Happily Ever After, Ltd. - 10. Cinderella

Bjorn urged the horses along at a hard gallop, and the carriage wheels bounced up and down against the uneven cobblestone streets. In the carriage, Ryan was thrown from side to side, his head knocking against the low ceiling. Outside the small window, the square shapes of dark houses flashed by at an alarming speed. They arrived at the house within minutes but when Bjorn tugged the horses’ reigns, bringing them to a sudden halt, the carriage had built up too much momentum to stop. It veered away from the horses and rolled into a fence. The wooden poles snapped apart, and the carriage kept rolling forward, down into a field. It started slowing, but began tilting sideways. Eventually, the entire carriage tipped over, and Ryan fell hard against the side.

“Ryan! Are you alright?” Bjorn’s voice came from outside. “I’ve never taken a carriage at that speed before.”

“You’re insane!” Ryan shouted. “You’re trying to kill me. I thought we had a deal!”

“We do! I swear it was an accident.” Bjorn climbed on top of the carriage. He wrenched the other door open and gave Ryan his arm. “Here, let me get you out.”

He pulled Ryan out of the carriage and down onto the ground. Ryan looked around. He was standing in a field of enormous pumpkins. They were such a bright orange, they almost glowed in the dark. The horses were sniffing at them.

“I really am sorry,” Bjorn said, and he did look it.

“I could’ve been seriously injured,” Ryan said.

“I promise it was an accident. You’ll see – I’ll get it back up and running right away. And if you want to get back to the castle before midnight, you’d better go in and get her right now.”

Ryan didn’t have time to decide if he believed what Bjorn was saying. On one hand, he was a self-identified terrorist who had more or less murdered Prince Charming. But on the other hand, he had seemed genuinely happy when Ryan had told him he didn’t like girls – almost ecstatic, in fact, like he’d won the lottery – and then he’d arranged a horse-and-carriage within minutes. He said a Prince Charming that not only wouldn’t, but couldn’t, fall in love with Cinderella was exactly the type of story he wanted to tell.

In the end, Ryan knew he had no choice. Even if Bjorn had wrecked the carriage on purpose, he was still Ryan’s only hope of getting back to the castle before midnight.

Ryan turned away from the carriage and went up to the house. It was a large stone building, with rows of dark windows. The only sign of life was a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney. He walked up the overgrown path to the front door and realised that, for the first time since he’d arrived here, he was doing something on his own. Even in his short time at the castle, he’d gotten used to being moved around like a piece on a chess board. He’d been dressed, groomed, steered to the ballroom, and forced onto the dance floor. But now nobody was there to give him instructions. He was on his own.

Ryan knocked on the front door and waited. There was no answer.

He knocked again and, when there was still no answer, he turned the large handle. The door swung open with a creak.

Ryan stepped into a dimly-lit hall. In the centre of the room, there was a single lamp, which cast long shadows over portraits of the Stepmother with her dead husbands. The only sound was a grandfather clock ticking. It was almost fifteen minutes to midnight.

“Hello?” Ryan called out. Still no response.

There were corridors going in different directions and a flight of stairs leading up to the second storey. Ryan ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top, he found three large bedrooms, each with unmade four-poster beds, clothes and shoes covering the floor, and dressing tables cluttered in cosmetics. They looked very similar to the bedrooms of the girls Ryan had been friends with in high school, and had the same chemically-sweet smell, but there was no sign of Cinderella.

Ryan ran back downstairs and started trying the corridors. The rooms downstairs were all the same – long tables, dusty portraits, cabinets with crystal glasses – but no Cinderella, until he reached a large room at the back of the house.

The room had no tables or chairs, just a fireplace where embers were still burning. And then Ryan saw her. She was standing at the window with her back to him, and the first thing he noticed was her pink glittery dress.

“Hey, Cinderella?”

She turned around. She was a strange-looking girl. Her chin, mouth and nose were miniscule, almost mouse-like, and her arms were spaghetti-thin, but her blue eyes were enormous. She also had the biggest, blondest hair Ryan had ever seen, with curls exploding high above her head and falling down to her waist.

“Hi,” Ryan said. “I’m the prince.”

“Oh,” was her first word to him.

“Why are you just standing there?” Ryan said. “It’s nearly midnight. Wasn’t your Fairy Godmother meant to send you on your way?”

Cinderella’s shoulders fell. “I don’t know. She was here. She gave me this dress and the shoes. Then she just, I don’t know, vanished.” Her voice was high-pitched and babyish.

“What do you mean, vanished?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. She said she was going to do my hair and turn one of those pumpkins into a carriage. But she didn’t. She vanished.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Ryan said, “I’m here now.”

“But it’s not the same,” said Cinderella.

“Well it’s better than nothing,” Ryan said, holding out his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

“No,” she said.

“No? What do you mean? I’ve got a carriage outside.”

“But my hair. The Fairy Godmother was going to use her magic on it and it’d go flat and smooth, like honey being poured from a jar.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen tonight. You look fine as you are.”

Ryan tugged at her arm, but her feet seemed to be fixed to the floor.

“I’ve told you,” she said. “I can’t go to the Ball unless my hair is flat and smooth like honey being poured from a jar.”

“That’s ridiculous. Nobody cares what your hair looks like.”

“Like honey being poured from a jar,” she repeated.

Ryan was starting to lose his temper. He took a deep breath. “Alright, fine. Go get a hairbrush, make your hair smooth – but hurry.”

She looked at Ryan with her ever-widening eyes. “I don’t know where my hairbrush is.”

“Well, where was the last place you had it?”

Cinderella didn’t know. “But I think my stepmother has a hairbrush.”

And so Ryan ran back down the corridor and up to the bedrooms. The Stepmother’s dressing table was cluttered with small bottles of perfume, broaches shaped like scorpions, and long ropes of pearls. Ryan eventually found a hairbrush in one of the drawers, and ran it back down to Cinderella, who still hadn’t moved.

“Here,” he said, passing her the brush.

Cinderella looked at it like she’d never seen a hairbrush before. “What am I meant to do with that?” she asked.

“Brush your hair.”

“I’m not supposed to do it myself. It’ll never look as smooth as honey if I try to do it myself. Somebody else has to do it for me.”

Ryan clenched his teeth. “Fine. Turn around.” He started dragging the brush through her hair.

“Ow!” she screamed. “That hurts.”

“Stand still!”

“But you’re hurting me.”

“Tough biscuits!”

*

“Prince Charming does not brush Cinderella’s hair,” Dorothy said. “They’re supposed to be man-and-wife, not mother-and-daughter! Why couldn’t she go with him when he asked her?”

“Cinderella is unable to leave the house until her hair is perfectly straight,” Liam said. “She needs to undergo her complete physical transformation – dress, shoes, the works – before the story can enter the next phase.”

“There really was no other option,” Maria said. “The story would’ve totally stalled by now if Ryan hadn’t taken control. At least this way, we’re still on track for a happy ending.”

“I don’t know if they are on track for a happy ending,” Liam said. “There’s no attraction, no romance. That’s supposed to happen when they first see each other.”

“Well, of course there’s no romance!” Dorothy said. “He’s brushing her hair.”

“And they’re not supposed to fall in love until they get to the Ball,” Maria said. “It’ll happen when they’re dancing.”

Dorothy checked her watch. It was already a quarter to midnight. “They’d better hurry,” she said.

Burnham came back into the control room. “Mr Renton’s back in your office, still unconscious,” he told Dorothy. “I’ll get the welding gear from maintenance and seal the vent.”

“Good,” Dorothy said.

“So what was the damage?”

“The Fairy Godmother was deleted,” Dorothy said.

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit ... but to his credit, the kid stepped up. As we speak, he’s brushing her hair himself.”

Burnham laughed. “Wow. That’s commitment. And actually ...”

“What?” Dorothy asked.

“It’s kind of sweet.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Dorothy. “Let’s hope the readers see it that way too. All I can see is a lot of paperwork at the end of this. They’ll probably want to audit the entire division. I don’t know if I have the energy to go through that again.”

“Then why don’t you take a bit of time off? When this is over. I’ve been telling you to do it for years.”

“Don’t start on that again,” Dorothy said.

“I didn’t mean it like that this time. I just mean the stress. I don’t know how you deal with it every single day. I couldn’t.” He hesitated. “Remember when we were both on Hansel? We talked about quitting our jobs and opening a bookshop in a small town somewhere.”

“We were only pretending.”

“I know. But it was nice to think about.”

“Yes, well. I’d better get back to it.”

“Sure. I’ll see to Mr Renton.”

“Thank you.”

As much as Dorothy had hated how bitter things between them had become, it was somehow worse when he tried to be nice.

*

Through the carriage window, Ryan had his first proper look at the outside of the castle as they returned. It looked like an enormous white wedding cake, layer upon layer, with clusters of towers and turrets at the top. Every window was so brightly lit that the castle itself seemed phosphorescent. They crossed the drawbridge and, this time, Bjorn brought the carriage to a much smoother stop, out the front of the castle steps.

“You’ve got less than ten minutes!” Bjorn called out.

“Alright, Cindy,” Ryan said, helping her out of the carriage, “we’re going to have to run.”

Cinderella nodded, but stumbled at the very first stair.

“What’s the matter now?” Ryan asked.

“My feet,” she said, motioning down at the glass shoes, which were squeaking with each step. “Please – we have to go slower up the staircase!”

“We can’t! It’s nearly midnight!”

Ryan tried to help her but she could only move slowly on the staircase. It took them nearly a minute to get to the top of the stairs but, once they were back on a flat surface, Cinderella was able to pick up a faster pace.

Together, they ran into the hall, red-faced and breathless. For a few seconds, everything was exactly as Ryan had left it, with the orchestra still playing and people standing around not talking. But then the music came to a halt, and all eyes turned to them. There was a long moment of silence.

“Perhaps we should dance,” Cinderella whispered, after a few uncomfortable seconds had passed.

Ryan came to life at once. “Right! Yes. Of course.”

He and Cinderella began to walk into the centre of the hall. The clicking of their footsteps seemed a lot louder than it should’ve been. The crowd around them parted symmetrically, everyone forming a large circle around the edges, leaving the entire floor free for them to dance on.

From the far side of the hall, there was a loud whisper.

“Mother!” It was Katrine, on her tiptoes, trying to look. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that was Cinderella!”

“Don’t be absurd, Katrine,” the Stepmother said. “Cinderella has hair like a rat’s nest. That woman has hair like honey being tipped from a jar.”

“Besides,” Lucille sniffed. “That woman is clearly an out-of-towner. Look at those shoes. I mean, shoes made from glass? She must be Parisian.”

The orchestra struck up again. It was a slow tune, which was lucky. A few years ago, Ryan had gone to a ballroom dancing lesson with his mother, where the only dance they had been able to master was a slow waltz. Doug had never stopped mocking Ryan for going to a dancing lesson with his mother, but now it was finally going to come in handy.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Ryan asked.

Cinderella nodded. “I practice with a mop.”

“Alright, great. The waltz, that’s one-two-three, one-two-three, right?”

“I don’t know. The mop always leads.”

“So I think I’m meant to put one hand here,” on her bottle-thin waist, “and you put the same hand on my shoulder?” She complied. “And then we hold our other hands together like this I think.”

Her hand seemed to crumple up in Ryan’s, as if it were a wad of toilet paper.

He took a deep breath. “Ready, set, waltz.”

He put one foot forward and stepped on Cinderella’s shoe. She squealed.

“Sorry, sorry! It’s sideways first, isn’t it! Let’s try again, okay?”

Ryan attempted to shuffle sideways, but Cinderella moved in the opposite direction. She was looking down at Ryan’s feet, trying to follow what they were doing, but he was out of step with the music. Cinderella’s glass shoes kept squeaking loudly, a sound as jarring as fingernails down a chalkboard.

After a minute, they started getting too close to the spectators. Ryan tried to steer them in a different direction but Cinderella didn’t follow, and they ended up breaking apart.

“I’m so sorry,” Ryan said. “I’ve never been a great dancer. Even my own mother says I’ve got two left feet. Would you be more comfortable just free-styling?”

Cinderella frowned.

“You know free-styling? Like this.”

Ryan took a step back from her and began rolling his shoulders and clicking his fingers. Doug had always mocked him for being the world’s worst dancer. Doug always said Ryan had “Dad moves”. The last time Ryan had been to a nightclub with Doug, he said Ryan’s dancing made him looked like he was either the soberest or the drunkest person in the room. And now here he was, performing his cringe-worthy dance moves in front of hundreds.

Cinderella was looking at Ryan like he’d turned into a frog.

Ryan lowered his arms. “Not a big freestyler? That’s alright. Me neither, really. Just by myself at home in front of the mirror pretending I’m a Backstreet Boy. We can try waltzing again, if you like.”

They resumed their incompetent waltz.

As they turned round and round, he saw the ladies along the sides of hall gaping. Up on their thrones, the King looked so furious that Ryan half-expected steam to come out of his ears and the Queen had her face in her hands. In the whole room, only one person was smiling, and that person was Bjorn, watching the awkward scene from the entrance.

Ryan gave up trying to get the steps right and instead pushed Cinderella around the floor like she was a broom. Towards the end of ten minutes, it couldn’t even be called dancing. They were just rotating.

Eventually, the clock began to strike midnight, the first chime resonating throughout the hall. Ryan immediately let go of Cinderella, who stared at him, confused.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“You have to go!” Ryan said.

“What? Why? I only just got here!” She looked thoroughly miserable.

“Because, um, that’s your thing. You’re Cinderella, you leave at midnight.”

“But why?”

“Because, you know ...” All Ryan could remember from the story was that something turned into a pumpkin. “If you don’t leave at midnight, the ... the wicked witch will turn you into a, um, a pumpkin.”

“What?” She looked genuinely horrified.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be fine! So long as you leave now. Run!”

“But it’s two miles back to the Manor!” she cried. “That’ll take me hours!”

“No, it won’t! You always run away at midnight! It’s like I told you. Um, the witch, when you were a baby ... Yes!” Ryan suddenly remembered. “You know how your mother had that craving for turnips? The witch said you had to always leave parties at midnight or – or else—oh, wait.”

Ryan realised too late that he was talking about the wrong fairytale, but luckily Cinderella was buying it.

“Or else what?” she whispered fearfully.

“Um, or else ...” He went with the next fairytale that popped into his head. “FE FI FO FUM, she’ll have the blood of an English man!”

“Oh no! That’s awful!”

“It is! So run! RUN!”

Cinderella turned and began to limp out of the hall as fast as she could. Ryan thought for a horrifying moment that Bjorn might do something to her as she passed – Ryan wouldn’t have put it past Bjorn to stick a knife in her – but the terrorist barely gave her a second glance. His eyes were, like everyone else’s, fixed on Ryan.

There was a loud scrape from the front of the hall. The King had gotten up, pushed his throne back, and descended the staircase onto the dance floor. The Queen ran along after him.

“And what,” the King shouted, as he approached, “was the meaning of that display? What kind of man doesn’t know how to waltz?”

“Yes dear,” the Queen said. “After all, you had all those dancing lessons with Signor Antonio last spring.”

“Complete waste of time!” the King said.

“But who was she?” the Queen asked. “That beautiful lady with whom you danced?”

“If you can call that pathetic display dancing,” said the King, “which I do not. And now it’s after midnight and you still haven’t chosen anyone.”

“Yes, I have,” Ryan said. “I’ve chosen her.”

“Her? Who is her?”

“The one I was dancing with.”

“But who is she?”

“What’s her name?”

“What’s her breed?”

“She doesn’t have a breed, she’s not a horse. As for her name, it’s Cinder—SHIT. The shoe!”

“The shoe? What are you talking about?”

“I forgot to get the bloody shoe!” Ryan said.

He ran back outside as fast as he could. He looked down across the drawbridge and the road going down to the village. It was deserted. Cinderella was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the shoe. Ryan couldn’t believe it. He had managed to get her to come to the Ball and then leave at the stroke of midnight – and yet he’d forgotten the one thing he needed to take from her.

But then there was a flash of light from the bottom of the staircase. Ryan saw the shoe on the lowest step. It had a dull glow to it, like a digital clock in a dark motel room. He ran down the steps, and picked it up. It was so small, the size of a child’s, but it was still warm, and a little bit sweaty. The glass was smeared with something around the toe, and there was a crack down the heel. It was hard to believe that this rather disgusting object was so important. But it didn’t matter how disgusting it was. All that mattered was that, for the time being, the story was on track.