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Stasia’s pitying expression was not much better. “Dressed in… rags?”
“One of you could loan me a gown,” Cynthia said in a burst of inspiration. “Any gown at all, no matter how unfashionable, so long as it hasn’t any holes or—”
“No,” Stasia said flatly, and turned toward the house. “Mother would never allow it.”
“Unthinkable,” Dorothea agreed with a haughty sniff. Her nose lifted into the air as she strode away from the crowd. “I won’t have your dirty hands grubbying my silk. Even one I never intend to wear again.”
Cynthia’s lye-raw hands were rubbed clean every few minutes, given that her many daily chores included preparing the family’s meals, cleaning the family house, and washing the family’s clothes.
Dorothea was not afraid of dirt. She was afraid of Cynthia, and what her presence might accomplish.
“I don’t want the prince,” she assured her stepsister in a rush. “I just want to attend the ball, like everyone else.”
Stasia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Well, you can’t go unless you manage to look as presentable as everyone else.”
Dorothea slanted her sister a scorching glare.
“It’s not going to happen,” Stasia said defensively. “She doesn’t have anything presentable to wear.”
Dorothea gave a long-suffering sigh.
“But… if I did find a dress,” Cynthia said hesitantly. “I could go to the ball then?”
Stasia glanced at Dorothea. “I don’t mind if she comes along.”
Dorothea shrugged. “Me neither. It’s not as though she’ll outshine us. But despite the Prince explicitly inviting all unmarried young women, Mother will never allow Cynthia to join us.”
Stasia bit her lip. “I could say I need a maid to look after my hair.”
“Your hair does require constant intervention,” Dorothea agreed dryly. She turned to Cynthia. “We’ll tell Mother we need you in order to look our best. You may accompany us for an hour or two, but you must return home by midnight. No matter what Stasia and I say, Mother will expect a fresh hot bath waiting for the three of us when we return home. And a full breakfast on the table first thing in the morning, ball or no ball. Midnight, and not a moment later.”
Cynthia nodded eagerly. “Midnight. Thank you.”
Stasia sent her a look of warning. “If you fail to do even one of your chores to Mother’s satisfaction, she won’t allow you to leave the house for frivolous activities again.”
Cynthia swallowed hard. “Understood.”
They reached the door just in time to hear Lady Tremaine shriek, “My kippers are cold! Where is that lazy wench?”
Shite.
Cynthia rushed into the house to prepare her stepmother a fresh meal. Between now and tonight’s ball, she had to perform each task impeccably, lest Stasia’s begrudging permission be snatched away before Cynthia could attend tonight’s ball.
She cooked and cleaned with more vigor than ever before, but there wasn’t a spare second to even think about where to find a gown for another hour, until Lady Tremaine and her daughters left for their customary early-afternoon promenade in Hyde Park.
Home alone at last, Cynthia finished her final chore and rushed upstairs to her relocated room in the attic to search for something to wear. The ladies were right. Cynthia’s clothes were fit for nothing but rags. She didn’t need any of the carefully folded items inside her broken wardrobe. She needed a miracle.
A rustle of feathers sounded in the small open window. Cynthia gave a wan smile to the pair of magpies she’d named Jack and Gus. Cynthia wasn’t sure who had befriended whom first, but she was deeply grateful for their company. Oftentimes, the only nice thing she heard all day was the sound of their happy chatter.
She crossed to the window. “You didn’t happen to bring me a ball gown to wear, did you?”
They dropped their offerings in her palm: a sparkling pearl button, a shimmering satin ribbon, a shiny new penny, a beautiful red leaf.
“Thank you,” Cynthia said as she always did, and added the new treasures to the growing trove heaped inside a dilapidated old bucket.
Jack and Gus twittered and preened in pleasure.
Cynthia slumped to the scuffed wooden floor and rested the back of her head against the windowsill. From this angle, the attic looked even smaller than usual. Most of it was piled to the rafters with old household detritus. The battered wardrobe next to the lumpy mattress. A cracked clock, a broken table, a hatbox that looked as though it had been run over by a herd of bulls.
