for Aurelais.”
Cinderella’s hands, clenching the sides of the trunk, shook, and she had to fight to keep her voice from trembling. “I see. Then let’s hope she doesn’t appear tomorrow.”
With the hastiest curtsy she could manage, Cinderella hurried out of the room, ignoring the duchess’s call, “Cindergirl, I wasn’t finished with you!”
Cinderella needed to breathe. Everything felt suddenly hot, and she desperately needed some fresh air, needed to clear her mind of what the duchess had told her.
Her heart ached with disappointment, and try as she might, she couldn’t reason it away the way she had whenever her stepmother hurt her. This was new, deeper than the sting of when Charles hadn’t recognized her in the palace.
To learn that the entire ball had been a ruse to find Charles a wife, that he had all but been forced to choose someone. No, that wasn’t the surprising part. That wasn’t the hurtful part.
What hurt was that Charles had picked her simply because he had to pick someone. And now, if there were another ball, he’d choose the next girl who caught his eye. Maybe she had taken their connection that night for granted . . . but had he never cared about her in the first place?
Of course, there was the fact that he hadn’t recognized her. Days later, the pain from seeing him spin away from her and disappear down the corridor, as if she were a perfect stranger, was still fresh.
Cinderella’s head throbbed, and she clutched the trunk holding the duchess’s dress tighter.
Did she care about him? She’d thought she did, but how many young men had she met while under her stepmother’s charge? None.
The prince was the first. He’d been so charming, listening to her attentively as if she were the most important person in the world and not a servant to be ordered about or treated with callous contempt. His easy smile and warm eyes had won her over, and now here she was, still thinking about him.
Maybe she was naive to expect he felt the same as she did—that they had shared something special. Truth be told, it would be foolish of him to marry someone he’d only met once. Besides, she knew nothing about being a princess. And she’d spent enough years under her stepmother’s pitiless eye; she didn’t need to spend the rest of her life under her entire country’s.
Cinderella stopped at one of the windows, pressing her hand against the cool glass.
Outside, the gardens beckoned. Bathed under the cloak of moonlight, they were breathtaking. The hedges rustled under the dim lamplight, swaying to an invisible symphony, and the marble pavilions shone white as pearls.
It was late enough that no one would be passing through now. Perhaps she could cut across and make a short detour before heading to her room. Being outside would help her think clearly again.
After a long breath, Cinderella pulled away from the window, making for the two doors leading outside to the gardens. She waited for the guard to open them, but he met her gaze with a penetrating glare.
When she tried to enter the doors, he stopped in front of her.
“What is your business here?”
Cinderella blinked, unsure why the guard had taken such a sharp tone with her. “I wanted to walk out into the gardens back to the servants’ quarters.”
The guard peered at her as if she’d uttered the most foolish thing he’d ever heard.
“Servants are not permitted to access the royal gardens, not without express permission.”
Cinderella took a step back. “So the entire garden is off-limits, even to the staff? But it’s even larger than the palace.”
“The palace is not yours to roam,” the guard admonished. “There are rules to respect. Traditions to honor.”
Cinderella raised her chin, but she knew it was no use arguing. Without another word, she turned away and continued to her quarters, her heart even heavier than before.
Being around nature had always lifted her spirits. She had grown up helping her mother tend the flowers in their garden, which had once been the pride and joy of the family estate. But after her stepmother had fired her father’s staff to save on expenses, the entire yard had fallen to disarray.
“Who has any use for a garden?” Lady Tremaine would say. “The flowers can’t be sold. Let them die.”
Cinderella had tried as long as she