Prince, Cinderella Forsakes You novel · Chapter 3 of 32

Chapter 3: The Bridge

Pearls are found in Clem's bag and the Beast hears the guard lie about them; she crosses into the dying Thornwood, where the castle is betting on how many days she'll last.

I climbed down onto the bridge.

The wind off the river cut straight through my dress.

The Thornwood riders pulled up behind the carriage, two thin men in green with old spears. The green herald hopped out, fussing with his hat.

The guard held out his hand for my bag.

"I'll open it myself," I said.

"You'll hand it over."

The Beast stepped down from the carriage. The whole thing rocked on its springs.

"She'll open it herself," he said.

The guard's horse backed up two steps on its own.

I knelt on the cold stones and untied the string.

My spare dress and my darned stockings.

My father's knife in its handkerchief.

And under them, coiled, a rope of pearls.

I stared at them.

I had never touched Ottilie's pearls in my life. She kept them in a box with a key.

The guard reached past me and lifted them up into the sunlight.

"Lady Ottilie's," he said. "With her clasp."

The Thornwood riders looked at each other. The herald made a small tutting sound.

"Thief," the guard said, loud enough for all of them.

The Beast didn't look at the pearls. He looked at the guard.

"Did you see her take them?" he asked.

"I don't need to."

"Did you see her take them?"

The guard lifted his chin. "Yes. I saw her coming out of the lady's room last night."

The Beast closed his eyes for a moment.

"You're lying, guard," he said. "That one was loud."

"A beast's word," the guard said. "Against a royal guard's."

"Yes," the Beast said calmly. "Exactly that."

They stared at each other over my head.

I stood up.

I took the pearls out of his hand. They were warm from the sun.

I held them out to him.

"Take them back to Ottilie," I said. "Tell her she nearly lost them."

He snatched them.

I raised my voice so the riders and the herald could hear every word.

"And ask your prince something for me. Did he ever learn the second half of the waltz?"

The guard went white to the lips.

For a long moment he didn't move. The pearls dripped out of his fist.

Then he wheeled his horse around and rode back toward Avenmoor so fast that the riders had to pull aside.

I watched him go until he was small.

My knees were shaking. I made them stop.

"The waltz," the Beast said.

"Don't ask."

"I wasn't going to." He held the door. "But that was true, whatever it was. It didn't ring at all."

We crossed the river.

On the far side, the color went out of the world.

The trees were gray.

It wasn't winter gray. It was dead gray, like old bone.

We passed orchards.

Rows and rows of apple trees stood black and twisted, with no leaves at all.

In autumn they should have been heavy with fruit.

A woman stood at a gate with two children. They were thin in the face.

When the carriage passed, she pulled the children behind her skirt.

"They're not afraid of you," I said. "Are they?"

"They're afraid of what happens when I fail," he said. "Eight years of no harvest. Half the valley has left."

Greythorn Keep sat on a rock above a village of stone cottages.

Half the roof of the east wing was gone. Crows sat on the beams.

In the courtyard stood one living thing: a tall old apple tree, bare, with a single brown leaf hanging on.

A girl was sitting on the well's edge with a slate on her knees.

She was maybe seventeen, freckled, with a long red-brown braid and a man's wool jacket that came down to her knees.

She looked me up and down.

"Another one," she said. "What's this one called?"

"Clem," I said. "And this one can hear you."

"Good."

"Dulcie," the Beast said. "My sister. She has no manners. I've tried."

"You haven't." She jumped off the well. "Does she know about the frost?"

"She knows."

"Does she know about the brides?"

"She knows."

Dulcie walked in a circle around me.

"Hands are rough," she said. "She's worked. That's new."

"I'm standing right here," I said.

"I know. I'm being thorough."

She led me through a hall with a fire the size of a cart and a long table with only a few chairs at it.

Then down into a kitchen, warm and smoky, with a broad woman hacking at an onion.

"The cook," Dulcie said. "She swears."

"I bloody do not," said the cook.

On the wall by the bread oven hung a big black slate.

It was covered in chalk. Names, and numbers, and little marks.

Columns of them.

"What is that?" I asked.

Dulcie leaned against the wall and smiled for the first time.

"The household's bets," she said. "On which day the new bride runs home crying."

I read down the columns.

Most of the castle had picked two days.

"Who has the longest?"

Dulcie tapped the bottom line with a chalky finger.

"Our steward. He's soft-hearted," she said. "He gave you six days."

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