A Reluctant Cinderella

Chapter I: A Tomato in a Dress

From the earliest age, I knew I loved my mother more than the world. I remember looking up to her, in awe of her beauty, her kindness, and her mischief. There was no one lovelier than her in the world to me, and I felt her loss keenly for years after.

I was born to a pair of loving parents. My father, a member of the Kingdom's old nobility, had wed my mother against his family's wishes. He was a tall man, with grey streaks in his dark hair and bright green eyes that reminded me of the mouser cat that the head chef was so fond of, piercing and cunning. His family had lived in the kingdom for centuries, with great Knights and soldiers earning the family glory. In recent generations they had begun to fade, and my father's marriage to my mother had helped that decline further.

My mother was a member of what was called new nobility. Her family had come from outside the borders of the kingdom. I was once told that her family had lived on the border, when the constant wars had caused them to choose a kingdom to flee to, and pledge loyalty to the King in exchange for sanctuary. Their coffers weren't nearly as deep as my father's, but it wasn't like he married a pauper. If you asked my grandparents however, they acted like he had gone out and wed a beggar, my maid would giggle to me sometimes.

The servants loved my mother, and it wasn't hard to see why. Her hair was a rich mahogany, always fighting to escape the pins her maid put in, and her skin was like copper, nothing like the fair skin of the court ladies. Her lips were often chapped from her nervous habit of biting the lower one, but always had a smile, the laugh lines engraved deep in her skin. I still remember how beautiful her eyes were, the deep brown pools gleaming in the sunlight with flecks of gold as she smiled down at me. She was a whole head shorter than my father, but no one could ever overlook her. The moment she walked into a room, she was the center of all attention, like the sun in the sky.

At least, that's how it felt to me.

I was told they met in court. It was the christening of the crown prince, a celebration that the entire kingdom was participating in near and far. My father was wearing a doublet in a new style and kept complaining about the collar. His hair refused to sit down, and he was rather frustrated by the streaks of gray that had already begun to appear in his short dark hair. I could still recall my father's exasperated tone as he told the story. He was such a perfectionist that the little details bothered him.

My mother would exasperatedly tell him he looked positively charming, then remark that her hair, so much thicker than the other lady's at court, was refusing to stay in it's twisted up-do, or that the bodice of her gown was far too tight, causing her to discretely try to loosen the strings when her own mother wasn't looking. According to my mother, she was in the middle of reaching behind herself discretely to try to loosen the strings with hair in her face when she met my father's eyes across the ballroom.

According to my father, her hair was perfect. In fact, everything was perfect about her. It was love at first sight. The two danced that night, and the next two nights of the subsequent celebrations, together. They couldn't be parted from one another. At first they tried to impress one another, stiff and awkward as they stumbled through what was considered proper talk. But by the end of the first night, my mother was sitting perched on a garden wall, strings loosened and her hair down, while she chatted avidly with my father, who had taken off his doublet and draped it carelessly over the fountain ledge, about trade routes. By the second night, they were debating energetically about whether or not fairies were real, and if magic existed for those other than the sorcerer's that served the King. And by the third, final night, they were dancing together, lost in each other's eyes, unresponsive to the world around them.

The crown prince's christening was in the winter. By the spring, they were wed, despite my grandparent's protests. My father's family felt that his marriage should have been to another high-ranking, old nobility house, to cement desperately needed alliances. My mother's family felt that my father's family was far too stuck up and full of themselves.

My grandparents on both side never got along with each other while they were alive, but when I was born the following spring, they made a truce with each other for my sake. At least in my presence, my extended family tolerated each other.

According to my mother, I was the loveliest baby she had ever seen. According to my father, I was so tiny that he was afraid I would break if he held me. The servants said I was a mild-mannered baby, hardly as fussy as others, though my cries could be quite shrill when I was colicky. My father had a painter capture the three of us, with my mother holding me in a christening gown, her in a lovely emerald gown, and my father looking resplendent in a dark suit. I thought that the painter had done a fine job, but he must secretly hate children, for I looked like a tomato in a gown. My mother would always laugh when I said that, and claim that I was far cuter than any tomato ever.

I was an awkward child that seemed to grow unevenly, with legs too long, arms too chubby, and never the right size to fit into a dress. I had my father's dark hair, but as thick as my mother's and impossible to tame. I had my mother's brown eyes, but where hers were beautifully copper in the sunlight, mine seemed to me like unending puddles of mud set in a face that was blotchy and covered in too many freckles. I had my mother's darker skin, but somehow, I seemed to catch every sunburn or bruise possible. I felt like I would never be as beautiful as my mother.

Father often worked away from home, serving the kingdom as a Knight, or on errands for the King to help build up his family's reputation again. This left mother and I home alone often. She did her best to raise me to be a lady, but more often than not, she would grow bored and abandon the teachings in order to pursue something more 'fun'. As irresponsible as this was, I looked back on those memories fondly. My lessons of early embroidery, learning to read and write, and learning to curtsy were shared with wonderful moments of re-enacting fantastical stories about wizards and dragons with my mother and the servants, visiting the royal gardens and zoos to fawn over the massive cats and magnificent horses, and watching the stars through a telescope in the tower of our manor. While I was learning to write my name and identify our family seals, I was also learning the constellations and how to trap a griffin.

Eventually, however, everything good must come to an end. And the end of my perfect childhood was marked by the accident that would cripple my father.