#if there's one thing i've learned from skyrim and dragon age it's that lockpicking is easy and doesn't make you scream with rage

[nitewrighter]

Cindy Part 10

I swear I don't mean for these chapters to keep getting longer and longer. But also no gods, no editors. I am George Lucas and the year is 1997, baby.

Anyway, for all previous chapters, please refer to the masterpost.

----

The latest shoe candidate is sprawled lazily on her couch with her foot extended as Brad awkwardly tries to jam the shoe on. This girl is cool. The prince thought Mystery Girl was cool when he met her, but not the same kind of cool as this girl is cool. This girl is cool-cool, with thick dark lashes and semi-wiry black hair and a Cleopatra nose. She looks more bored about this whole thing than anyone here. Her parents are standing behind the couch nervously, shooting glares at Brad like it’s somehow his fault he can’t get the shoe on.

“Yeah—okay—that’s—” cool girl clicks her tongue, “It’s fine. You don’t have to keep trying.”

“Oh—she’s just being shy—I’m sure it’s just—” her mother cuts in.

“It doesn’t fit, Mom,” she looks back at Brad, “Flat feet,” she says in a low voice, and she subtly flicks her eyes in her dad’s direction before mouthing ‘from his side.’ Brad gives a sympathetic, conspiratorial nod. Gabe very quickly takes notes of this. At this point all of the foot data they’ve collected from throughout the kingdom is a podiatrist’s wet dream. They don’t really know what they’re going to do with it, because podiatry as a branch of medicine isn’t really established yet, but goddamn this is a lot of data while the prince is on his desperate quest for a girl who makes clothes for rats and far be it from them to not write it down. The prince literally has five different charts back in his quarters at the palace and there's yarn on the walls--it's a fucking nightmare.

“But, Eunice, darling, we wrote a letter to the king. You don’t just…” the mother lets out a high manic laugh, “Claim the shoe will fit to the bloody king! Then what are you supposed to do when the shoe doesn’t fit, hm?”

“There’s been general amnesty over the er… shoe confusion, madam,” Gabe glances up from his own notes, “There will be no claims of perjury.”

“Oh…” the mother noticeably eases up where she’s standing, “That is… good to know.”

“Does this mean we can use my dowry for art school like I asked?” Eunice looks over her shoulder at her parents.

“Eunice!” Her mother reddens.

“You’re an artist?” The prince pipes up.

“It’s just a hobby for a cultured lady—” the girl’s father speaks as Eunice is opening her mouth.

“I work with oils. But I still dabble with tempera,” Eunice cuts him off.

“Darling, they aren’t interested—” her mother starts.

“I… actually have it on good authority that the prince is looking for a new portrait,” says the prince.

“Oh—‘cuz the current one makes him look like a still-curing ham?” Eunice tilts her head.

“Eunice!” Both her parents scold.

“What? It does!”

“Yes,” the prince smiles, “If you have a portfolio, I’d be happy to bring it back to the palace so he can look it over—”

“The palace needn’t waste it’s time with—” her mother starts but Eunice is already springing up off the couch. 

“It’s upstairs! I’ll be right back!”

“…quite liberal with your footmen, aren’t you?” Eunice’s father looks at Gabe.

“He’s a new hire,” says Gabe, looking over his shoulder at the Prince who’s kind of glancing off, casually.

—-

“I feel the need to remind his highness that this is not a shopping trip,” Gabe says crisply as they’re all riding in the carriage.

 Brad self-consciously sets the really cool new bayonet piece he got from the blacksmith’s house they visited about three houses back aside. Gabe is also writing with a noticeably fancy new pen that he got from a distinguished pen maker whose daughter tragically did not fit the shoe.

“It’s not a shopping trip,” the prince is leafing though Eunice’s portfolio, a lot of charcoal sketches, though she also has some oil miniatures on card stock, “I’m just… being proactive! Like you said! Have you seen this?” He brings up a lovely miniature of a king charles spaniel on a velvet pillow, “I mean, it’s great right?”

“That dog’s eyes aren’t facing the same way,” Brad murmurs.

“That’s just how his head is,” the prince shrugs.

“Ah, well then from that alone, I can see why she would be a good portraitist,” Gabe resumes his note-taking.

“That’s probably an insult, huh?” The prince scratches at his stubbly cheek. Like he knows he has to shave in order to blend in as a servant, but again, this dude has been sleepless and sad and wet and pathetic as hell despite all the fervor of the shoe-quest.

“It’s been a very long few days, Highness,” Gabe replies.

“But we’re at the bottom of the list!” The prince leans forward, “So that means we’re close, right?” 

“Well… possibly but….”

“But…?” 

“Have you thought about what would happen if.. you don’t find her after these last few houses?”

“Well that’s when we enter phase two,” the prince says, pulling a folded up piece of paper from the interior of his jacket and unfolding it to reveal a complicated set of plans, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we might be able to work something out if we take lots of observational notes on the local rat population, so we'll need to send a team down to the sewers--I'll be accompanying, obviously, and, failing that, expand the shoe search outside our primary region and, failing that, again checking the rat population. Then we can cross-reference that with our previous data and—”

“Your highness,” Gabe’s voice is taut, “Have you considered that perhaps, the woman at the ball has no desire to be found?”

“Well—that would suck!” The prince blurts on reflex, “Like… what, she’d think the ball was the only thing she could have to keep her happy until she could…” the prince trails off and thinks a bit harder, “Unless… given her means, the ball could be treated as her last hurrah before she leaves the country. But that doesn’t make sense either! She—the way she talked about everyone here… she cares about people! She cares about her home! Would she really just.. leave everyone—?” His voice seems to drown in his own throat. And for a brief couple seconds he imagines the possibility that this mystery girl is some kind of hardcore 18th or 19th century rock star like his mom and he couldn’t make her give a shit about anything if he tried… but she did give a shit! She gave so many shits about so many things! She gave shits about things that made him give far more shits about things than anyone could ever imagine! Who would just… inflict that on another human being? Could someone that brilliant be that cruel? But he shakes his head and remembers that one girl’s advice: trust your head. Trust your gut. And not everything is as it seems. He stiffens his shoulders in his seat, “What’s the next house? The last house on the list, right?”

“I cannot say if I’m sure it really counts, highness,” Gabe’s lips draw back from his teeth with distaste.

“Oh god, please don’t tell me—”

“I’m afraid so,” Gabe says quietly and everyone in the carriage has this collective ‘Ugh’ moment because here’s the thing: for a lot of these girls, even though the ball was basically a byproduct of the queen being kidnapped by pirates, the king getting anxious about not having any grandkids yet, and the prince generally not getting out much, most of the ball guests saw, “All eligible ladies of families of fashion” on the invitation and basically went, “Oh this is a job interview.” Which further added to the prince’s misery of the whole situation. So it’s these weird high-stakes very socially intense vibes under the guise of “heehoo it’s a fun swanky party.” Neurodivergent nightmare, unless you’re Cindy who, the entire time was operating under the assumption that this is her one fun night out like… ever. 

So like… the depressing part is, when you have all these guests treating introductions basically like a job interview, they basically treat all of their otherwise engaging and charming features as a box to be ticked—it’s weird, it’s stilted, it’s forced and the really sucky part is, all of these boxes to be ticked make it really easy for you to be generally unmemorable as a debutante, basically turning the whole fucking night into one tedious-ass process even though that wasn’t the king’s intention at all. Yeah he wanted the prince to find love but also the prince was such an “I don’t want to be here” weirdo that everyone ended up falling back on typical debutante behaviors and just fucking lined up. And like… that’s kind of what’s made this whole slipper quest more enjoyable than anyone thought it would be because now princey boy gets to know all these girls in their own homes, and see their whole situations with their families, and like I said, for the most part, they’re all really cool or friendly or funny girls who are just trying to do right by their folks. And like… y’know, people being pleasant and unmemorable and all lined up, that can be draining, sure, but the shitty part is… you remember the assholes. You remember the people who made a big stink about being groped by one of the footmen even though it was clear to literally everyone around them that footman was just trying to help them through the door because they got jammed in there from their fucking crinoline/pannier and that was a fire hazard.

But anyway, that is a long rant to sum up the point that: The prince absolutely remembers the stepfam, and he remembers that they are overall people with the worst fucking vibes you can possibly imagine. Some girls were hitting the prince with “I’ve been told I have child-bearing hips” these guys were hitting the prince with “I’m currently ovulating so chop-chop” and also being noticeable assholes to all the other guests, saying this dress was so last season or spreading rumors that one girl that they had perceived to be their toughest competition had lice so that the entire fucking ball wouldn’t come within ten feet of her. They’re dicks. They brought the whole vibe of the party down. And now, the prince is headed to their house. Because checking the slipper for everyone in the kingdom means checking the slipper for everyone in the kingdom.

——

Cinderella’s head is buzzing as she’s hanging up laundry on the line near the hazel tree. She knows the prince is coming, so her body seems possessed by this energy which doesn’t seem 100% her own, but she also knows she’s gotta keep a cool head so that the stepfam doesn’t pick up on the idea that she might be fucking getting out of here. Deep breaths, Cindy. She keeps the slipper on her person at all times in a handy little very-well-hidden pocket in her skirts she initially sewed in there to carry around a rat comfortably. 

“He said he liked duck so I made curried duck mince pies,” she’s saying to the hazel tree. She doesn’t cry on it as often, but knowing the fairy godmother is there encourages her to talk to it more, these days, “I had to dip into my own pocket money for it, but it’s worth it, right? I mean, I know he’s probably not going to show up, because he’s so busy with prince stuff, but I just felt it in my gut, you know? Should I have made a dipping sauce? I mean it’s already a lot of fat and spices…maybe something yogurt and mint based? I still have time for a yogurt sauce…” Cindy’s own stomach growls and she just huffs as she hangs another sheet on the line and she breathes in a steadying breath. “Just… keep it simple. Be cool. You were cool that night, right? You can do it again,” she says to herself, and glances over at the hazel tree. “Right?”

The hazel tree, being a tree, doesn’t really respond.

“Right,” says Cindy, pulling another sheet out of the basket.

——

“She’s talking to the tree again,” the stepsister sneers, looking out the window of the upstairs study. 

It’s worth mentioning a this point that the stepsisters are the kind of people where like… if you hung out with them long enough, you would be acutely aware that they are very used to treating each other like shit. Like, yeah, I get it, playful rudeness can be fun, but when you’re calling each other bitch at every opportunity? And like, Jesus, what happens when you’re just sitting there? Like… at that point that’s saying a hell of a lot more about you than you think it is. Like yeah! Maybe you’re a naturally self-deprecating person! But why are you passing that work onto someone else instead of like… I don’t know, being with people who make you want to make things better for yourself? But you know that’s not immediately available for everyone. Sometimes you’re an asshole, and you’re surrounded by assholes, and tragically, that is the case for the stepfam. 

“It’s only a matter of time before she burns the house down with all of us in it,” the stepsister folds her arm and turns away from the window, “I still think we should send her off to bedlam before then.”

“Then we’re stuck with your cooking, dumbass,” the older stepsister is on a loveseat, leafing through a particularly mean-spirited social pamphlet.

The younger stepsister huffs but both of them flinch to attention as the stepmother enters the room.

“Girls,” the stepmother says crisply.

“Mother,” both of the stepsisters, say, neither really moving from their position.

“I’ve been thinking,” the Stepmother steeples her fingers, “Given the… unfortunate situation regarding Cinderella’s name and the name on the deed to the house, we might run into some… awkward questions from the representatives of the palace.” 

“I mean, we’ll just say she’s a servant, right?” The older stepsister shrugs from the loveseat.

“We could say that, but…” the stepmother steps up to the window, watching Cinderella hum and talk and hang laundry below, “Something’s.. shifted about her, lately. Something’s off. I don’t trust it. I think it better if she’s out of the way while the palace representatives are here.” 

“Send her on an errand?” The younger stepsister suggests.

“Mm… no…she’ll know the timing’s off, and the townsfolk will as well—freaks tend to cling to each other like that, and I’d hate for it to turn into a bigger embarrassment,” the stepmother chews her thumbnail.

“I think it would be funny if she got to try on the slipper,” the older stepsister smirks, “See how it’ll never fit on her nasty feet. Maybe that’ll get things through her thick head.”

“Maybe…” the stepmother muses, watching Cindy pick up the empty laundry basket and sing to herself as she heads inside.

The stepmother watches her path, waits two seconds, then steps over to the study’s bell pulley and rings it.

“You’re calling her in here now—?  But we haven’t—“ the younger stepsister starts.

“Quiet, dear,” the stepmother says with a crisp, ‘do not fuck with me’ pleasantness before taking a position in the center of the study so that she is the first thing that Cindy sees when she opens the door.

“Oh! Stepmother!” Cindy is way too bouncy and cheerful for anyone’s liking, “The mini-pies are cooling and the lemonade’s chilling as well, and the parlor’s all ready for our guests.”

“That’s all very good dear, but you should probably wash up before they get here. Best draw a full bath. Heaven forbid you’re all sooty and sweaty in front of the palace representatives. ”

Cinderella gasps excitedly. “I can use the bathtub?” Maybe having royal guests over is making Stepmother more generous?

“Oh heavens, no, child, you’ll leave a ring. No, your basin should suffice.

“…right…the basin… of course… how silly of me,” Cinderella says slowly.

“And once you’re all cleaned and dressed, do be a dear and bring up our best port from the cellar? You know, the one with the er… goat on the label.”

“…you mean the unicorn?”

“Yes, that one.”

A ripple passes over Cinderella’s face. “…that was a gift from my christening. My father told me I could open it on my wedding night.”

 The entire stepfam bursts out laughing at the words ‘wedding night’ but Cindy’s still trying to reason her way through it like “And port’s a dessert wine, so even though it pairs well with duck, I’d say it’s more of an evening wine so—”

“Married??” The older stepsister is laughing too hard to hear any of that and Cindy’s voice dies in her throat.

“You?!” Says the younger stepsister.

 “Oh how I miss your father’s sense of humor,” the stepmother wipes a tear away, chuckling.

“Me too,” Cinderella says distantly.

“But seriously, Cinderella, how can we serve representatives of the palace anything but the best?” 

“Right…” Cinderella says quietly. 

“Now wash up, child,” the Stepmother says, moving away from her in a signal of ‘You’re dismissed.’

“Stepmother,” Cinderella curtsies before heading down the stairs.

The entire fam is silent as she descends. The stepmother closes the door. 

“What was that?” The younger stepsister pipes up, “I thought you said—”

“Sweetie, what I am going to ask of you next will require significantly higher brainpower than any you’ve displayed in your tutoring, do you think you can do that for me?” The stepmother cocks her head.

The stepsister gulps.

—-

Cindy usually has a cauldron full of hot water on the fire for laundry purposes, so drawing the bath doesn’t take too much time at all. 

It’s kind of nice, even if Cinderella’s bathing basin is so small it kind of has her stuck in a balled-up goblin pose to soak, and she basically has to do a yoga standing-forward-fold pose to wash her hair, but the rats bring her violets, lavender sprigs, and rose petals from outside to float in the water as she bathes. 

“I mean.. they said ‘Intended bride’ so I guess opening the port here would count. Sort of,” she mutters to a rat perched on the edge of her basin as the other rats sniff around the dusted-off bottle of port she retrieved from the crawlspace under the house. “Hey!” Cindy perks up, “You guys should look your best too, right? Go check my sewing box. Grab what you want.”

The rat hops down from the edge of the basin, gallops across the floor, climbs up a moth-eaten tablecloth and rifles through the box for a few moments before scurrying back to Cindy with a fancy little rat-sized green band jacket in its teeth.

“Oh excellent taste, my good sir,” some water sloshes out of the basin as Cindy fits the little jacket on the rat before wrapping herself in a thin moth-eaten towel and stepping out of the basin herself. The rat seems to be very proud of its tiny jacket, then gives a look at the little ground window of the cellar. 

“All right, but don’t get it too dirty,” Cinderella opens the window and the rat hops into her open palm as she lets the rat out into the yard. “Show-off,” she snorts. She puts on one of her nicer dresses, a nicer pair of shoes, wrings her hair out and puts a bit more effort into it with a crown of braids rather than her usual messy bun, then she grabs the bottle with a shrug of resignation, slips the slipper into the handy hidden rat pocket on her nicer dress, heads up the cellar stairs, moves to open the door.

The door doesn’t open. 

She blinks and tries it again.

The handle just feebly wiggles with her grip.

Locked. It’s locked. She knows it’s locked. It’s not the first time she’s been locked down here, and this is when that first flare of panic burns from her heart to the back of her neck and she looks angrily at the bottle of port. How could she be so stupid! Why would the stepfam waste money being actually hospitable when they would obviously hock that port for all it was worth? She thought it was just a complete dick move, but it turned out to be a cover-up for an even bigger dick move! Stupid! So distracted with dancing! And with the shoes! And with those stupid little pies! Her pies! She never made the yogurt sauce! Wait—focus—life being ruined. Okay, Cindy, think. You can get out of this. 

She hustles down the stairs and goes to the cellar door and it’s—stuck? Bolted from the outside somehow?? She tries to get out of that basement window, but she can’t fit. Curse her stupid powerful mopping-and-clothesline-sculpted shoulders!

And like… this is the part where people determined to hate Cindy and who, for some reason, love to beat down on the literally abused and traumatized, will say, “Oh, well I would have just started screaming. Any decent person from the palace would rush in because it’s just fucked up to hear someone screaming for help and not do anything.” 

But here’s the thing: Cindy knows, so long as she is in the fucking basement, she is not in charge of the narrative. Much like this is a time where catching a cold at the wrong time of year can very much kill you, this is also a time where there’s mutterings all over the place of this family sending an ‘unwell’ relative to the country or that family keeping another ‘unwell’ relative contained to their chambers because sending them to an asylum is so inhumane! Not to mention humiliating for the family! Oh and everything’s just been so overwhelming with all this shoe business it really hasn’t helped her delusions at all! Not to mention the fact that the guard captain already mentioned he thinks she's sketchy! Cindy’s locked in the basement now, and she’s lived with the stepfam calling her stupid and crazy for talking to rats for enough of her life to know it is not hard for them to sell the ‘she’s insane’ story.

And now, the palace carriage is pulling up to the estate. Cindy can hear the stepfam rapidly shuffling around up there, and her eyes flick back to her little worktable, where several rats are nosing around cute little vests and pinafores, and around their little rat feet, shining in the light of the basement window, are sewing needles.