Cinderella: Ninja Warrior (4 page)

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Authors: Maureen McGowan

Tags: #Fairy Tales & Folklore, #Juvenile Fiction, #Adaptations, #Interactive Adventures

BOOK: Cinderella: Ninja Warrior
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“Is that dirt under your fingernails?” Gwendolyn’s upper lip sneered in disgust as Cinderella stood behind her in front of the ornately carved vanity mirror.
Cinderella glanced down to her hands, holding the ends of a complex pattern of interlocked sections of Gwendolyn’s dark hair. It had taken her nearly an hour to get to this point, and if she so much as shifted her hands now, before she fastened the final sections with pins, the entire hairdo would fall apart and she’d have to start over.
“I asked you a question!” Gwendolyn shrieked angrily. Although Gwendolyn was pretty, with her deep brown hair, rose-tinted skin, and flashing green eyes, she could certainly twist her face into expressions that argued with her beauty.
“I’m almost done.” Cinderella tightened her hold on the complicated plaits and twists, readying it for the first pin. She wiggled one hand out to grab one.
Gwendolyn yanked away. “Ow! You pulled my hair.”
Cinderella’s hands dropped to her sides and she drew a deep breath. “Gwen, it was you who pulled away. Now I need to begin again, and if we don’t start quickly, you’ll never get out of the house today.”
“You’re not touching me with those hands.” Gwendolyn’s nose wrinkled. “My hair is filthy now. I need another bath.” She shuddered in an exaggerated manner that befit her status as a drama queen, and Cinderella withheld the impulse to roll her eyes.
“My hands aren’t dirty.” Cinderella looked at her nails. There
was
a tiny line of dirt under the nail of her left index finger. How in the world had Gwendolyn even noticed?
She slipped her hands behind her back. “If you like, I’ll scrub them again, but there’s no time to rewash and dry your hair. Not if you want it woven into a butterfly pattern today.”
Agatha poked her head in from her adjoining bedroom. “Cinderella, what is taking you so long?” she demanded.“Help me with my makeup.”
Even with her shiny red hair up in curlers, Agatha, with her lovely, peachy complexion, was genuinely pretty, yet she insisted that Cinderella line her eyes with kohl and adorn her skin with the finest of creams and powders each morning.
“In a moment.” Cinderella backed toward the door.“I’m just running down to the cellar to scrub my fingernails.”
“What?” Agatha burst into the room, and her hooped pannier frame, without the weight of a dress draped on top, bounced ridiculously with each step. “How could you possibly be so inconsiderate?”
“Inconsiderate?” Who was being inconsiderate? Her stepsisters were wasting her time and a small bubble of irritation rose in her chest. There was no chance that even a speck of dirt had landed on either of her sisters this morning. If her ten minutes with the nail brush before she’d gone to bed last night hadn’t dislodged it, no way had working on her sisters’ hair or skin done it.
Agatha strode forward and the cagelike undergarment bounced again, almost making Cinderella laugh. “How can you dawdle on a day like today?” Agatha stuck out her lower lip in a serious pout. Toddlers had nothing on the younger of her two stepsisters, who typically followed her older sister’s lead.
“What’s special about today?” Cinderella asked.
“Idiot! How can you ask such a thing?” Gwendolyn reached forward and poked Cinderella, her long nail nearly piercing the skin just under Cinderella’s collarbone. “ Today is the most important day of my life.”
“Why?”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and backed up from her stepsister. “You stupid girl. Today is
the day
. I can’t possibly risk not being seen in the village today. What if I’m forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” Cinderella’s curiosity grew in spite of her irritation. All this discussion was dragging out the morning dressing ritual even longer than usual.“Who could possibly forget you?” She felt her scant breakfast rise a little in her throat, but flattery was a tool she pulled out of her box of tricks when the occasion warranted.
“Whoever’s handing out invitations to the ball, you idiot.” Gwendolyn picked through her hair as if she might find evidence of a speck of dirt.
Cinderella furrowed her eyebrows. Last night, while she’d been trying to keep the mud on their shoes from grinding into the white rug, her stepsisters
had
been muttering something about a ball and invitations and the prince, but Cinderella hadn’t paid them much attention.
Agatha sat on the edge of Gwendolyn’s bed and sank into the feather mattress. “Wouldn’t it be dreamy to marry Prince Tiberius?”
“I guess.” Cinderella didn’t see the immediate appeal, yet felt somewhat excited for her stepsisters if they really thought he’d pick one of them.
Excited for herself, too. If one of her stepsisters became a princess, her stepmother would gain all the power she could possibly want and might even give up on trying to get Cinderella to reveal where her real mother’s wand was hidden.
Even if Cinderella knew where the wand was—which she didn’t—she’d never give it to her stepmother. With the wand’s reputed powers, her stepmother could terrorize not only her, but the whole kingdom.
She refocused on her stepsisters. “You expect the prince to propose marriage today?” Cinderella was pretty sure her stepsisters had never even met the young man.
“No, silly.” Agatha leaned back on her elbows, and the hoops rose up around her as if she were lying in a barrel. She kicked her feet, like two huge duck flippers, in front of her.
Gwendolyn spun from where she’d been playing with her hair. “Do you not pay attention at all? He’ll propose at the ball, the day of the magic festival. We told you last night.”
“There’s a magic festival?” Cinderella wouldn’t have forgotten that.
“Don’t interrupt.” Gwendolyn waved a long, slender finger at Cinderella. “The important part of the day is the ball. The prince will choose his bride from among the young ladies in attendance.”
“Cinderella,” Agatha said as she stood, thrust out her breasts, and ran her hands along imaginary fabric. “You have to sew me the best dress ever, because I plan to be that young lady.”
Gwendolyn leaped up. “Well, that’s going to be impossible, because he’s going to choose me.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I hear he has a preference for dark hair.”
“You don’t know that,” Agatha challenged her sister. “Brown hair is so boring. I’ll bet as soon as he sees my rich, red curls, he’ll fall instantly in love.”
Cinderella tapped her foot on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. Every moment spent dealing with these two was a moment she couldn’t spend doing her chores and then training. “So,” she interrupted their bickering, “I’m still not sure why today’s so important.”
“Fool.” Gwendolyn returned her attention to her hair. “We need to be seen in the village to be sure we receive invitations.”
“Also,” Agatha added, “we should buy up all the best fabrics before the other girls get a chance.”
Cinderella’s eyes ached from the effort of not rolling. Her stepsisters had the worst taste in fabrics, which was something else they’d inherited from their mother. They’d need to purchase every bolt in the store to up their chances of finding the best ones.
“Cinderella, you must help me pick fabrics.” Agatha raised her hands to her bust. “I must have the most beautiful gown ever. What do you think would go best with my hair and show off my eyes? A cherry red, perhaps? Lemon yellow? Lime green?”
Gwendolyn stepped in front of Agatha and said, “No, Cinderella, you must reserve the best fabrics for
my
gown.”
“Girls, why are you dawdling?”
Cinderella spun, wondering how long her stepmother had been standing in the doorway. “Agatha and Gwendolyn were just telling me how they’ll need new gowns for the prince’s ball.”
“Of course they will,” replied her stepmother. Her tone and expression made it clear Cinderella had made the most idiotic comment ever, but Cinderella refused to react. She knew an opportunity when she saw one.
She stood very still, clasped her hands behind her back, and lowered her head slightly, feigning deference. “I should get started on the gowns immediately.”
Her stepmother didn’t respond.
“Perhaps it would be most efficient if I were to accompany Agatha and Gwendolyn into the village to help select fabrics.” It was a long shot, but it was worth a chance.
Cinderella hadn’t been into the village since she was nine years old. Back then, she’d enjoyed slightly more freedom. She should’ve taken advantage when she had the chance, but at the time, she’d been far too fearful to flee.
“Oh, yes,” said Agatha,“Cinderella does have good luck picking fabrics. Without her, we usually have to bring home ten or fifteen different bolts of cloth before finding one that’s perfect.”
One that was passable was more like it,
Cinderella thought to herself.
Gwendolyn curled her lips as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Agatha does have a point. Cinderella might be useless at so many things, but she does make beautiful gowns and has an eye for fabrics. If I’m to snag the prince, I need the best dress possible.”
When her stepmother didn’t immediately reject the idea, Cinderella’s hopes inched upward, but she kept her head down and her expression neutral. If her stepmother realized how badly Cinderella wanted to go to the village, she’d never let her go.
“Agatha, Gwendolyn,” Cinderella said,“thank you for the compliment, but you give me too much credit.” She kept her gaze down. “Your fabric selections are always beautiful.”
She thought it would be best not to specifically mention some of her stepsisters’ previous purchases, like the hideous yellow-and-scarlet upholstery fabric with teapot patterns that Agatha had brought home the last time she’d needed a gown.
If Cinderella played this correctly, she could make her stepmother think it was all her idea to send Cinderella to the village. Even
she
relied on Cinderella’s taste in fashion and would realize that sending her stepdaughter to choose fabrics was the best and most efficient way to ensure her real daughters shone at the ball.
Silence filled the room, and Cinderella realized she might have gone too far by hinting at the need for a trip to the village. Her stepmother’s hand hovered over her wand, and Cinderella braced herself for whatever punishment she might be forced to endure.
The gong at the front door sounded, and everyone’s head turned to the source of the noise.
“Well?” asked her stepmother after no one moved for a few moments. Her voice sounded full of venom.
Cinderella moved her gaze from the wand to look into her stepmother’s face.
Her stepmother sneered. “Do you expect the door to answer itself?”
“No, of course not.” Feeling slightly giddy that she’d dodged, or at least delayed, whatever bullet had been coming her way, Cinderella skipped down the main stairs in the vaulted front foyer to the door.
She opened the heavy inner door that led to the small entryway separating the main rooms from the outside. It was unbelievably annoying that whoever was outside could easily open the outer door to come in, yet she couldn’t open it herself because of her stepmother’s entrapment spells.
She stepped forward, determined that this would be the day the front door would not only open for her, but that it would also be the day she’d be able to cross its threshold and leave. She grasped the huge iron handle and, for extra insurance, braced one foot on the stone wall beside the door. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated and pulled.
Nothing happened. She pulled again, and the muscles in her upper back felt as if they were about to tear off her body. It felt pointless to keep trying, but trying was all she had.
She dropped her foot, opened the tiny window in the door, and saw a young man dressed in a suit of burgundy and deep gray velvet; an ostrich feather stuck out jauntily from his floppy black hat. He was undoubtedly a messenger from the castle. She had to admit she was somewhat impressed by his fine uniform.
“The door is unlocked,” she told the messenger.“Just give me a moment to back out of the way, and then you can enter.” If she were standing within six feet of the door, the spell would prevent its movement.
“You want me to open the door myself?” the messenger asked.
“Yes, my hands are full.” Although visitors to the house were rare, she’d worked up a list of excuses over the years.
Even if the cook and grooms employed by her stepmother could see her—which they didn’t seem to be able to do, likely the effect of another dark spell—she couldn’t ask them for help. If she ever told another soul about the entrapment spells, both she and the person she told would be turned into stone.
The messenger opened the door and stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling a surprising amount of the door’s width. His black hat was tilted forward so that it shielded his face from the light and made his features hard to discern. He was tall, and although the uniform was slightly worn and baggy, Cinderella could see the young man had a strong form beneath his broad shoulders.
“Your hands aren’t full,” he said as he stepped forward.

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