Read Cinderella: Ninja Warrior Online
Authors: Maureen McGowan
Tags: #Fairy Tales & Folklore, #Juvenile Fiction, #Adaptations, #Interactive Adventures
Cinderella: Ninja Warrior (2 page)
Max pushed his paw against her leg and stretched while she scratched him.
“You’re a clever cat, Maxie. Did you find any mice today?”
He flicked his tail.
“Maybe tomorrow Agatha or Gwendolyn will leave some milk in their porridge bowls and I can give you a treat.” He rubbed up against her side. “Speaking of treats, I’m dying of thirst.” Max twisted on the bed and pawed at the burlap sack. “Yes, I know I should practice.” She put her hands on her hips. “Is it too much to ask if I have a small sip of water first?”
Max meowed and rubbed his back on the rough burlap.
Turning to the cupboard on the wall opposite the fireplace, Cinderella reached a hand toward her pewter goblet on the top shelf, above the beautiful crystal and bone china dishes that were reserved for the rest of her family.
Concentrating, she focused on connecting her hand to the goblet.
Come to me, goblet.
Come to me, goblet.
Her fingers tingled and the goblet wobbled, but it didn’t move off the shelf. She dropped her arm in defeat.
Who was she kidding? Her magic wasn’t that strong. To do something that purposeful, she needed a wand and instructions.
She carried her stool from the side of the planked table to the cupboard and, after tucking the bottom hem of her torn skirt into the waistband of her pantaloons, climbed onto the stool’s scratched seat. Balancing barefoot on the wobbly stool, she stretched up to reach her goblet.
She snagged it, the stool tipped, and she shot one leg and her arms to the sides to catch her balance. Still on one leg, she let the stool tip to one side, then the other, as her body stretched out in all directions.
Striving to keep her balance, she found her center, brought her limbs in, leaped high into the air, tucked her knees into her chest, and executed a perfect somersault, landing on her toes without a sound.
Max raised his head from the bed and meowed to her, his bright green eyes sparkling.
“Why, thank you, Max.” She pulled the frayed fabric of her skirt from her pantaloons and curtsied. “It
was
an excellent one-footed backflip, wasn’t it?”
was
an excellent one-footed backflip, wasn’t it?”
She grinned.
There I go again, talking to my cat.
Clearly, she spent too much time alone.
There I go again, talking to my cat.
Clearly, she spent too much time alone.
Max pawed at the burlap sack.
“Okay, okay, I’ll practice. But it’s too dangerous to bring out the book during the day. You know that, Max.” Cinderella preferred to wait until everyone else in the house was asleep before trying anything. There was more room to train in the garden, where she worked alone at night. Besides, if her stepmother knew she’d inherited any of her real mother’s abilities, she’d make the entrapment spells even more restrictive.
Holding the goblet in front of her, Cinderella bent her legs to lower herself into a crouch, and then spun and leaped, kicking and chopping at an imaginary foe as she crossed the room to reach the pump. Once there, she pushed down on the handle until fresh water flowed from its spout, and then eagerly set her goblet under the stream to catch the crisp, ice-cold water from deep in the well, her reward for the past twelve hours of grueling work.
Not seeing her stepmother or her stepsisters for four hours had been a fine reward, too. It was unusual for them to leave her alone for so long. She glanced at the single window of thick glass that she’d long ago given up trying to break. The pane was too thick and probably enchanted to give it extra strength. Given the angle of the shadows on this long spring evening, she figured there was less than two hours before darkness set in, the back door opened, and the wolves came out.
But what if something had happened to her stepmother? She had been gone a long time. Would the entrapment spells be broken if her stepmother was killed? Maybe one of the doors out of the house would open before nighttime arrived.
Cinderella set down the goblet and dashed to the cellar door that led up the steep, damp stone staircase into the garden. Taking a deep breath, she pulled on the iron handle.
It didn’t move an inch—not even a wiggle. The garden door was sealed as it always was when the sun was up, just like every other exit from the house. She slumped against the door. As impossible as it seemed, she believed that someday she’d find a way to escape.
Balanced in a one-armed handstand, Cinderella slowly scissored her legs, concentrating on maintaining her balance. Suddenly, a cackling laugh shattered the peaceful silence of the house. Startled, Cinderella wobbled for a moment before catching her balance, and then stepped out of her handstand.
Her stepsisters, Agatha and Gwendolyn, were home.
She pulled her navy skirt back on over her pantaloons and draped her bibbed apron on top, wrapping the grayed ties twice around her waist before smoothing her hands down the coarsely woven fabric.
The heels of her stepsisters’ shoes thumped a hard rhythm above her, making the floorboards groan.
“My feet are killing me.” Gwendolyn’s shrill voice carried through the floor.
“Mine, too,” Agatha said. “Cinderella! Oh, Cinderella!”
Cinderella took a sip of her water.
“Cinderella!” both sisters shouted at once, and the floorboards above her head shook again.
She gave Max one last scratch under his chin before starting up the rickety wooden stairs. Stepping into the parlor, she found Agatha and Gwendolyn sprawled on a pair of matching brocade chairs in front of the fireplace, the mantel of which—like every other surface in the room—was covered with her stepmother’s collection of glass animal figurines. Cinderella wasn’t entirely convinced that some hadn’t once been live animals, and hoped she wouldn’t one day find Max sitting on this shelf.
“There you are.” Agatha, the younger of the two sisters, wrinkled her nose as she spoke. “Help me with my slippers. They’re pinching my dainty little feet.”
“Certainly, Sister.” Cinderella tried hard not to laugh. Agatha’s lush red curls and smooth, peachy complexion were undoubtedly beautiful, but her feet were anything but dainty. Agatha’s feet matched the considerable height she’d inherited from her equally statuesque mother.
Agatha’s dark red satin dress fit her perfectly, and the ivory ribbon at her bust complemented her pale skin nicely. But any pride Cinderella felt in her own skills as a seamstress was outweighed by resentment. How could she be fully proud of something she’d been forced to make? Especially when she didn’t possess one nice dress herself. The only clothes she had, she was wearing.
She silently admonished herself. Envy wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“ Take mine off first,” Gwendolyn said, lifting her silk-covered arms above her head.“You put the wrong size slippers on my poor feet today.” She tugged on one of the deep brown ringlets dropping down from the elaborate hairstyle Cinderella had spent an hour on that morning, and then stretched her long, lean limbs forward on the white rug to reveal her huge feet, bent and pinched into pink slippers two sizes too small. Both sets of her sisters’ shoes were coated in filth; Cinderella’s gaze followed a muddy trail across the room.
More floor scrubbing would be one of her next chores, and it would take hours to clean the muck out of the rug—not to mention the shoes.
She knelt down before Gwendolyn to tackle her first assignment. She searched in vain for one clean spot on the silk shoes that would take hours of meticulous work to turn back to their previous pink, but could find none. She tugged at the heel.
“Careful.” Gwendolyn kicked her in the shoulder and Cinderella fell onto her bottom.
“Do you think we’ll be invited to the royal ball?” Agatha asked her sister, ignoring Cinderella.
Cinderella pulled herself off the floor and turned her back to Gwendolyn to gain the necessary leverage for prying the shoe from her stepsister’s foot. More dirt scattered onto the white rug.
“Of course we will, silly.” Gwendolyn’s knee bumped Cinderella’s back. “Get out of the way, you stupid, ugly girl. Why aren’t my shoes off yet?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Agatha said. “Prince Tiberius needs a wife. Any fine family with unmarried daughters is sure to be invited.”
“Especially those families whose daughters are both unmarried and beautiful, such as us,” Gwendolyn said, and both girls giggled.
Goosebumps rose on Cinderella’s arms. Yes, her stepsisters were beautiful, but what husband would want to live with their ugly laughs?
Cinderella smiled at her own joke as she pulled Gwendolyn’s shoes off, and then removed Agatha’s. After bundling the shoes into her arms, she stood.
“Cinderella, where’s my tonic?” Gwendolyn screeched. “You know if I don’t take my tonic soon after my evening meal, I suffer from indigestion.” She burped loudly. The strong stench of onions and gas made Cinderella feel faint. On the nights her family ate out, the lack of table scraps meant Cinderella didn’t eat a single morsel.
She glanced to the carafe of tonic sitting on the side table not four feet from her stepsister. Would it kill Gwen to stand and pour herself a drink? “I’ll fetch your tonic as soon as I take these shoes to the cellar for cleaning.” Cinderella started for the door.
“Get it now, you lazy girl!” Gwen stood and pulled Cinderella’s blonde hair, yanking her back.
“Ow!” Cinderella dropped one of the shoes and more dirt scattered onto the carpet.
“You clumsy thing.” Agatha kicked the shoe out of Cinderella’s reach just as she was about to retrieve it and looked up to Gwen, as if seeking approval.
“Clumsy and lazy.” Gwendolyn kicked the shoe again. “This room is filthy—look at the trail of mud—and I still don’t have my tonic.”
Cinderella dropped all the shoes to the floor. “It wasn’t me who tracked mud in, it was you. And the tonic’s right there. Pour it yourself. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Busy?” Gwendolyn stood, indignant. “You ungrateful brat. How could you possibly be busy? You stay in this house all day long. Your only responsibility is to do a little tidying, while Agatha and I are tasked with all the important duties.”
“Yes,” Agatha added. “We do everything.”
Towering a good eight inches above Cinderella’s diminutive frame, Gwendolyn shoved her. “You have no worries, no serious duties to perform. You have no need to shop, or pick out an outfit each day, or ensure your handbag matches your slippers.”
Cinderella bit her tongue. Her stepsisters had terrible taste and relied on her to select their clothes each day. Not that Gwen was likely to admit it out loud.
“Goodness knows she never does anything with her hair,” Agatha said, and smiled at Gwen.
“Why bother?” Gwendolyn sneered. “That straight, stringy stuff? It looks like straw.” Cinderella fumed as Gwendolyn patted the deep brown hair that Cinderella had spent hours twisting and coiling that morning.
She couldn’t help it if her own hair was limp and straight. If she stole a fraction of the time she spent on her stepsisters’ hair each morning for herself, her own hair would show a great deal of improvement. The one time she’d managed to sneak some of her stepsisters’ hair soap and use hot water, her hair had shone like gold when she passed through a sunbeam.
“Speaking of grooming”—Gwendolyn’s lip curled into a sneer—“does she even bathe?”
“Oh, Gwen, you’re terrible.” Agatha lifted a hand to her lips.
Gwendolyn smiled at her sister. “At least the soot on her cheeks almost covers those hideous freckles.” The two stepsisters giggled.
Cinderella drew deep breaths to calm herself, remembering her ninja training.
Sticks and stones,
she thought.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones,
she thought.
Sticks and stones.
“No wonder she’s never asked to attend the endless luncheons and teas and banquets and balls we frequent,” Gwendolyn said.
“I wish
I
could stay home all day.” Agatha plopped back onto her chair. “We have so many obligations.”
I
could stay home all day.” Agatha plopped back onto her chair. “We have so many obligations.”
“She has no idea how hard we work.” Gwendolyn crossed her arms and glared at Cinderella.
The deep breathing was not working for Cinderella and she wondered if ninjas ever had to deal with people as horrible as her stepsisters. Agatha and Gwendolyn wouldn’t recognize work if it stepped up to shake their manicured hands.
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