Stasia and Dorothea exchanged pained glances, but scurried down from the attic before Princess Ammalia could change her mind. As much as they despised being treated like servants, the abrupt dismissal was a relief too precious to ignore. They exited in such a hurry, a candle was left behind.

  After depositing soap and a towel next to the tub, Lady Tremaine gave a final curtsey before closing the door and hurrying after her daughters.

  “Now then,” said the princess. “Where were we?”

  Cynthia swung her alarmed gaze toward the clean, hot bath with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She’d never undressed in front of a stranger before, much less a woman who set her pulse racing. Now that the time to disrobe had come, the moment seemed sharper and more real than anything she had ever experienced before. She did not want to disappoint the princess.

  “I hope you know what we’re doing,” Princess Ammalia said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve never remained on the outside of a bath I summoned before.”

  Cynthia laughed, and the moment was suddenly bearable. Whatever happened, the princess wouldn’t judge her. She was in fact just as lost in this new landscape as Cynthia was. They were both on the same side.

  “Fear not,” Cynthia assured her. “All of my gowns are designed to be donned and doffed without aid of a lady’s maid.”

  “That might have been a gown once,” said the princess with a dubious expression, “but the material is now hanging from you in strips and tatters. I fear it is fit for the fireplace or the rag bin.”

  Cynthia nodded tightly. Her mother’s gown… but she would not think about how Morningstar’s claws and her stepsisters’ hands had rent the once-fine fabric into fraying shreds. Over the past five years, there’d been a surplus of heartbreaking moments in which Cynthia had weathered some form of torture or another.

  This moment was about Princess Ammalia. Cynthia was determined to make it a memory to cherish.

  She stripped the ruined garments from her body with as much dignity as she could manage, then quickly stepped into the hot water before her nakedness could overwhelm her.

  Only once she was immersed in the water up to her knees and shoulders did she realize she had neglected to retrieve the scented soap from its position nestled atop the folded towel.

  “Er…” She cleared her throat. “Would you be so kind as to hand me the soap?”

  Rather than drop the soap into Cynthia’s outstretched palm as expected, Ammalia paused, then dropped to her knees and began to suds Cynthia’s curved back. Soon the bubbles rose to her shoulders.

  The sensation was incredible. A mix of the relaxation that came from long-tight muscles being massaged into putty, and the sense of connection that came from another human being taking the time to care for her, with her full attention and gentle sweetness.

  “Is this… all right?” asked the princess.

  “I could marry you,” Cynthia said on a sigh.

  The princess stopped sudsing.

  “Figuratively,” Cynthia blurted out. “Metaphorically. All I meant was… Yes, it’s all right.”

  “All you meant,” the princess murmured. “Of course.”

  The sudsing of Cynthia’s back resumed, this time in silence.

  The resulting bathing experience was both more than she ever dreamt and yet not quite everything she wanted. Princess Ammalia was touching her, but not in the way Cynthia most desired—and only one of them was naked. There was a moment when Cynthia almost thought… but no. The princess was simply being extraordinarily, improbably kind.

  When every inch of her back had been massaged into languid bliss, Cynthia forced herself to take the soap from the princess.

  “I’ll continue from here. You can… look about the attic, if you like.”

  The princess relinquished the soap, then rose from her knees. She dried her hands before turning her back discreetly and feigning great interest in the piles of rotted crates and the dismal view outside the window at the brick wall opposite.

  Cynthia washed the rest of her body in haste.

  She didn’t bother with her hair because there wasn’t enough time for it to dry. And by now, the water had begun to turn tepid.

  Cynthia gripped the sides of the tub and pushed to her feet. At the sound of the sluicing water, Princess Ammalia spun around. Cynthia’s face went bright red.

  Unperturbed, Princess Ammalia wrapped Cynthia in the towel, and allowed her to pat herself dry whilst the princess opened the box she’d brought into the house.

  Cynthia gasped to see a folded gown of rich blue satins and silks take up most of the interior, topped by a matching blue diamond tiara and a pair of dazzling slippers that glittered brightly, even in the fading sunlight. She used her stepsisters’ forgotten candle to light the wall sconce in order to see the items more clearly.

  “Are those slippers covered with bits of decorative glass?” she asked in wonder.

  “Thousands of gemstones,” the princess replied, as if such an extravagance was perfectly normal for a shoe that would be half-hidden beneath one’s skirts and dashed against hard terrain all night.

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Cynthia stammered. “Each of those gems must have cost… If I lose even one of them…”

  “No one will know but you,” the princess answered. “If even you can tell the difference. These shoes are yours now. You needn’t return them. They’re yours to do with as you please.”

  “Until midnight,” Cynthia murmured. She had to be home by then, or she’d never get her chores completed on time—and she couldn’t risk infuriating her stepmother and stepsisters any worse. They were already fuming. Once they caught sight of Cynthia in this gown and with these slippers…

  “May I help you with the dress?” Princess Ammalia asked. “I fear it is indeed the sort that requires the assistance of a lady’s maid.”

  “Please, that would be lovely.” After sliding on her shift, Cynthia held perfectly still as the princess laced the cords along Cynthia’s spine.

  She’d expected the dress to be too big or too small, too long or too short, but it fit her as though it had been custom-tailored to Cynthia’s exact measurements.

  An appreciative smile flitted at Princess Ammalia’s lips. “You look breathtaking. Even more beautiful than you did before. The blues bring out the bright cerulean of your eyes, and the cut of this gown…”

  “It is a truly astonishing fit,” Cynthia admitted in awe. “Your brother picked this out after a single glance at my stepsisters?”

  “I directed the creation of this gown,” Princess Ammalia corrected her softly. “After gazing at you.”

  Cynthia’s throat went dry. Her heart beat faster—then sank. Those ambiguous moments, during the bath…

  Had she wasted a golden opportunity she would never have again?

  CHAPTER 7

  All Princess Ammalia wished to do was ogle Cynthia. Well, ogle her, hold her, kiss her, touch her, have her. Ogle with sensual flourishes.

  Cynthia had piled her long blond hair high on her head with nary an escaping ringlet. Her bosom was plumped to perfection inside a low bodice of shimmering ocean blue, matching the underskirt below. The puffed sleeves of robin’s-egg-blue complemented the sweeping, overskirt of flowing pale blue gauze. The lines accentuated Cynthia’s lush hips and narrow waist and long legs, right down to the tips of the sparkling crystal slippers poking out beneath the floor-length hem.

  Essentially, Ammalia wanted to engage in activities that would ruin their coiffures and wrinkle both their gowns beyond repair, so that the only solution would be to stay here in this room with Cynthia and not exit each other’s arms for any reason until the morning light.

  Unfortunately, the second Cynthia opened the attic door, her step-siblings pounced. From that moment on, they conspired to keep Ammalia separated from Cynthia by inserting themselves between the two.

  They peppered Ammalia with an unceasing and utterly exhausting barrage of inane questions, every one of which was about Ammalia’s brother Zurri.

  “Has he got a castle of his own?”

  “How tall is he?”

  “What’s his favorite color? Is it blue?”

  “Is he considering staying in England to live?”

  “Does he prefer women who purse their lips like this or like this?”

  “How many balls does he throw a week?”

  “Must I learn Italian if I marry him?”

  “Do Italians drink tea?”

  “How many servants would I have if I were Queen?”

  “Is the prince a good dancer?”

  “Does he like pudding?”

  It was enough to make Ammalia wish to scream.

  The ball would begin at any moment, and she was supposed to be arranging her brother’s dances with the prettiest of all the young ladies present.

  Cynthia did not take part in the questioning. She simply gazed at Ammalia from the corner of her eye or from beneath her long lashes, and then blushed becomingly every time Ammalia caught her at it.

  That was enough to make Ammalia wish to throw Cynthia over her shoulder and charge out of the house to the carriage, knocking over the mother and the two sisters like so many bowling pins.

  “Come,” Ammalia commanded, interrupting the endless litany of questions. “We can continue this conversation—” Such as it was. “—in the carriage.”

  “In the royal carriage?” squealed Stasia. “We can ride with you?”

  “If we all fit,” Ammalia said quellingly. “You may have to sit on each other’s laps.”

  “I’ll sit on the driver’s lap if I must,” Stasia said gamely, linking her arm with her sister. “Don’t dawdle so, Dorothea.”

  Dorothea sent a triumphant glance over her sister’s shoulder toward their mother. “See? I told you Stasia wasn’t queen material. A queen would never sit on her driver’s lap. I would never behave so indecorously. The prince should marry me.”

  “As long as he marries one of you.” Lady Tremaine shooed them both ahead with her gloved hand. “Go on, we haven’t got all night for him to fall in love with you.”

  As long as he didn’t marry Cynthia…

  Once Ammalia had entered the carriage, Lady Tremaine should have been next—there was an order of precedence to such things, in Italy as well as in England—but Ammalia pretended no awareness of such a custom, in order to ensure Cynthia sat by her side.

  After all, once the uncommon beauty arrived at the ball… Ammalia should be lucky to steal a sideways glance, much less a spare moment of Cynthia’s time.

  “Doesn’t your sister look marvelous?” Ammalia asked the other two, who had conspicuously refrained from commenting upon Cynthia’s stunning transformation.

  “Step-sister,” said Stasia.

  “I’m still prettier,” said Dorothea, then cast a nervous glance at Lady Tremaine. “Aren’t I, Mother?”

  “Even a toad is prettier than a scullion,” Lady Tremaine assured her daughter, without so much as a glance in Cynthia’s direction.

  Porca miseria, Ammalia could not allow Cynthia to return to a life of thankless servitude with these people. But while Ammalia might be princess to a population of half a million Parmenzans back home, she did not have the authority to govern Cynthia’s choices or command a better home life for her here.

  At least she’d given her the shoes. With luck, tonight’s momentary escape would be enough for Cynthia to take stock of her unhappy surroundings and sell as many of the gemstones as it took to finance her much-deserved independence.

  “Wait a minute.” Dorothea spun to face Ammalia. “The Prince intends to dance with all three of us, not just the scullion, right?”

  Ammalia smiled tightly. Her brother had indicated no such intention, because he hadn’t even known of their existence. But as far as Ammalia was concerned, he owed her that much, in exchange for suffering through their company without breaking down in tears or shaking some sense into them. After all, Ammalia was supposed to be in the ballroom at this moment, lining up the prettiest young ladies for Zurri to dance with.

  “Yes, of course,” she promised an elated Stasia and Dorothea. “He is absolutely agog with anticipation to dance with each of you. In fact, he has specifically requested to dance with both of you the minute we arrive.”

  Stasia and Dorothea clapped their hands with glee, then began to tussle amongst themselves over which sister ought to have the first dance.

  Ammalia didn’t much care which one went first. The distraction at least gave her two full sets before Zurri set eyes on Cynthia…

  And decided that the woman Ammalia wanted was the one he would take as his bride.

  CHAPTER 8

  From the moment the princess’s royal carriage pulled up before the open door to the grand ball, Cynthia was unbearably overwhelmed.

  The assembly rooms were the largest in London, and filled with so many people already that she could not fathom fitting a single additional soul inside, much less all five of the women scrambling out of the carriage.

  That was, Dorothea and Stasia were scrambling. Princess Ammalia did not scramble. She floated to the ground regally, as if thousands of exquisitely dressed lords and ladies in a single room was just another Tuesday back home in Parmenza.

  Cynthia, on the other hand, had never been anywhere so fine, or around so many people this rarefied. Everything was so much more than she had expected. The colors were brighter. The lights, dazzling. How many chandeliers were overhead? And with hundreds of lit candles burning on each one?

  All the doors and windows were wide open, allowing in the frigid British night breeze, which was immediately vanquished by the crush of so many warm bodies swarming like bees in a hive. Despite the lower temperatures out-of-doors, the ballroom was suffocatingly warm.

  Even the smells were overwhelming. Acrid smoke from pungent cigars being smoked by well-dressed gentlemen standing just outside the open doors and windows permeated the breeze. Cynthia couldn’t even make out the scent of the hectare of thick trees and fresh flowers in the gardens surrounding the assembly rooms because of the competing odors of thousands of different soaps and perfumes and pomades and eaux de toilette.

  And the sounds—good God, the sounds! Thousands of voices talking over each other was more than a dull roar, and the thunder of so many feet pounding the wooden parquet in rhythmic patterns hammered its way into Cynthia’s skull.

  Yet the orchestra managed to be louder than all of it. The violins’ soaring melodies and the cellos’ complementary low tones vibrated the walls and the floor and the panes of glass and Cynthia’s very bones.

  It was, in short, magnificent. Despite her dizziness at the sensory assault, Cynthia was determined to commit all of it to memory. She had never seen such a spectacle, and could not imagine herself taking part in a circus like this ever again.

  “Ah, there’s my brother now,” said the princess.

  Stasia and Dorothea clutched each other and bounced up and down. “Where? Where?”

  “Do you see the three empty chairs near the dance floor?” The princess gestured. “I’m to send his dance partners there. You two, take your mother and arrange yourselves conspicuously. I shall send my brother over straight away.”

  Stasia was the only one of the trio to hesitate. “What about Cynthia?”

  “Yes,” Cynthia said, hurt. “There’s no chair for me? Should I assume there’s no dance for me, either?”

  Princess Ammalia’s lips tightened. “Of course you shall have your dance. I cannot matchmake my brother to the most beautiful woman in England if you do not number amongst his partners. If you prefer being first to being third—”

  “Third is fine,” Cynthia said quickly. “I just thought—”

  “I’ve not forgotten you. I thought we might play companion to each other whilst your sisters have their dances.”

  “Yes, Cynthia,” said Dorothea, her voice cajoling. “Do let your beloved stepsisters have our chance with the prince before you flutter your lashes and try to ensnare him.”

  “If he falls for you, I won’t stand in your way,” Cynthia murmured.

  “Thank you,” Stasia said fervently. “Wish me luck.”

  “Wish me luck,” Dorothea objected. “I’m older, which means—”

  “Make haste,” Ammalia interrupted. “The minuet is ending, and there is a waltz to come.”

  “A waltz!” Stasia looped her arm through her sister’s and the two ladies barreled through the crowd, elbowing higher ranking lords and ladies out of her path like a pair of bulls charging through a field of flowers.

  Lady Tremaine hurried in their wake without sparing a single glance for Cynthia.

  Not that Cynthia minded. Her eyes were only for Princess Ammalia. And her hands and her mouth and her bosom and everything else. Cynthia would joyfully provide anything the princess asked of her—if only the princess should ask.

  After exchanging a few words with a footman, Princess Ammalia took Cynthia’s hand and expertly threaded her through the crowd to the rear of the ballroom, as far from the voluminous orchestra and turbulent dance floor as it was possible to get whilst still remaining in the same large chamber.

  “Is this where you saw your brother?” she asked, as soon as conversation was possible.

  “I never saw my brother,” said the princess without remorse. “I wanted to be rid of your family.”

  Cynthia’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. Her stepmother and stepsisters could be mortifying, and it was a dream come true to have a few more moments alone—well, semi-alone; as alone as two people could be in a crowded ballroom—with Princess Ammalia. And yet…

  “They’ll be crushed if they do not get their dances with the prince,” she told the princess.

  “They’ll get their dances,” Princess Ammalia replied. “Did you not wonder why there were still three empty chairs in a chamber filled with this many people? Those seats were reserved for marriageable young beauties.”

  Cynthia tried not to be hurt. “I am to stay in the back of the ballroom because I do not qualify?”

 

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