Cinderella - A Retelling with Strength and Courage

Chapter Two

Ella curled up on her thin mat in the kitchen's darkest corner, tension roiling her. Her two stepsisters had not dared to say a word about the raspberry-stain color of the tablecloth, but Ella had seen the sharp fury in their eyes. She knew that she would be made to pay for dodging their prank.

Whatever they had planned, she would endure it. For she had promised her mother. She would care for the house – and for her father.

At last it was time. The house settled into its deep sleep. Even snores came from the large, opulent bedrooms above her. The third stair down, the one she carefully tended so it would squeak at the slightest touch, lay silent.

It was safe for her to go.

She silently climbed to her feet and pulled on her boots. She wrapped her threadbare blanket around her shoulders. She now had, on her person, every item she owned from within these four walls.

She took one last glance around and slipped out the kitchen door.

Her feet knew the way by heart, even on a frigid, cloud-roiled night such as this. The narrow footpath into the dense woods. The fallen log crossing the tumbling stream. The thin trail along the cliff's edge. And, at long last, the small clearing beneath the spreading oak tree.

The small rock beneath which marked her mother's grave.

When she was younger she had been saddened that her mother had not been buried in the elegant church graveyard. The one nestled within the shadows of the large, white steeple on the town common, a full mile beneath their home. But time had made her aware of many things. Her father's instant need to cleanse the home – her mother's family home – of anything which reminded him of her. The delight he had taken in so many women courting him, demonstrating to him in so many ways why they should be the new mistress of the manor.

Ella had never been quite sure what had won Monica's case for her. After all, she had brought with her two young daughters of her own. And her father had so enjoyed entertaining offer after offer. But it had only been weeks after Monica's arrival in town that her father had become besotted with her. Then the engagement, the marriage, and Monica had moved in. The two daughters had taken the finest bedrooms.

It had seemed the blink of an eye before Ella's bed had become the dusty corner in the kitchen.

And through it all her father had said nothing ... nothing ...

Ella moved through the snow to her mother's grave and quietly dropped to one knee at its side. She gently laid a hand on the stone. Warmth entered her heart as she thought of her mother's gentle voice. Of the enduring love her mother held for her. Her mother had done her very best to cherish each day. It had been her frail body which had not been able to hold out.

Ella's voice came out of her, soft and rough. "I miss you, Momma."

Ella could remember clearly the prayer the two would share every night. Ella's mother would come into her room to tuck her in. Together they would bow their heads. Ella would promise her mother – and God – to do her best to be a good girl. To be honest and true. To honor her father and always protect him.

Ella looked down. It was the last which had kept her at home, when every other instinct pleaded with her to run. The thought that her last words to her mother had been a vow to be there for Bruno. For while he had ignored her these past fifteen years – while he had allowed her to be cast aside and ignored – he was still her father. He was still her last and only blood relative on this Earth.

She closed her eyes, striving for strength.

She stood. A twig shimmered in the moonlight, lying fresh on the snow. On a whim she took up the stick and began sketching on the white, frosty surface. She drew the curve of the swans' necks, just as they had been in her mother's painting. The soft lift of the feathers. The elegant shape of the bills. Slowly her tensions eased. For a long moment she was lost in the creation. In the memories of all she and her mother had shared.