Dancing on Glass

The Letters

Some days after, Cinderella was cleaning her stepmother's office, hurling her full weight and strength into the heavy desk to heave it back into place after moving it to tidy under the thick rug.

Her family had been out since midmorning so it was the best time to get on with it before her stepmother could complain about something or Giselle could explode flour across the sofas.

The door opened just as she was smoothing out the rug and Dia, the maid, looked in.

"They'll be back very soon, Miss," she said, bobbing a curtsy to Cinderella and coming forwards to pick up the bin, tipping it into the basket Cinderella had been piling the rubbish into.

"That time already?" Cinderella said, looking to the mantelpiece and the ornate clock on its marble surface. She let out a huff and straightened up. "Right, let's see. Has the Mistress rooms been done?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. I've done the Young Misses' rooms. The parlour, the front room, the entrance hall and stairs. The laundry was washed and hung out."

"And I have checked that it's dry and have now taken it in," Dia put in.

"Good which means I can get to ironing it. I'll have to start dinner soon and write up the list for shopping tomorrow. The new china should be arriving in a few hours. I'll have to see to the animals. Oh, tomorrow Giselle will be visiting Miss Briana Simpson; I beg you make sure she wears the blue dress with the white trim and not that ghastly yellow thing she's so fixated on. If she kicks up a fuss tell her the young Mr. Simpson favours that colour over yellow and she will wear. Let us save her the embarrassment of being seen in a dress that makes her look sallow."

"It might take her attitude down a notch if she faces a little bit of public humiliation," Dia muttered and Cinderella shot her a raised eyebrow. Dia just shrugged.

"Let us leave that humiliation for when she has officially come out to society, then she can do as she wishes," Cinderella said and Dia rolled her eyes.

"I don't know why you protect her, Miss, she's a rotten apple," the maid said.

"And a rotten apple cannot be made whole and healthy again but there is no need to speed up the festering process by leaving it in the burning sun," Cinderella replied.

"As your command, Miss, the blue dress it is," Dia said.

"Good," Cinderella said, picking up the basket.

"Oh! I didn't empty the bin in Madam's room," Dia suddenly gasped.

"That's fine, I'll get it," Cinderella said, just as they heard the ringing of small bells through the house, a signal the servants had started to warn of the family returning. "You greet them at the door, I'll finish up here."

Dia curtsied and hurried out, heading for the main stairs while Cinderella walked to her stepmother's bedroom, opening it and slipping in, going to the wicker bin by the writing desk, setting her basket down and picking up the bin, about the tip the content out when something made her pause.

There was a scrunched up envelope in the bin, a perfectly usual sight. It would have arrived that morning as Cinderella had emptied the bins just before bedtime the night before.

The first thing that caught her eye was the handwriting. The calligraphy was striking. A male hand, the pen lines strong and confident but also elegant.

The second thing that drew her eye was that it was addressed to her.

There on the front it said, plain and simple: