Meadow Faeoria's Arc

Chapter 12 of 12

Meadow slept in the grass at the edge of the field. She woke to a horn. Three notes, then three again, carried from the palace road. She sat up. The thread behind her eyes still showed the stepmother's kitchen. Cinder was already at the hearth, raking cold ash, her head tilted toward the window. A rider came down the road. Then another. Then a whole line of them, with a herald at the front holding a scroll. Meadow stood and walked to the fence to hear. The herald read from the scroll. The prince would search every house in the kingdom. He carried a glass slipper found on the palace stairs. The woman whose foot fit the slipper would be his bride. She would be the next princess. Meadow gripped her wand. One slipper. The prince had one. Cinder had the other, wrapped in rag, hidden under a stone in the iron cottage across the field. Inside the kitchen, through the thread, Cinder heard the horn too. She did not stop raking. She kept her head down. The stepmother swept into the room in a fresh dress and slapped her hands together. "Up," the stepmother said. "Wash. Braid your sisters' hair. The prince is coming to this house." Cinder stood. She wiped her palms on her apron. Her face gave away nothing. But through the thread Meadow saw her hand close once, tight, at her side. Meadow understood the problem in one breath. If the prince came to the stepmother's house first, the stepsisters would try the slipper. It would not fit. He would move on. But Cinder had no matching slipper here. Her matching slipper was in the cottage. If she went to fetch it now, in daylight, the stepmother would see her leave and follow. Meadow lifted the wand. The star at the tip was still dim. She had almost nothing left of her own. She thought of her brother's magic, already spent. Her sister's, already stirred. She had one thing left she had not touched. She pressed the wand against her chest and drew a thin line of her own breath into the star. The star brightened a little. Enough for one small thing. She turned the thread. She pushed her voice down it, into the hearth of the stepmother's house. Just a whisper, at the ash, where Cinder was kneeling to sweep. "The stone in the cottage," Meadow said. "I will move it. When they come, ask to try." Cinder's hand paused in the ash. She did not look up. She gave one small nod, the kind a servant gives to a mistress in a room full of eyes. Meadow lowered the wand. The riders were already turning up the lane. She had a slipper to move and a field to cross before the prince reached the door.