It made her look healthy. When one overlooked her greasy brown hair, there was nothing wrong with her looks.
The surprise made me speak out loud. “You’re both so pretty. I don’t know why anyone would call you . . .” It was at this point that both girls smiled at me.
Between the two of them I saw only a dozen teeth.
“Oh,” I said. “Never mind.”
“Do go on, Ella,” the taller one said. “You were telling me how well I look in your dresses. I think so too.” 78/431
“Speaking of dresses,” the shorter one said. “What have you got on? Did you trade clothes with a plow hand?”
“I’ve never seen leggings so loose,” the tall one said.
“He must have been a fat plow hand. I should tell Mamá that we’re overfeeding them.”
The short one giggled. “Perhaps Ella has just lost weight. I shall save you some scraps from my breakfast, Ella, unless I’m very hungry.”
“You are always very hungry,” the tall one said.
“True,” her sister said. “Poor Ella will just have to find skinnier peasants to trade clothes with.” Yeah, that whole “ugly” part of their name just became much clearer. I set the pitcher down on the table so hard that some of the milk sloshed over the edges.
It was then that the WSM—wicked stepmother—swept into the room. I could tell it was her, both by her dress and her air of authority. Her light brown hair had streaks of gray, and her skin had begun to loosen around her jawline, but she was still a handsome woman. She walked to the table, dabbed a finger into the spilled milk, and sat down. “You stupid, clumsy girl. If you can’t do your duties inside I will send you outside with the field hands. Do you understand?” I stared at her for a moment. Normally I wouldn’t have put up with people treating me this way. I mean, it 79/431
did occur to me that if there were field hands around, some might know how to wield pitchforks, and it was entirely likely I could get them to side with me and turn against these encroachers. But that wasn’t how the fairy tale went, and I didn’t dare mess it up. If I wasn’t inside to hear about the prince’s ball, I wouldn’t get to the point where my Fair Godmother—aka Chrissy—stopped by to make my dreams come true. And when she stopped by, I was getting out of the wish.
I bowed my head in my WSM’s direction. “Sorry.”
“Sorry, what?” she repeated.
“Sorry I spilled the milk,” I said.
She pounded her fist against the table, making the silverware jump. “No, you stupid, ignorant girl. You’re to say, ‘Sorry, m’lady.’ ”
“Oh. Sorry, m’lady.”
She pointed to the door, her eyes sharp and glinting.
“Back to the kitchen with you and make haste serving us. I’ve plenty of chores for you today.” This, by the way, was not an exaggeration. Along with a couple of scullery maids and a kitchen boy, I washed dishes, swept floors, laundered clothes, set them out to dry, helped prepare lunch, washed more dishes, ironed clothes, and churned butter. I also shoveled ashes out of the fireplaces and did my best to clean the chimney.
That was my job alone, and by the time I was done with 80/431
it, my hands, arms, face, and hair were smeared with greasy soot. The stepsisters breezed into the manor while I did that job to watch me and comment on my appearance.
“I rather like her hair black,” the tall one said. “It matches her complexion quite well.” The plump one gave me a simpering smile. “Fine ladies
always
powder
their
faces.
Ella
uses
cinders—that’s why she’s our cinder -ella.” I mostly ignored them whenever they were around.
During the day, they did nothing as far as I could tell, except steal some candles from the cupboard, light them, and then take them out behind the barn, where they played guess-whose-straw-will-burn-quickest. I’m serious. Then they moved on to twigs, pinecones, and beetles. They spent most of the afternoon igniting things. This apparently is what
The surprise made me speak out loud. “You’re both so pretty. I don’t know why anyone would call you . . .” It was at this point that both girls smiled at me.
Between the two of them I saw only a dozen teeth.
“Oh,” I said. “Never mind.”
“Do go on, Ella,” the taller one said. “You were telling me how well I look in your dresses. I think so too.” 78/431
“Speaking of dresses,” the shorter one said. “What have you got on? Did you trade clothes with a plow hand?”
“I’ve never seen leggings so loose,” the tall one said.
“He must have been a fat plow hand. I should tell Mamá that we’re overfeeding them.”
The short one giggled. “Perhaps Ella has just lost weight. I shall save you some scraps from my breakfast, Ella, unless I’m very hungry.”
“You are always very hungry,” the tall one said.
“True,” her sister said. “Poor Ella will just have to find skinnier peasants to trade clothes with.” Yeah, that whole “ugly” part of their name just became much clearer. I set the pitcher down on the table so hard that some of the milk sloshed over the edges.
It was then that the WSM—wicked stepmother—swept into the room. I could tell it was her, both by her dress and her air of authority. Her light brown hair had streaks of gray, and her skin had begun to loosen around her jawline, but she was still a handsome woman. She walked to the table, dabbed a finger into the spilled milk, and sat down. “You stupid, clumsy girl. If you can’t do your duties inside I will send you outside with the field hands. Do you understand?” I stared at her for a moment. Normally I wouldn’t have put up with people treating me this way. I mean, it 79/431
did occur to me that if there were field hands around, some might know how to wield pitchforks, and it was entirely likely I could get them to side with me and turn against these encroachers. But that wasn’t how the fairy tale went, and I didn’t dare mess it up. If I wasn’t inside to hear about the prince’s ball, I wouldn’t get to the point where my Fair Godmother—aka Chrissy—stopped by to make my dreams come true. And when she stopped by, I was getting out of the wish.
I bowed my head in my WSM’s direction. “Sorry.”
“Sorry, what?” she repeated.
“Sorry I spilled the milk,” I said.
She pounded her fist against the table, making the silverware jump. “No, you stupid, ignorant girl. You’re to say, ‘Sorry, m’lady.’ ”
“Oh. Sorry, m’lady.”
She pointed to the door, her eyes sharp and glinting.
“Back to the kitchen with you and make haste serving us. I’ve plenty of chores for you today.” This, by the way, was not an exaggeration. Along with a couple of scullery maids and a kitchen boy, I washed dishes, swept floors, laundered clothes, set them out to dry, helped prepare lunch, washed more dishes, ironed clothes, and churned butter. I also shoveled ashes out of the fireplaces and did my best to clean the chimney.
That was my job alone, and by the time I was done with 80/431
it, my hands, arms, face, and hair were smeared with greasy soot. The stepsisters breezed into the manor while I did that job to watch me and comment on my appearance.
“I rather like her hair black,” the tall one said. “It matches her complexion quite well.” The plump one gave me a simpering smile. “Fine ladies
always
powder
their
faces.
Ella
uses
cinders—that’s why she’s our cinder -ella.” I mostly ignored them whenever they were around.
During the day, they did nothing as far as I could tell, except steal some candles from the cupboard, light them, and then take them out behind the barn, where they played guess-whose-straw-will-burn-quickest. I’m serious. Then they moved on to twigs, pinecones, and beetles. They spent most of the afternoon igniting things. This apparently is what
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