Cinderella: A Fractured Fairytale

Sixty-One

TIME FOR

Jovette's POV

Chaper 61

***

Moving candlesticks.

Brooms that did the sweeping all on their own.

Self-cleaning pots.

This castle was bewitched.

I looked across the long table at Ethan, who seemed slightly uncomfortable. He was probably used to eating alone.

"Soooo..." I said, trying to fill the empty space of silence between us. "How's the evil plotting going? Have you figured out world domination yet?"

He scowled and pushed his plate away, standing up as if to leave.

"Wait!" I called. "What are you doing?"

"Not hungry," he muttered, turning to leave.

I shot him a severe look. "If you don't eat, then I won't either. I'll starve myself, and you'll have a weak hostage on your hands who's so sick she can barely sit up."

He stopped.

Encouraged, I continued. "And then I'll probably die of starvation, and since I'm your hostage and therefore your responsibility, you'll have to pay for the funeral. And you'll have to speak at the funeral, too, and you won't know what to say because you-"

"You are the most stubborn, most annoying person I have ever met," Ethan moaned, sitting back down.

I smiled as if flattered. "Why, thank you! That's the kindest compliment I've received since last April from the baker's boy down the street. Would you like to know what he said?"

"No," he mumbled.

I continued anyway. "He called me a toad."

Ethan stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.

"A big, ugly toad," I continued, "with warts. Which was not true at all, but apparently my little dusting of freckles makes me unseemly."

Ethan looked startled. "I think they're-" He cut himself off suddenly. "Ugly," he finished. "Very, very ugly."

I tilted my head. What had he been about to say instead?

Ethan stood, having eaten his fill. "Now, if you don't mind, I have to go and do some more..." his lips crept into the barest whisper of a smile, "evil plotting."

Another joke! I tried not to squeak, but somehow a little eep of girlish adoration escaped me.

He stopped and stared at me.

Panicking, I grabbed my glass of water. "Hiccups!" Then I downed the contents in one gulp.

Immediately, I gagged and spewed the drink out all over the table, choking and spitting.

That was not water.

Ethan was wheezing and gasping on the floor in a mix between laughter and pain, and I collapsed forward into my mashed potatoes, giggling as mirth drained my muscles of their strength.

Now my face was coated in flaky mashed potato. That only made me laugh harder.

As soon as I could breathe again, I sat up and tried to get the mashed potato off my face. "Mgh," I mumbled, gagging one last time. "What was that?"

Ethan tried to answer, but he was still on the floor, his hand pressed to his chest but his face full of mirth. He was unable to speak; he was laughing so hard.

The creepy faceless pewter candlestick answered instead in its ridiculous French accent. "That was a Russian beverage similar to mead. It is one of the most expensive refreshments, mostly due to the fact that the ingredients need to ferment for so long."

I gagged again. "Is there any water around here I can drink instead?"

"Yes," Ethan gasped out, finally getting control of his mirth. He got to his knees. "I hate it, too. I only put it there because I was wondering how you'd react to tasting it, but I didn't expect-" His body spasmed for a moment, and a flash of pain crossed his face.

"You put that there on purpose?" I sputtered.

He nodded and looked up at me. Immediately, he began to laugh again. "You have - mashed potatoes--" He held his side, unable to breathe. I wasn't sure if it was because he was laughing so hard or because he was in so much pain.

I hoped it was the former.

"Is this better?" I grabbed a napkin and tried to get the potato off my face.

Ethan glanced up, then shook his head. He stood carefully, then approached me, holding out his hand. "Let me."

My heart thumped, and I slowly handed him the napkin. He knelt in front of me so he was closer to my level, then reached out and gently dabbed at my face. I was surprised by the gentleness with which he wiped away the remainder of mashed potato from my cheek.

When he finished, his hand hovered there for a moment. The back of his hand brushed my cheek lightly, and he didn't jerk away. Had he done that on purpose?

HAD HE DONE THAT ON PURPOSE?

No. I had to be imagining things.

Eric stood up, his expression tensing and tightening as his smile faded. He bit his lip and turned away, hands clenching into fists so tightly that they turned white. He flinched, and my own smile disappeared.

He was in pain.

Would the pain ever stop?