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The remains of a life Cynthia and her beloved parents had once had. If her mother were still here, she would help Cynthia find a way to the ball.
Wait a moment.
Hatbox.
She scrambled over to it on her hands and knees and pried open the lid. The paper inside the box fell apart in her hands. The hat it was meant to protect was crushed and soiled beyond repair.
But where there was a hat… might there not also be other attire?
With frantic energy, she set about moving each old item from one side of the attic to another, searching for something, anything, that could aid her cause.
And then she found it: a scarred valise that used to belong to her mother.
Hands trembling, Cynthia brushed the cobwebs aside and eased the creaking hinges open. It was part of her mother’s wedding trousseau! Fragile linens and embroidered handkerchiefs and… a plain white gown thirty years out of style, and slightly yellowed with age.
Cynthia clutched it to her chest and danced about the attic in gleeful circles. The gown was old and desperately in need of a good cleaning, but it was free of holes and patches.
How long would the rest of her family be gone? An hour? Two? They would wish to prepare for the ball, as well. Cynthia raced down the stairs to wash her new gown, then hung it outside in the sun to dry. With the July heat and constant breeze, it wouldn’t take long.
But it wasn’t quick enough. Her stepmother and stepsisters arrived home just as Cynthia was taking the dress down from the line.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” Lady Tremaine demanded in alarm.
“It’s my gown for the ball,” Cynthia explained. “Stasia said—”
“Stasia,” Dorothea spat, casting a nervous look over her shoulder. “Mother told us that kindness is always a bad idea.”
“She won’t catch anyone’s eye in that thing,” Stasia said. “Except as an object of pity, perhaps. That dress looks older than we are.”
“There’s no holes or patches,” Cynthia said quickly, hugging her mother’s gown to her bosom. “That was the agreement. I could fix it up a bit more, if one of you were to loan me—”
“I need my hair washed,” Dorothea announced. “And dried and set into ringlets.”
“All three of us ought to be washed before the ball,” Lady Tremaine added.
Stasia flashed Cynthia a look of apology. “I really was counting on you running to the cobbler to reheel my dancing slippers before it’s time to leave.”
Cynthia’s heart sank. There would be no time to work on her own appearance. The best she could hope for was to wear the gown as-is and dash a brush through her hair.
“Of course,” she said with resignation. “I’ll do all those things straight away. Let me take this dress up to my room, and I’ll be right back down.”
“Leave it there for good,” Lady Tremaine snapped. “It belongs in an attic.”
“Just like you do,” Dorothea informed Cynthia, earning a smirk of appreciation from her mother. “You smell as musty as that old dress.”
Cynthia had bathed herself and cleaned the dress less than hour prior, so she knew this comment was meant to wound rather than be truthful. But her heart had long since grown calloused to scathing remarks such as these. Her step-family’s biting tongues did not matter to her in the least.
The only opinion that mattered was that of Princess Ammalia.
And the only way to look her best for the princess was to complete her new spate of tasks as briskly as possible.
She dashed up the shallow steps and skidded into the attic so quickly, the side of her foot brushed the old bucket and sent the gifts from the magpies skittering across the wooden floor.
“Blast!” She cursed her clumsiness and poor timing. “It will take ages to—”
The entire floor glittered as though strewn with diamonds. Cynthia was fairly certain that none of Gus and Jack’s baubles were more valuable than bits of glass, but some of the items certainly appeared to be real silk ribbons and pearl buttons.
If she adorned her mother’s gown with trimmings such as these…
