A Reluctant Cinderella

Chapter II: The Accident

I remember the day clearly. It had been a sunny day, and my mother and I had been pouring over a history text book. We had every intention of actually following the lesson set up by my tutor, but my mother had pulled out a tomb of fairy tales and we were having far much more fun trying to compare historical events to the stories and see if any of them matched up. Just as we were getting into a spirited debate about a newer tale about a princess who fell into a sleep for one hundred years after being pricked by a spindle's needle, a servant burst into the room.

"Madam!" The servant, a young one who had joined us only a year prior and would sometimes play games with me, seemed out of breath, and his face was ashen. I remember that being rather strange, since his face was already pale most days anyways.

"Yes, Adam?" My mother knew every servant by their name. She looked up, then did a double take at his state, straightening up. "Adam, come here child, sit down. What's wrong?"

But Adam shook his head. "You need to come. It's Master Hugo." It felt strange to hear my father's name. I never called him Hugo. He was always 'father' to me.

My mother was on her feet in a flash, her crimson skirts bundled in her hands, as she bolted for the door, running in a most unlady-like fashion for the main hall. I was on my feet, but remembered feeling confused. Adam started to follow my mother, but seemed to remember me. He scooped me up, and carried me as he ran after her. I was beginning to feel scared. What was going on? Everyone we passed was whispering, crying, or looking terrified.

By the time we reached the main hall, my mother had become a statue. Her eyes were fixed on the massive doors, her hands gripping her skirts so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her hair was in disarray, but she didn't even bother moving the strands out of her face. It was like her heart had left her, left her to find my father, wherever he was.

It felt like an eternity, but I learned later it was only about ten minutes. A messenger had gone on ahead, which was how the household had become alerted so early. When the doors finally opened, my father wasn't walking through them at the head of his soldiers like he normally would. He was being carried on a litter between them, with a royal thaumaturge at his side. They immediately began to move to the eastern wing of the manor. My mother caught the sleeve of one of his soldiers, an older man who had served under my father since he was a freshly-Knighted youth. I couldn't hear them from where Adam stood, still holding me, the maids clustered around us. But I remember my mother letting out a choked gasp before collapsing to the ground. Adam's grip on me had tightened, I remembered, but he didn't let go of me, even as the other servants rushed forward to her. Another litter was called to carry my mother, who had fainted from the news. Adam carried me away at that point, but I still remember seeing my mother being carried after my father.

It would be days before I learned anything that had happened. My father and his men had been ambushed while escorting a royal messenger. While the messenger had remained safe and had successfully completed his mission, my father had taken a foul blow that would have killed the messenger. My father in his armor had lived, but the wound was deep enough to take away his ability to walk like a normal man. For the rest of his life, he would have to use a cane. The thaumaturge thought that once he got old enough, or on days cold enough, he would have to be in a push chair.

We never found out if the thaumaturge was right, but that would be years later.

My mother, who had never been strong in constitution, fell gravely ill. Both of my parents took a long time to recover, and nothing was ever the same again. The stress had taken it's toll on my mother's health, and a sickness she had since youth had flared up so greatly that she was bedridden for a long time. My father struggled with the pain of his recovery, and sometimes, I could see a deep dark anger inside of him.

I was left to be raised by the servants for a time. I did whatever I could to help my parents, but I was often chided for 'disturbing Madam Isla's rest', or for getting in my father's way.

"No, Anna, Master Hugo is resting, he can't see you."

"Little lady, Madam Isla is resting. You need to return to your lessons."

It would be weeks before I saw my parents for more than brief, sparing moments, and even my young self could see that something was different. My mother's plump cheeks were hollowed, and her smiles seemed strained. There were shadows in my father's bright green eyes that weren't there before.

I wound up being sent to live with my father's parents, who for once held their tongues about my mother, and instead showered me with love. I remember being scared. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I didn't know what. My grandmother brought her personal seamstress to fit me for a new dress. I didn't understand why. I had many dresses, all of which could be let out as I grew. But the gown that grandmother's seamstress was pinning to me was made of black silk. I hated black. I thought it was a sad, boring color.

Eventually, my grandparents returned me to the manor, but this time, they stayed. My other grandparents were already there. I was still a young child, seven summers old, and not fully understanding what was happening. Both pairs of my grandparents were acting cordial to each other, and if they fought, it was in careful whispers where the atmosphere of the manor couldn't be affected. The manor felt like a different world entirely. The life, the cheer, that I had known all my life in it's halls had vanished, replaced by a somber air that felt heavy even to my young self.

I ran to my parent's room at the first chance I had. I had been away for quite some time, surely they would want to see how I had grown! I had so many stories to tell them about my time at grandfather's castle. I found my father sitting in a chair, holding a cane, talking quietly with my mother, who was propped up on several pillows in their massive, four-poster bed. I bounced onto the bed, ignoring the doctor's chiding, and threw my arm around my mother. She felt smaller to me, but I thought foolishly that I had just grown that much bigger.

My mother had lost a great deal of weight. At the time, I had no idea that my mother had been fighting a malady all of her life. She and my father hid it so well from me that I had never stopped to wonder why we always stayed in the manor, or always had a servant close by when we went outside. I never stopped to wonder why she never ran up the stairs, or why she sometimes didn't eat as much as she should. My birth had weakened her body considerably, and because of that, I was their only child. The doctors had warned her she might die if she tried to have another child.

But it was the news of my father's injuries that had dealt the final blow. Her body had fallen into such a state of shock that she couldn't recover. In those final days, she and my father tried to hide how serious it was for me. We had picnics on her bed, where the doctors tried to convince her to try various tonics and elixirs that my father spent every gold coin he could on. But nothing could cure her. It was like something was actively fighting every cure we tried to find for her. I would make up stories for her, stories about a handsome Knight and a beautiful princess, about the adventures they went on, the beasts they saw, and the evil they vanquished. My stories had many villains. Evil chimeras who wanted to steal their food, dragons who were in fact secretly lonely, a wicked lady who was trying to curse them but could be stopped with the magical potions the doctors brought the lovely princess. My imagination ran wild. Oddly, however, I remember many of my stories involved a wicked lady.

Eventually, I said goodnight to her for the last time. I remembered how tired she looked. Usually the maids ushered me off. But that night, my mom insisted that I stay with her a bit longer. My father didn't argue either. I think she knew that her time was coming to an end, and my father realized it as well. For a few more hours, we were a family. My mother held me, and my father, ignoring the pain of his leg, held both of us, in their massive four poster bed. I fell asleep while telling my mother all the things I wanted to do when she was better. Trips to the park, to the royal painting galleries at the capital, to a massive library full of wonders. Anything I could think of, all the places I wanted to take her when she was better. I remember her trembling, cool hand pushing back my hair.

I heard voices as I was lifted from the bed. One voice was Adam's, he was the one carrying me from the room. I briefly opened my eyes, and saw my parents together for one final time, with my father cradling my mother close. I found it strange that I saw tears on their cheeks, and the strangely soft smile on my mother's lips as her lips moved, almost as if they struggled, to say, "I love you."

I woke up in my bed. Adam had stayed by my side, dozing in the armchair in my room. I found it odd that he had stayed with me. As I grew older, I realized he had stayed with me to prevent me from running back to my parent's room, where my mother's body had finally expired and was being removed by the thaumaturge and doctors.

I was told my mother was gone. I didn't understand how that could be possible. She had been there, holding me just a few hours prior. How could she be gone? I broke free of the servants and ran to my parent's room. There, I found my father, sitting alone, holding his face in his hands, sitting in a chair by the fire. One of the servants must have stoked it up to keep him warm. He lifted his head, and I saw the tear streaks on his face, disappearing into his beard.

At that moment, I knew it was true. My mother was gone, and she was never coming back.