“Hello there.”
The rat scuttles backwards at my murmured greeting, taken aback by the presence of another in this godforsaken place. I watch as it rises up on its back feet, sniffing the air.
I pull my legs back, just in case it’s as hungry as I am. But the movement startles it, and it disappears into one of the hundreds of nooks and crevices lining the four dirty stone walls that surround me.
Gone in a moment.
And with it, the only piece of entertainment I’ve had for days.
Sighing, I lean my head back against the slimy wall. I don’t even grimace anymore. My hair is matted and wild, full of filth from the dungeon around me. Why even worry?
My stomach growls audibly, and I close my eyes.
I count to a thousand in my head.
Again.
Then I move to ten thousand.
I lose track around halfway, and start again.
I’m on the verge of trying for a hundred thousand when the sound reaches me. The soft tread of footsteps, the deferential murmurs from the guards. The sweep of soft material across the ground.
I can almost smell the adoration. It’s hard not to retch.
When the key rattles in the lock on the massive, old wooden door, I don’t move. I stay exactly where I am, eyes closed, leaning against this filthy wall on my filthy cot as though I have nowhere else better to be.
Sorelle really isn’t the forward-thinking country we like to pretend we are. Our justice system is well and truly stuck in the Middle Ages.
Or maybe I’m just a special case.
My visitor sweeps inside. Pretty and perfect, the faintest traces of an undoubtedly extortionate perfume filling my cell. Another murmur, and the guard backs out slowly, although I can sense his reluctance.
He pulls the door closed behind him, and I wait.
“Hello, sister.”
The soft words almost drip with saccharine sweetness, full of sadness and regret.
Slowly, I let my eyes open. Let them focus on her, stood in the middle of my filthy cell with her perfect, silk pink dress. I take in the elegant tiara nestled in her blonde hair; the understated diamond nestled in the hollow of her throat. Wide blue eyes regard me sorrowfully.
“Ella,” I acknowledge finally. “Although I hear that they’re calling you something different these days.”
She dips her head, but I see the traces of a smile on her face. “The people do have quite the imagination, don’t you think?”
The people. As though they’re a different entity, and we have no connection to them at all. As though we weren’t part of that group for our entire lives, much to Ella’s disgust. At least until a few weeks ago, that is. When she got exactly what she’s always wanted.
And here we are, I suppose.
“How is life as our exalted Crown Princess?” Stretching, I cross my arms in front of me. Ella turns to look around. Her lips twist in disgust as she notices the grime coating the hem of her elaborate gown.
We make quite the pair. The princess, and the prisoner.
“Wonderful,” she coos. “Crispin is the perfect gentleman. It’s a true fairytale ending.”
My scoff rises in my throat. Crispin. He even sounds like a drip. Although what a perfect, golden couple they make. It’s no wonder the entire country has fallen in love with them, I suppose. And with my sister, particularly. With her beauty, her kindness, her courage.
And her story, of course.
Sighing, Ella takes a step closer. “You really have brought this on yourself, you know, Anastasia.”
I slide my eyes towards her incredulously. “Feel free to explain how. This, I have to hear.”
She only blinks back at me, the picture of innocence. “If you and your mother hadn’t treated me the way you did, we might have been sisters in truth. That’s all I ever wanted; you know.”
I choke on my own dry, rusty laughter, the sound dragged from my throat on a wheeze.
“Are you truly that deluded?” I force out. “Truly, Ella. Do you actually believe the bullshit you come out with?”
She moves closer again, until she’s nearly on top of me. Her head leans down until I have to crane my own to meet her eyes.
“I don’t have to,” she murmurs, her lips stretching into a smile. “Because everyone else does, Anastasia. How does it feel, to be the most hated person in Sorelle?”
I stare back at her, stoic and silent. I watch as the mask slides away, revealing the rotten creature underneath.
There you are.
“You are alone,” she croons. “Your mother is dead. You have no friends. Nobody at all who will stand and speak for you. You know, Crispin actually tried to find someone to stand as a character witness, in the interest of a fair trial. But not a single soul in Sorelle would stand up for you, Anastasia Cooper.”
It shouldn’t hurt. And I suppose it doesn’t, really. Not a sharp pain at least, the way it feels when you’re first injured.
No. Not a new pain. But a dull ache. A remembered pain.
“And why would they?” Ella laughs, her voice soft. “For such an ugly, toxic person. Yet the whole country would drop to its knees for me without even needing to ask. So, you tell me, sister. Which of us is telling the truth?”
“When you spend years as an indentured slave, friends become a little thin on the ground. As you should apparently know, Cinderella.”
She grins then, delighted at her nickname. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Almost as good as yours.”
The ugly stepsister.
I press my lips together, done with her. “Feel free to leave me to my imprisonment at any time. It’s an improvement on the last ten years.”
She laughs, the sound tinkling like bells. “Oh, no, Anastasia. That would be far too easy.”
As my shoulders stiffen, she reaches down, her fingers lifting my chin. Gripping it.
“Did you know that Sorelle still maintains execution as a form of punishment?” Her words are softly spoken poison, unable to hide the delight. “Quite barbaric, really.”
“And yet incredibly useful to dispose of any unwanted witnesses.” Brave words, but I can barely force them through the sudden panic gripping my throat. Ella’s grip on my face tightens painfully, and I reach up to grab her wrist and pry her off. “How convenient for you, sister.”
I push her back, and my eyebrows raise as she stumbles away dramatically. Then I blink as she collapses to the floor with a wail, clutching at her wrist. The door bangs open, guards flooding inside. “My lady!”
I watch in disbelief as they carefully lift a weeping Ella from the floor. She holds her wrist carefully, her fingers covering the lack of marks as she throws me a pitiful, tear-filled glance.
“I tried,” she whispers sadly. “I really did.”
I have to roll my eyes. Honestly.
They usher her out, and I flinch as one of the men smacks his baton hard against the wall next to my head. His meaty face twists in hatred for the woman who enslaved his precious future queen.
“Bitch. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
None of them bother to look at the marks on my own face. At the indents left by Ella’s nails in my skin.
No, they only see what they want to see.
They always do.
As the door slams behind him, the keys sliding the lock into place, I carefully rearrange myself until I can rest my head back against the wall.
And I start counting again.
