From Cinders to Flames

Cinderella was a husk of the woman she should’ve become.

Gone was the bright young girl with stars in her eyes and a smile like the glimmering crescent moon. She’d been stolen, like the growth of spring by winter, by the death of her mother. She’d withered further with the death of her father the following year. Whatever shriveled parts remained had been gutted by the cruelty of her stepmother and stepsisters. Cinderella had but skin to give, and still, they demanded more.

A once-rich heiress reduced to a maidservant in her own home, Cinderella had learned to deal in scraps. She’d spent the past twelve years living in them. Scraps were her bed—stuffed in a sliver of the attic. Scraps were her clothes—ancient dresses patched over so many times you couldn’t make out the original fabric. Scraps were her meals—crusts of bread and lentils.

But in the seams between these scraps lurked Cinderella’s dreams—the only thing she could ask for and receive in abundance. They hardly resembled the gilded thoughts that filled her stepsisters’ minds: fantasies of marrying rich, of fame and recognition for their “talents.”

Cinderella winced as Empusa’s bark-like voice hit (and missed) an especially high note. She couldn't be more thankful for the music room’s door, barring her from the full sound. With a shake of her head, she resumed her sweep of the hall.

No, Cinderella’s dreams were blackened things, twisting in her mind like burned webs. Each time she lifted a broom, she dreamed of slamming it over her stepmother’s head. Each time she mopped a spill, it was her stepsister’s blood she was washing. Each cup of tea poured was poison. Each linen hung to dry was—

A squeal split the air, and with it, Cinderella’s thoughts. The singing stopped, and for half a heartbeat, Cinderella let herself imagine a fit had struck one of her overlords dead. But that couldn’t be it. The squeal wasn’t of terror—it was excitement. Bubbly murmurs were quick to follow.

Cinderella propped her broom up and pressed her ear to the door’s keyhole. She winced at the sting the metal drew. The bruises on that side of her head were still fresh from yesterday’s beating.

“A gala!” Her eldest sister, Abadonna, shrieked. Her voice was the easiest to pick out—the high-pitched screech of nails against a chalkboard.

“Oh heavens, really?” The younger, Empusa, cried.

“Yes, yes. Settle down now. Let me finish.” Cinderella could feel the dismissive wave of her stepmother’s hand. “It says here there’s to be a gala, hosted in honor of the prince’s coming of age. Every young woman of status has been invited and must be escorted by their guardian. Following a banquet, the prince is to select the fittest girl to be his bride.”

Cinderella’s eyes widened. The gala itself was no surprise. While her stepsisters were cruel and crude musicians, their name warranted them invites to nearly every event in town. But a royal gala? One where her stepsisters had the chance—no matter how slim—to become a princess? And eventually a queen? Free to subject any and all the kingdom’s citizens to her terror?

The thought made Cinderella's stomach sick.

But it drew a delighted giggle from her stepsisters. They continued to babble on, discussing dresses to wear and talents to showcase. Cinderella groaned at the thought of the elaborate gowns she’d be forced to sew and countless errands she’d have to run on top of her already endless chores.

At least, at the end, she’d be rewarded with a night alone—

Cinderella stopped.

A night completely alone.

Normally, her stepmother would’ve stayed behind to keep an eye on Cinderella, but the invite had requested that the girls be presented by a guardian. And with every woman of status in attendance, the neighbors would be out too. The whole street would be next to empty.

It was the perfect opportunity for Cinderella to escape.

Without warning, the door burst open. Abadonna crashed straight into Cinderella, the force sending both girls tumbling to the floor.

At least it’s mostly clean, Cinderella considered as her cheek slammed into the hardwood.

The blow to Cinderella’s face was followed by a sharp strike to her shoulder. She cringed.

“Watch where you’re going, scum,” Abadonna snarled. She righted herself, tugging up a horrid magenta dress before Empusa—behind her—had the chance to step on it and trip her.

Empusa scowled. “I’m sure you already know all about the gala, eavesdropper.” She turned up her nose and feigned an inspection of her nails. “At least the time we would’ve spent explaining it to you can be used to make our dresses. We’ll need three mulberry silk dresses in six days' time.”

Cinderella grit her teeth. In her head, she was telling the pair to take their mulberry silk and shove it up their asses. But aloud, she could only say, “Yes ma’am.”

~*~

The steady drip of the solution onto the skin-like slate was Prince Carlos’s sole focus. Was the motion incredibly riveting? No, it was actually pretty boring. Was the solution some new, insane concoction of toxic chemicals? Well, kind of—it was just bleach.

Right now, Carlos was knee-deep in the prep-work for what would become a super-interesting-insanely-cool experiment. Like the rest of his lab work, this part was the most tedious. He had to measure exactly—

“CARLOS!”

Carlos fumbled the dropper, nearly knocking his glasses askew as he moved to keep it from spilling. With a slight tremble, he set his supplies down on the metal lab table. The prince straightened his white coat, sparing himself a moment to prepare to face the man behind him.

His father was the spitting image of intimidation. Even though he was half Carlos’s height, the king had the ferocity of a soldier and the width of a tank. With the slightest hint of a glare, he could send anyone shaking. The recent addition of a glimmering cane did little to deter his might.

“Have you been down here this whole time?”

“Only the past few hours.” Carlos stacked some papers to keep his fingers from twitching. “I’m preparing a sample to test—”

“It’s incredibly dark in here.” The king squinted as he scrutinized the white and silver metal of the chamber, along with the various boxes of supplies. His eyes landed on Carlos’s desk, fit with a large, white lamp. “Is that obnoxious thing the only source of light?”

Carlos held back a sigh. “Would you like to see it? My experiment?”

The king grumbled, curled mustache twitching with the motion. “I doubt I can see anything.” But he shifted towards it, resting his bejeweled cane against the metal desk.

“Here,” Prince Carlos stepped back to give his father a better view. “It’s not much to see now, but this here—” he pointed to the tray with a white-gloved hand “—is synthetic skin. I’ve been saturating various samples of it with different levels of chlorine-containing cleaning products. The recently synthesized hygocoal—”

The king pulled back with a scoff. “You’ve been pouring bleach onto paper while I’ve been running around sorting the details for your courting gala?”

Carlos’s expression soured. It’s hardly my gala. He shook his head and continued. “I came across this theory the other day. Hygocoal contains certain compounds that produce odd effects when bonded with chlorine—”

“—The staff already issued the invites,” the king cut in, “You must come with me and ensure—”

“—Normally, chlorine’s application to skin causes mild irritation and redness, but in a heated setting, when exposed to these compounds—”

“—I’ve acquired the histories of the most suitable women, and we should review—”

“—The chemicals can weld into the skin’s cells and warp its biomolecular structure, giving the subject the acute ability to produce—”

In a burst, the king grasped Carlos’s shoulders. “You’re going to be married in a week!”

“People can manifest heatwaves!” Carlos shouted back.

The king gave his son a stern shake. “Carlos, listen to me. You need to focus more on your future. On this country.” He motioned to the room around them. “These experiments, your lab . . . it was fine to tuck yourself away back here when you were younger, but you’re nineteen now, nearly an adult. You have to start stepping into your role as this country’s leader.”

The king’s brows sloped. “Because I won’t always be around to help you fill it.”

Carlos’s gut twisted. “I hate when you say that.” But up this close, he couldn’t deny it. The harsh truth crept in through deepened wrinkles, darkened age spots, and a slight glassiness in the king’s eyes.

Carlos’s father drew back. “Just come upstairs, please.” He retrieved his gilded cane. “We need you.”

The prince’s chest sagged. “Okay.” His voice fell flat. “I’ll be there in a second.”

~*~

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Cinderella whispered. Anticipation laced her veins, growing deeper the closer time crawled to the start of the gala. There was only an hour left to go. An hour and she’d be free.

Still, the excitement came tainted with wariness. Just to ensure everything was square, Cinderella figured she ought to run the plan by her friends first—her “friends” being the crows that wandered into the chicken’s feeding lot.

When they first started dropping by, Cinderella used to shoo them away. But over time, the crows proved to be better listeners than the hens, so she let them stay to chat.

Cinderella had spent the week leading up to the gala endlessly plotting. Well, half-plotting (mostly fantasizing if she was being honest). At the very least, she’d spent the entirety of her morning chores analyzing exactly what she’d do.

The plan ended up being fairly simple. Wait a good half-hour after the trio of wretches leaves. Pack supplies in the meantime, along with some of Stepmother’s jewelry. Once it’s dark, sneak out the back and head for the treeline. Cut through the woods, then the cemetery. You should arrive at the port close to dawn. Sell off a bit of jewelry for the ticket fare.

Then she’d be out. Free. Cinderella grinned at the thought.

The crows paused their pecking at lentils just long enough to nod. How sweet. Her plan was crow-approved.

Cinderella’s eyes drifted past their yard to the horizon. Dusk had fully settled in, painting the sky a rich lilac. It wouldn’t be long now. She had—

“CINDERELLA!”

Her stepmother’s shrill cry left Cinderella’s ears ringing. Frightened, the crows squawked and fluttered off.

“COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!” she hollered, “YOU LEFT A GOD-AWFUL MESS IN THE CELLAR!”

Cinderella’s insides crumpled. She could’ve sworn she’d left the space spotless after setting fresh hygocoal in the furnace. The new fuel was a hassle, but it took less to heat more, making it worth it in the winter.

Had she missed a spot? Who knew? It seemed like nothing she did these days was ever to her overlords’ satisfaction.

But soon, it won’t matter what they think. One last sweep of the cellar and you’ll never have to touch a broom again. Well, at least not to clean up after them.

The thought was a small glittering hope, just enough to lift Cinderella’s step as she trudged downstairs.

But the second Cinderella’s dirty slipper graced the cellar floor, every good feeling evaporated. One moment, she was staring her stepmother in the face, picking out the wrinkles of disappointment stemming from her frown. The next, the world was a blur. Two figures slammed into Cinderella from either side, throwing her body forward.

Thorn-like nails scratched Cinderella’s hardy skin as her stepsisters wrangled her. Cinderella thrashed in their grasp, refusing to let them restrain her arms.

Her stepmother lunged at her ankle. There was a click of a chain as a weight crashed down on Cinderella’s foot.

She froze.

“Did you think we’d lost our ears? Our eyes?” Abadonna hissed, her high-pitched voice whistling close to Cinderella’s ear. “We’ve seen how strange you’ve been acting all day, the dirty little secrets you’ve been whispering under your breath.”

“How did you trick yourself into thinking you could slip away so easily,” Empusa joined in with a raspy chuckle. “You’re as dense as those stupid birds you feed.”

Cinderella’s feet slipped out from under her. Her stepsisters lifted the maidservant’s writhing frame, carrying her closer to the furnace. They dropped Cinderella on the cement, stone stinging her raw skin.

Her hope guttered. The spark died with another snap of the chain, this one around the furnace’s base.

The wretched trio drew back to examine their work.

Cinderella’s stepmother nodded. “That ought to keep her put.”

Empusa offered her a leering smile. She had the nerve to wave. “Don’t have too much fun while we’re gone!”

Without a glance back, her stepmother and sisters ascended the stairs. They slammed the door behind them, pitching the cellar into darkness.

Through blackness and burning tears, it was impossible to make anything out. Still, Cinderella’s fingers managed to find the furnace door’s latch. She pried it open, allowing the fire’s orange glow to light some of the room.

Flakes of ash spewed out, burning where they touched Cinderella’s skin. She welcomed the pain. It bled through the redness of her hands into her veins before slicing down into her bone.

Tears raced faster and harder down Cinderella’s cheeks. All her rage, all her loss, poured out from her in liquid form. Her dreams of freedom were ashes, nothing more than the soot sizzling against her form.

The pain in her hands, her heart, drew a cry of pure agony from Cinderella’s chest. She curled her now-blackened fists. Heat churned inside and around them.

Let them burn. She thought to herself. Deeper and brighter than any false hope. The pain mounted.

Let me burn. Let me burn. Let me—

A spark rippled across her knuckles.

Cinderella stopped, chest pausing mid-sob. Was that really what she’d seen—a spark? Could the tears have washed her vision? Was her fiery head going mad?

But Cinderella could feel the echo of searing flames. She could make out the fresh scar against her knuckles, an oozing black.

Cinderella willed the fire to return. She closed her eyes. Burn.

Flames sprung to life at the tips of her fingers. They flickered, no stronger than a candle’s light. Cinderella drew a breath, summoning more of her power, fueling the fire—

Flames spread, dipping down into her palm. They leached wider, then taller, arcing high enough to scorch the ceiling.

The heat dried the last of Cinderella’s tears. Her smile widened, growing large enough to let a bubbling giggle escape. She relished the way her laugh rasped against the crackle of her fire.

Stray squawks called Cinderella’s attention to the window at the ceiling’s edge. Crows had gathered there, their beaks poking through the bars. Her flames’ reflection glistened against their glossy wings. In unison, the crows sang:

From ashes to cinders

And cinders to flame

Her resolve has timbered

Risen is the dark dame.

The melody dissolved into rallying caws. Cinderella’s face brightened. She pressed a burning hand to the chain clamped over her ankle. Knives through butter, her fingers slipped through the iron links with ease. The maidservant pushed herself to her feet.

“Come, my friends!” Cinderella cried cheerfully, “We have a gala to attend!” Freedom coursed through her veins, a drug making her head grow light. “We wouldn’t want our lovely housemates to miss out on all the fun we’re having!”

She was speaking to crows with candles for fingers. And the crows were singing back. A delirious cackle escaped Cinderella’s chapped lips. Is this insanity?

If it was, she’d been missing out on such a glorious feeling for far too long.

~*~

Thunder served as the organ chords announcing Cinderella’s arrival. The crows were her escorts to the gala. Flapping and cawing, they poured into the castle’s ballroom and circled the high ivory ceiling.

The guests cried out in alarm. Typical of the upper class when faced with any dilemma, they either fainted, clutched their pearls, or threw others into what they assumed was the line of fire.

Faces white, those closest to Cinderella stared at her as if she were evil incarnate.

Personally, Cinderella considered herself to be more of an omen.

Burned and soot-stained, Cinderella was a dead hope resurrected. A dreadful promise wrapped in a patchwork dress and frazzled hair, delivering to the gluttonous what they deserved.

Cinderella’s eyes honed in on her targets. Her stepmother and stepsisters had fallen into the third category of “rich-people-reactions” and were fighting over which one of them was going to serve as the shield.

If only they knew it wouldn’t matter who was chosen.

Fire—a living weapon—burst from Cinderella’s hands. Anger roared through her system, flooded her vision with red, her heart with pain. She poured every ounce of that pain into her flames, burning brighter and brighter and—

A small voice, lighter than a bird’s whistle, cut through the bloodrush of her rage.

“You’re stunning.”

Cinderella froze. Some of the red dissipated, bringing the white-gold of the ballroom back into her view. She turned.

Directly behind her, framed by smoldering pearl streamers, was the prince. His eyes were wide, bronze face slack-jawed. His full focus was trained on Cinderella, with her drab clothes, splotchy skin, and frizzy hair.

A dozen cynical replies bubbled in her throat, but not a single one graced her lips. The sincerity in his eyes froze her. Could he really think . . .

The prince took one slow step towards her. Then another. Glass crunched under his boot. The sound was louder than any scream that pierced the air.

“I—I’ve been researching this phenomenon,” the prince said. For the life of her, Cinderella couldn’t recall his name.

“It’s more a theory than anything. Well, at least it was.” The prince shifted his stance. “I’ve never read a true account of its occurrence, much less witnessed it in person.” The prince extended a hand to her. “May I?”

Every trace of heat left Cinderella’s fingertips. It sank back into her veins, rising up to color her cheeks.

Stiltedly, she offered him her hand. The fire had scorched from her palm up to her forearm. Without the flames, it was a shriveled, horrid sight.

The prince accepted her hand as if it was pure gold. He examined it in awe.

“Incredible.” Luminous eyes found hers. “What’s your name?”

“Cinderella.” The word was a whisper.

“Ella?” The prince questioned. He smiled. “Even your voice is exquisite.”

I must be going insane. Or maybe the prince was. But Cinderella had seen crazy people before, and none had looked as handsome as he did.

He’s just flattering me to diffuse my fire. But Cinderella had heard lies before, and none had sounded as true as his words.

The prince’s grip on her hand tightened. He dropped to a knee.

“Would you grant me the honor of becoming your husband?”

This is a fever dream. Any second now, Cinderella would open her eyes and find herself still chained to the furnace with crows pecking at the cellar window.

She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three. But the prince’s hand remained firmly clasped around hers. The room was still white-gold and glistening.

This wasn’t at all how Cinderella’s plan was supposed to go. But she was here now. Instead of selling off jewelry to a ferryman, Cinderella was being presented with the highest title of the land and all the riches she could ever dream of.

No one would ever look down on her again.

She’d never have to endure another beating or settle for scraps.

It was an escape coated in twenty-four karats, and it came with a built-in shield. Even better, it came with his bright eyes, his glowing smile.

Cinderella squeezed his hand. “I do.”

~*~

“Can you heat this for me?”

Cinderella accepted the vial from Carlos with withered hands, cupped gently around the glass. With a flutter of her lashes, she loosened an ounce of her power, just enough to bring the solution to a boil.

Two days had passed since Carlos and Cinderella’s wedding, and since the ceremony, the happy couple had spent every minute in Carlos’s lab. Cinderella found the space surprisingly cozy. The bright light and metallic sheen radiated an odd sort of comfort, accentuated by the steady hum of machinery.

“Fascinating,” Carlos marveled.

Cinderella swore she’d never get tired of the way he looked at her.

Once the solution was thoroughly heated, Carlos took it back with a gloved hand.  His fingers brushed against hers, sparking a warmth in Cinderella’s chest.

They shared a smile before pulling apart.

“So how’s this supposed to work again?” Cinderella asked.

Carlos grimaced. “The procedure is rather dull, I’m afraid. We’re just testing different variations of disinfectants on bird feathers. I’m trying to find the most optimal way to clean them without affecting the bird’s natural scent. That way, if we were to nurse a fallen chick back to health, it could be readopted by its mother and not abandoned due to its change in smell.”

With a slight tremble, he lifted the vial. “This particular variant utilizes the masking agent in sulfur-hexafluoride to—” The prince cut off with a sharp shake of his head. “It’s actually really tedious. I shouldn’t bore you with all the details.”

Cinderella blinked. “You’re not boring me at all.” She loved the way Carlos looked when he was explaining his studies. Excitement lit his face, making it shine brighter than any star. Even now, she could see the hint of a glimmer entering his eye.

Cinderella leaned closer. “Tell me more.”

THE END