Dust Covered Girl

Allow me to tell you a story. A sad story, true, one that you think you know. It is short, and simple, and easy to remember, but you do not know the true tale. Nonetheless, I shall share it with you now:

     She’d always been a special kind of girl, that one - not that she ever noticed. She used to go through the house, humming to herself as she swept, content in her own world, never realizing that there were those who plotted against her behind closed doors.

     She had been born there, her father a noble, her mother a beauty. Her childhood had been one from a fairy tale, until her thirteenth birthday. We had grieved alongside her when her mother passed, and felt her anguish when her father brought home a new wife a few years later. We’d thought, perhaps the same as he, that her new step sisters would love her as much as everyone else who met her.

     I am ashamed to say they did not. It did not take long for the girl to find comfort in other things better than sisters - books, for example. She would while away the hours hidden in her paper worlds, curled in the corner of her father’s study. Even after he passed she would find safety there, as the dust piles grew and the lights faded. 

     While her step family spent their time wrapped in silks and smoke from their extravagant parties, the house fell into disrepair. Her stepmother sent the staff away, and left the chores to the girl. She dressed herself in rags and ash and cleaned.

     Eventually, people forgot there had ever been another girl in the house when they looked at the glittering step-sisters, the jewels of their mother’s eye. But the girl herself did not forget. How could she, when the dust covered paintings stared down at her on the floor of the kitchen while she slept? How could she, when the trills of their laughter echoed down the bare halls while she scrubbed the stairs? How could she, when the scars from their beatings rippled across her skin while she scrubbed herself clean with the leftover water.

     As she grew older, their treatment of their step-sister/-daughter grew unsurprisingly even more cruel. Quiet words turned into forceful shoves. Forceful shoves turned into lashings. And so on. The girl ignored it all, forcing her anger deep down, putting on a brave face.

     The years went by, as they tend to do. The girl grew prettier, not that you could tell under the thin layer of dirt on her skin. Her step-family grew more despicable. One summer night, the letter came from court. I’m sure, dear reader, you already know what this letter contained, but for the sake of this sad tale, let me continue.

     It was an invitation to the ball, three weeks hence. Naturally, the step-mother was delighted for an opportunity to show her ghastly daughters off. She found their finest dresses, and demanded the girl spend the next three weeks cleaning and mending them for her daughters. The girl gladly accepted this task, her fingers tired of washing dishes and beating the carpets.

     The first week, she worked on the eldest daughter's dress. A horrid green number, it had spent many years in the back of a closet and was covered in webs and all manner of bugs. It also needed to be taken out, as it had been a long time since it had been worn, and the eldest daughter had taken a liking to the sweet fudge served after dinners.

     I watched the girl wash the dress in the tub, swirling the water gently over the pretty designs in the lace. She unpicked the sides of the dress, adding in a black swath of fabric either side in order for it to fit on the sister. She lowered the hem, and added a simple golden trim to the edge. The step sister fell in love with it as soon as she saw it.

     The second week, the girl spent with the youngest daughter, and her nightmare of a gown. All I should have to say about it was that it was yellow with blue thread. The girl washed it, took it in for her step-sister (her diet was as sour as her disposition), and added a few diamantes to the sleeves to make it sparkle. I can tell you, while I don’t have a gag reflex, the sight of that dress made me wish I did.

     The third week was for her step-mother’s dress. A simple silk number, even I have to agree it was very becoming. It did not need a lot of work, only a simple wash and press, but the girl made sure every inch of it was perfect. I watched her go over it all myself.

     The night before the ball, the house was full of a feeling I had not felt in a long time - excitement. The girl’s stepmother and stepsisters were in the sitting room, eager for the next day to begin, while the girl was washing up from dinner. Her step family had feasted on roast chicken and potatoes. The girl had cold peas and ham. I heard them call her up, and saw the look of fear on her face. I felt her dread as she passed me and crept up the stairs, her slippered feet dragged slowly upwards.

     I did not follow, but I did not need to. I hear the yelling, the demands, from my cubby in the kitchen well enough. I heard the china smash on the floor, the sobbing of the girl as she fled, the cruel laughter of the step-sisters chasing her out of the door. I’m sure I don’t need to go into details.

     She left the house as the light faded. I followed her as far as the edge of the garden, but she disappeared into the forest without looking back. I worried for her, pacing up and down the kitchen for what felt like hours before I heard the door open.

     Her face pale, dried tear tracks cutting through the ash on her face, she crossed the kitchen and silently made her way to the parlour, where the three dresses were waiting to be put on for the ball. Here is what she did:

     To the eldest step-sister’s dress, she took a handful of poison ivy and sewed it inside the dress, around the bodice and beneath the crinoline.

     To the youngest step-sister’s dress, she sewed feathers through the fabric at just the right angle to poke at her legs and arms constantly. She added a touch of fish scales inside the hemline.

     For the step-mother, I watched as she took a pair of scissors and made several cuts - I could not tell you exactly where - so that the dress would, at the right moment, with enough stress, fall to pieces and expose her step-mother to the world.

     She scooped up ash from the fireplace and mixed it in with their powder, and dripped candle wax over their shoes.

     Finally, the girl went down to the kitchen and curled up in front of the fire. For the first time in years, she slept with a smile on her face.

     The next evening, her stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball without suspecting a thing. Sure, the girls were itchy and uncomfortable as they left, and all three looked a little grey in the face, but I thought they looked very nice - for now.

     I watched from an upstairs window as they left in the carriage, and turned to see the girl dancing alone in the garden, truly alone for the first time in her life. I am sorry to say it lasted only mere hours.

     They were back before midnight, the carriage screaming down the road. I could hear their anger from my windowsill perch, and ran off to warn the girl, but she already knew. The triumphant fear on her face as her stepmother bore down on her was a sight I’ll never forget. My brave girl. Stupid, brave girl.

     I wish I could have protected her, but you know how these things go. They walked, the four of them, out through the garden, her stepsisters holding her tight by the arms, and melted into the forest. I sat with bated breath all night, waiting for them to return. When they did, the morning sunlight barely kissing the tops of the trees, it was without the girl.

     Years passed. The youngest daughter took on the chores left by the girl, and when she ran away, the eldest daughter did so too. The stepmother became a sad, lonely woman, alone in her home, until eventually, she left this world completely. 

     I will say, just to you, dear reader, that before she died, the stepmother was visited by a mysterious woman. No one knew much about her, other than years previously, she had stolen the heart of a prince, and had enjoyed many years of happy marriage with him. Her resemblance to my girl of old was uncanny, but naturally, a coincidence. 

     I do not know what she said to the old woman, for I too am old and cannot hear as well as I once did, but I know it was only a few days after that I was truly alone in that house.

Not all stories have a happy ending, dear reader, but perhaps we can say that maybe this one did. But what do I know? I wouldn’t blame you for listening to an old mouse ramble, but one must pass the time somehow, and this was a tale that needed to be told.