Werewolves & Glass slippers

She can’t go

*Ella*

I get down from my horse, seething with rage.

This feeling isn’t unfamiliar to me. Before my father died seven years ago, I sometimes found myself irritated with my new stepmother. But after he was gone, and Luna Minna Cinders… who had held that title for only a few months… started ruling the roost, I truly learned the meaning of anger.

Anger is watching tenants on the pack lands being forced to pay double the rent or leave cottages where they’ve lived their whole lives. Anger is watching the crops wilt and the hedges overgrow because my stepmother begrudges the money needed to maintain the pack. Anger is seeing my father’s money poured into new gowns and bonnets and frilly things… so numerous that my stepmother and stepsister can’t find enough days in the year to wear them all.

It’s the pitying glances I receive from acquaintances who never invite me to dinner anymore. It’s being relegated to a chamber in the attic, with faded furnishings that scream my relative worth in this household. It’s the self-loathing of someone who can’t quite bring herself to leave home and be done with it. I’m fueled by humiliation and despair, and the absolute certainty that my father must be turning in his grave.

I stomp up the front steps, girding my loins for battle, as my father would have said. “Hello, Cherryderry,” I greet our dear old butler as he opens the door. “Are you playing servant now?”

“Herself sent the servants off to London to fetch a doctor,” Cherryderry replies. “To be exact, two doctors.”

“Having a spell, is she?” I pull off my gloves carefully, the leather separating from its lining around the wrist. Once, I might have wondered if my stepmother… known to the household as Herself… was malingering, but not anymore. Not after years of false alarms and screams in the middle of the night about attacks that generally turn out to be nothing more than indigestion.

Though as Cherryderry once commented, one can only hope.

“Not Herself, this time. It’s Miss Anastasia’s face, I gather.”

“The bite?”

He nods. “Dragging the lip down, so her maid told us this morning. There’s a swelling there as well.”

Sour as I feel, a pulse of sympathy strikes me. Poor Anastasia doesn’t have much going for her outside of her pretty face and prettier frocks; it would break her heart if she were permanently disfigured.

“I have to talk to Herself about the vicar’s wife,” I say, handing my pelisse to Cherryderry. “Or rather, the former vicar’s wife. After his death, I moved the family to the far cottage.”

“Bad business,” the butler says. “Especially in a vicar. Seems that a vicar shouldn’t take his own life.”

“He left her with four children,” I reply.

“Mind you, it’s not easy for a man to get over the loss of a limb.”

“Well, now his children have to get over the loss of him,” I say unsympathetically. “Not to mention that my stepmother sent an eviction notice to his widow yesterday.”

Cherryderry frowns. “Herself says you’re to dine with them tonight.”

I stop on my way up the stairs. “She said what?”

“You’re to dine with them tonight. And Alpha Blanklake is coming.”

“You must be joking.”

But the butler shakes his head. “She said that. What’s more, she’s decided that Miss Anastasia’s rats have to go, but for some reason, she banished them to your chamber.”

I close my eyes for a moment. A day that started out badly is only getting worse. I dislike my stepsister’s pack of little dogs… affectionately, or not so affectionately, known as the rats. I also dislike Algernon, Alpha Blanklake, my stepsister’s betrothed. He smiles too easily. And I loathe even more the idea of sitting down to dinner en famille.

I generally manage to forget that I once was mistress of the household. After all, my mother has been bedridden for years before she died, and sickly for most of my life. I grew up sitting opposite my father at the dining room table, going over the menus with Mrs. Swallow, the housekeeper… I had expected to debut, marry, and raise children of my own in this very house.

But that was before my father died, and I turned into a maid-of-all-work, living in the garret.

And now I am to come to dinner, in a gown that is out-of-date, and endure the smirking pleasantries of Alpha Blanklake? Why?

I run up the stairs with a sickening foreboding in my stomach. My stepmother is seated at her dressing table, examining her complexion. The afternoon light falls over her shoulder, lighting her hair. It has a glare to it, that hair, a fierce yellow tint as if the strands are made of minerals. She is wearing a morning dress with a pleated bodice of lilac net, caught under her breasts with a trailing ribbon. It is lovely… for a debutante.

But Minna cannot abide the fact that she is no longer in her thirties. In fact, she has never really accepted the loss of her twenties. And so she dresses herself to create an approximation of Minna-at-Twenty. One thing you have to say for my stepmother: She has a reckless bravery, a kind of fierce disregard for the conventions governing she-wolves’ aging.

But of course, if Minna’s costumes are the outward expression of her ambition, they are also the refuge of the failed. No she-wolf yet has appeared twenty in her forties, and a deliciously sensual gown cannot restore youth.

“I gather you finished your peregrinations amongst your friends and bothered to come home,” Minna says acidly.

I take one look around her boudoir and decide to remove a heap of clothes from what I am almost certain is a stool. The room is mounded with piles of light cottons and spangled silks; they are thrown in heaps over the chairs. Or at least where one presumes chairs to be. The room resembles a pastel snowscape, with soft mountains of fabric here and there.

“What are you doing?” my stepmother demands as I hoist the gowns in my arms.

“Sitting down,” I say, dropping the clothing on the floor.

My stepmother bounds up with a screech. “Don’t treat my gowns like that, you stupid girl! The top few were delivered only a day or two ago, and they’re magnificent. I’ll have you ironing them all night if there’s the least wrinkle, even the least.”

“I don’t iron,” I say flatly. “Remember? I put a scorch mark on a white gown three years ago.”

“Ah, the Persian belladine!” my stepmother cries, clasping her hands together like a girlish Lady Macbeth. “I keep it… there.” She points a long finger to a corner where a towering mound of cloth goes halfway to the ceiling. “I shall have it altered one of these days.” She sits back down.

I carefully push the stack of gowns a little farther away from my foot. “I must speak to you about the Crabtrees.”

“I hope you managed to shovel the she-wolf out the door,” Minna says, lighting a cigarillo. “You know the bloody solicitor is coming next week to assess my management of the estate. If he sees that scrap heap of a cottage, he’ll make no end of fuss. Last quarter he prosed on and on till I thought I’d die of boredom.”

“It’s your responsibility to keep the cottages in good repair,” I say, getting up to open a window.

Minna waves her cigarillo disdainfully. “Nonsense. Those people live on my land for practically nothing. The least they can do is keep their own houses in good nick. That Crabtree she-wolf is living in a pigsty. I happened by the other day and I was positively horrified.”

I sit back down and let my eyes wander around the room. The pigsty of a room. But after a moment, I realize that Minna hasn’t noticed my silent insult, since she has opened a little jar and is painting her lips a dark shade of copper.

“Since her husband died,” I say, “Mrs. Crabtree is both exhausted and afraid. The house is not a pigsty; it is simply disorganized. You can’t evict her. She has nowhere to go.”

“Nonsense,” Minna says, leaning closer to the glass to examine her lips. “I’m sure she has a bolt-hole all planned. Another man, most likely. It’s been over a year since Crabtree topped himself; she’ll have a new one lined up by now. You’ll see.”

Talking to my stepmother feels like peeing in a coal-black outhouse. I have no idea what might come up, but I know I won’t like it.

“That is cruel,” I say, trying to pitch my words so that I sound like the voice of authority.

“They have to go,” Minna states. “I can’t abide sluggards. I made a special trip over to the vicarage, you know, the morning after her husband jumped from the bridge. Bringing my condolences.”

Minna prefers to avoid all the people working for the pack or in the village, except on the rare occasions when she develops a sudden taste for playing the luna of the pack. Then she puts on an ensemble extravagantly calculated to offend country folk, descends from her carriage, and deciphers in her tenants’ startled expressions their shiftless and foolish natures. Finally, she instructs me to evict them from their homes.

Luckily, she generally forgets about the demand after a week or so.

“That she-wolf, Crabtree, was lying on the settee crying. Children all over the room, a disgusting number of children, and there she was, shoulders shaking like a bad actress. Crying. Maybe she should join a traveling theater,” Minna says. “She’s not unattractive.”

“She…”

Minna interrupts. “I can’t abide idlers. Do you think I lay about and wept after my first husband, the colonel, died? Did you see me shed a tear when your father died, though we had enjoyed but a few months of matrimonial bliss?”

I have seen no tears, but Minna needs no confirmation from me. “Although Mrs. Crabtree may not have your fortitude, she has four small children and we have some responsibility to them…”

“I’m bored with the subject and besides, I need to speak to you about something important. Tonight Alpha Blanklake is coming to dinner and you shall join us.” Minna blows out a puff of smoke. It looks like fog escaping from a small copper pipe.

“So Cherryderry said. Why?” I have long ago dispensed with pleasantries with my stepmother. We loathe each other, and I can’t imagine why my presence is required at the table.

“You’re going to be meeting Blanklake’s relatives in a few days.” Minna takes another pull on her cigarillo. “Thank the Goddess, you’re slimmer than Anastasia. We can have her gowns taken in quite easily. It would be harder to go the other way.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t imagine that Alpha Blanklake has the faintest interest in eating a meal with me, nor in introducing me to his relatives, and the feeling is mutual.”

Before Minna can clarify her demand, the door is flung open. “The cream isn’t working,” Anastasia wails, hurtling toward her mother. She doesn’t even see me, just falls to her knees and buries her face in Minna’s lap.

Instantly, Minna puts down her cigarillo and wraps her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. “Hush, babykins,” she croons. “Of course the cream will work. We just need to give it a little time. I promise you, Mother promises you, that it will work. Your face will be as beautiful as ever. And just in case, I sent off to London for two of the very best doctors.”

I’m beginning to feel a faint interest in the matter. “What kind of cream are you using?”

Minna throws me an unfriendly glance. “Nothing you would have heard of. It’s made from crushed pearls, among other things. It works like a charm on all sorts of facial imperfections. I use it myself, daily.”

“Just look at my lip, Ella!” Anastasia says, popping her head back up. “I’m ruined for life.” Her eyes glisten with tears.

Her lower lip looks rather alarming. There’s an odd violet-colored puffiness around the site that suggests infection, and her mouth has a slight, but distinct, list to the side.

I get to my feet and come over for a closer look. “Has Dr. Busby seen it yet?”

“He came yesterday, but he’s an old fool,” Minna says. “He couldn’t be expected to understand how important this is. He hadn’t a single helpful potion or cream to offer. Nothing!”

I turn Anastasia’s head to the side so that the light falls on it. “I think the bite is infected,” I say. “Are you sure this cream is hygienic?”

“Are you questioning my judgment?” Minna shouts, standing up.

“Absolutely,” I retort. “If Anastasia ends up with a deformed mouth because you sloshed on some quack remedy you were swindled into buying in London, I want it clear that it’s your fault.”

“You insolent toad!” Minna says, stepping forward.

But Anastasia puts out an arm. “Mother, stop. Ella, do you really think there’s something wrong with the cream? My lip throbs terribly.” Anastasia is a tremendously pretty girl, with a beautiful complexion and wide, tender eyes that always look a bit dewy, as if she has just shed a sentimental tear, or is just about to. Since she sheds tears, sentimental and otherwise, throughout the day, this makes sense. Now two tears roll down her face.

“I think that there might be some infection inside the wound,” I say, frowning. “Your lip mended quickly, but…” I push gently, and Anastasia cries out. “It’s going to have to be lanced.”

“Never!” Minna roars.

“I couldn’t allow my face to be cut,” Anastasia says, trembling all over.

“But you don’t want to have a disfigurement,” I say, schooling my tone to patience.

Anastasia blinks while she thinks about that.

“Nothing will happen until the London doctors arrive,” Minna announces, sitting back down. She has a wild enthusiasm for anyone, and anything, from London. I suspect it’s the result of a childhood spent in the country, but since Minna never lets slip even a hint about her past, it’s hard to know.

“Well, let’s hope they arrive soon,” I say, wondering whether an infected lip creates any risk of blood infection. Presumably not... “Why do you want me to join you for dinner, Minna?”

“Because of my lip, of course,” Anastasia says, snuffling like a small pig.

“Your lip,” I repeat.

“I can’t go on the visit, can I?” Anastasia adds, with a characteristic, if maddening, lack of clarity.

“Your sister was to pay a very important visit to a member of Alpha Blanklake’s family in just a few days,” Minna puts in. “If you weren’t so busy traipsing around the pack listening to the sob stories of feckless she-wolves, you’d remember that. He’s a prince. A prince!”

I drop onto my stool again and look at my two relatives. Minna is as hard and bright as a new ha’penny. In contrast, Anastasia’s features are blurred and indistinct. Her hair is a delightful pale rose color, somewhere between blonde and red, and curls winsomely around her face. Minna’s hair has the sharp-edged perfection of someone whose maid spends three hours with a curling iron achieving precisely the look she wants.

“I fail to see what the postponed visit has to do with me,” I say, “though I am very sympathetic about your disappointment, Anastasia.” And I am, too. Though I loathe my stepmother, I have never felt the same hatred for my stepsister. For one thing, Anastasia is too soft-natured for anyone to dislike. And for another, I can’t help being fond of her. If I take a great deal of abuse from Minna, the kind of affection that my stepmother lavishes on her daughter is, to my mind, almost worse.

“Well,” Anastasia says heavily, sitting down on a pile of gowns about the approximate height of a stool, “you have to be me. It took me a while to understand it, but Mother has it all cleverly planned out. And I’m sure my darling Algie will agree.”

“I couldn’t possibly be you, whatever that means,” I say flatly.

“Yes, you can,” Minna says. She has finished her cigarillo and is lighting a second from the first. “And you will,” she adds.

“No, I won’t. Not that I have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Be Anastasia in what context? And with whom?”

“With Alpha Blanklake’s prince, of course,” Minna says, regarding me through a faint haze of smoke. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“You want me to pretend to be Anastasia? In front of a prince? Which prince?”

“I didn’t understand at first either,” Anastasia says, running her finger over her injured lip. “You see, before Algie can marry me, we need the approval of some relative of his.”

“The prince,” Minna puts in.

“He’s a prince from some little country in the back of beyond, that’s what Algie says. But he’s the only representative of Algie’s mother’s family who lives in England, and she won’t release his inheritance without the prince’s approval. His father’s will,” Anastasia confides, “is most dreadfully unfair. If Algie marries before thirty years of age, without his mother’s approval, he loses part of his inheritance… and he’s not even twenty yet!”

Very smart of Papa Blanklake, to my mind. From what I’ve seen, Blanklake Junior is about as ready to manage a pack as the rats are to learn choral music. Not that it’s my business. “The doctors will take a look at you tomorrow morning,” I tell Anastasia, “and then you’ll be off to see the prince. Rather like the cat looking at the queen.”

“She can’t go like that!” Minna snaps. It’s the first time that I’ve ever heard that edge of disgust applied to her daughter.

Anastasia turns her head and looks at her mother, but says nothing.

“Of course she can,” I state. “This sounds like a fool’s game to me. No one will believe for a moment that I’m Anastasia. And even if they did, don’t you think they’d remember later? What happens when this prince stands up in the church and stops the ceremony, on the grounds that the bride isn’t the bride he met?”

“That won’t happen, if only because Anastasia will be married directly afterwards, by parish license,” Minna says. “This is the first time Blanklake has been invited to the castle, and we can’t miss it. His Highness is throwing a ball to celebrate his betrothal, and you’re going as Anastasia.”

“Why not just postpone your visit and go after the ball is over?”

“Because I have to get married,” Anastasia pipes up.

My heart sinks. “You have to get married?”

Anastasia nods. I look at my stepmother, who shrugs. “She’s compromised. Three months’ worth.”