Cinderella: The Cinder from the Ash

Chapter Thirteen

The solution was easy. After all, the window still gaped wide, and her step-mother’s intent was clear. Ella was to remain in her room indefinitely. By tomorrow evening, she would be effectively trapped within the walls of her own home. It was intolerable. Ella glanced around her room. There was nothing left of her previous life, and precious little of the life her mother had led. Celina was responsible for that. Ella sighed. It was definitely time to leave, though she was unsure where she would go. She wriggled out of her nightdress, and into the burgundy gown she had worn to Mr. Fitzsimmons office. Its thick folds would keep her warm during the night, and the numerous pockets could easily hold her pots of undead make-up.

Ella leaned against the windowsill, peering out into the darkness. The full moon illuminated the yard below her in a soft glow. Hoisting her skirts above her ankles, she eased out onto the same oak branch she had clambered down earlier that night. A single lantern twinkled in the distance, beckoning her onward. She kept her eyes on the light as she scrambled down the tree, pausing at the bottom to listen for any hint of movement. The house stayed dark. Creeping across the small, well-kept lawn, Ella hurried towards the church. It was the only safe haven she knew. It didn’t take long before she ran into the seemingly ever present tinker and his wagon.

The tinker stared at her. “What brings you out here so late at night?”

Ella twisted her hands together. “I ran away,” she murmured.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed? Are you sure that was a wise decision?”

Her shoulders squared. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “I cannot go back to where I was.”

“No,” he agreed, “you cannot.” He opened the door on the back of his tinker’s wagon. “Then I suppose you must stay here.”

“W—with you? But that would be—”

“Most improper, but what other options do you have?” He c****d his head toward the still open doorway. “I can promise you, it is cleaner inside than out.”

“I thought to stay at the abandoned church,” Ella protested half-heartedly. The prospect of a comfortable wagon appealed more than a drafty church tower.

“Go inside, Ella Rose. If I did not care for you, your father would rise up from his grave and take me to task.”

The sudden confirmation of her father’s death stabbed Ella through the heart. She gasped, and half slid to the ground. One hand reached out, grasping at the wagon’s wheel to stop her fall. “So he is dead,” she whispered.

The old undead sprang forward and lowered her gently the rest of the way to the ground. “Are you going to be all right?” One wizened hand felt her forehead.

“I—yes, it was simply a shock.” Ella pushed his hand away. “I am fine, I promise.” She untangled her feet from the gown and stood up. “But perhaps we should speak further inside the wagon.”

The tinker nodded. “Yes, that would be wise. It is not safe for you since you have left the security of your father’s house…but I suppose that would be your home now.”

“It is,” Ella agreed, “but I cannot return. My life there has become untenable.” She followed the man through the door of the tinker’s wagon. Her eyes widened in astonishment. The interior was not what she expected. Instead of a cramped wagon full of odds and ends, it was well-kept, the tools of his trade hanging on iron hooks set into the wooden side panels, and brightly colored fabrics hanging from all four walls.

“Now, please sit down and tell me what prompted you to run away.”

“Tell me about my father first,” Ella’s voice was calm, but her hands would not stop shaking.

The tinker shuffled to the back of the wagon, and came back with a cup filled with something steaming. “Drink this.”

Ella reached out and took the stoneware cup. “What is it?”

“Tea,” the old undead said. “I do believe you are in shock. The tea will help.”

“Why do you have tea if you do not drink it?” Ella took a small sip. It tasted like liquid summer days. She took another sip.

“My father taught me a long time ago to always be prepared for anything this world might bring me.” He smiled at her. “That includes daughters of my friends. Now…what do you remember about your father?”

“I was five when he vanished,” Ella said. “I am not sure how much I remember, and how much I manufactured when I was small. He was tall. And very kind. I remember that. He would buy me ices during the summer and hot cocoa when the weather turned cold.” She felt the tears gather in her eyes and, placing the cup carefully on the floor at her feet, scrubbed savagely at her cheeks. The make-up she had applied so perfectly earlier that night smeared onto her hands.

“You are safe here, Ella. Why not take the make-up off entirely?”

“I—I am not sure if I should. I have never…no-one has seen me without it since my father…” She trailed off.

“Well, I do not mean to push. Your comfort is my primary concern, make-up or not.” He sat down across from Ella. “Your father was my closest friend. I met him shortly after he moved here. That had to have been, oh, thirty years ago.”

Ella frowned. “You mean he was not raised here? Then where did he come from? Is that the reason I am…what I am?”

He shook his head. “I do not have any of those answers, Ella. I am sorry. Over the years I have done my best to watch over you, but Celina did not make that easy.”

“No,” Ella agreed. “My step-mother does not believe in the value of tinkers.” She paused. “Do you know why my father married her?”

“Celina Beaumont comes from a very old, very aristocratic family,” he said, “and your father was a very wealthy merchant. It was, by all accounts, a marriage of great convenience for them both.”

“But no love,” Ella said softly.

“No,” the tinker agreed, “no love.”

“Is that why they hate me?” Her voice was barely audible.

“The Beaumonts have always thought of themselves as better than everyone else,” the tinker said. “Quite frankly, they dislike everyone who cannot, or will not, further their cause.”

Ella opened her mouth to reply, but found herself yawning instead. “I am so sorry; I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Rest, child. The rest of the story will keep until tomorrow. I shall be outside, on the bench, if you have need of me.” He reached over her head, pulled a blanket down, and handed it to her. “That should keep you warm enough and, if you have need of it, there are washcloths and water in the back.”

“Yes, thank you.” She waited until he left before getting up and washing her face. Only after she felt human again did she burrow under the blanket he had given her and close her eyes.

Sleep came quickly.