The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (4 page)

Uh...because I need to marry Elle to the prince and return to the real world?

I pretend to be interested in my plate of bacon and baked beans. “Just curious.”

“She probably is dying to see the palace again,” Bianca says, dipping a piece of blueberry scone into coffee. Her movement is smooth, elegant. Not a single crumb falls on the table. I couldn’t do that in a million years.

Madam sniffs. “You’ll get your chance when you are presented to the queen. But I will only allow you to go if Pierre proclaims you are presentable. I will not have one daughter of mine wrecking the marriage prospects of my other.”

I have no idea about being presented to the queen (sounds scary), but I do understand she doesn’t want me hanging around if I don’t behave like a lady. This is so like
Pride and Prejudice
. Now I’m Lydia who stands in the way of Jane and Elizabeth’s paths toward marrying up.

I rack my brain. Looks like there isn’t going to be a ball anytime soon. In that case, I have to persuade the prince to hold one. But to see the prince, I have to go to the palace first.

What is this ‘presenting’ thing, anyway?

As it turns out, preparing to be presented to the queen is a LOT of work.

Once breakfast is over, I am told to go with Bianca to the ground floor, which has this huge living room. I glance around in awe. Of all the rooms I have been in, this is the grandest of them all. It has a high ceiling, polished wood paneling with brackets for flowers, heavy curtains parted to show tall narrow windows with glass cases holding an assortment of ferns. Gilt-framed pictures depicting landscapes and people cover the walls. On one side is a shiny black piano surrounded by stools and potted plants. A black walnut table and matching chairs are arranged close to the fireplace, leaving most of the floor bare except for a thick carpet. I am puzzled by the lack of furniture, but soon I learn that it’s done on purpose. The table and chairs are pushed out of the way so Bianca and I can practice for our presentation to the queen.

Get this: we have to spend the entire morning in ridiculously long dresses with trains as long as those worn in weddings and
walk backward
. With the trains sweeping behind us. Supermodels have to balance books on their heads, but this takes the cake.

The etiquette master, Monsieur Pierre, supervises us walking. He’s a middle-aged man, tall and angular, with a perfectly curled moustache, cuffs on his sleeves, tights, puffy shorts, and boots. Like a Shakespearean actor.

“Well done, Miss Bradshaw. That is absolutely perfect,” he cries, clapping his hands. Of course Bianca executes the backward exit like a professional. I wonder if she could pull off Michael Jackson’s moonwalk if I showed her a YouTube clip.

I giggle—Bianca in a ball gown doing the moonwalk? MJ would turn over in his grave.

Pierre turns on me, a disdainful frown on his face. “What are you laughing at, Miss Katriona?”

“Nothing. My bad—I mean, I beg your pardon.” I try to arrange my face into a blank expression.

“Then let us see your execution.” Pierre walks to my right side—maybe my side profile looks better—and Bianca stays on the left, arms crossed. She has a smug look on her face. Clearly, she expects me to trip and fall on my face.

“Now, pretend that vase is the queen.” Pierre gestures toward this giant china vase filled with roses and ferns, which is set on a high table right in front of me, “and keep your eyes focused on it while you perform the curtsy. Remember, a court curtsy differs greatly from the one in a minuet or gavotte. Bend your head slightly when you sink to the floor. Transfer your weight to your left foot when you rise. Keep the corners of your mouth turned upwards. Do NOT show your teeth!”

I have no idea about the purpose of this stupid practice, but Madam says I can’t go to the palace without behaving like a lady. And if I can’t go to the palace, how am I going to ask the prince to throw the ball?

All right. Here goes.

According to his instructions, I stand with my feet slightly apart. Then I move the left foot sideways, draw it in a circular motion, and place it behind my right foot. Pierre tells me I should rest on the toe only, but I ignore him. Keeping my balance is far more important. And besides, who can tell through this dastardly long gown?

It takes multiple curtsies until Pierre grudgingly tells me I can continue with exiting backward. With a sigh of relief, I lift my right foot carefully and place it a step back. Solid ground, thank God. On to the next foot.

“Look straight ahead, Miss Katriona! Don’t turn your head, there’s no hound waiting to snap at your heels! Keep your eyes focused on the vase and SMILE! You aren’t going to impress the queen with that wooden expression pasted on your face!”

Pierre waves his hands frantically, as though the harder he flaps, the quicker I can master this. He should be a comedian—he’s hilarious even when he isn’t trying.

In the fraction of a second when I fail to concentrate on moving backward, my left foot slips.

“Aaaaaah!”

Now it’s my turn to flap my arms like a startled hen. I try to regain my balance, fail, and topple over. My bum hits the floor, hard.

Bianca regards me with cold contempt. Even though I’m rooting for Elle, I can’t help thinking that Bianca looks more queenly, more regal. I can’t picture Elle sitting on the throne, holding a scepter, giving orders.

Pierre groans, his shoulders slumped. “And I thought you had improved, Miss Katriona! Even when you are at your worst, you never fall on the floor.”

If I didn’t have a mission to visit the palace, I’d tear off the train and throw it at him. I don’t care about seeing the queen. But I have to.

So I get up, dust off my hands, and try again. Again and again. Pierre is fed up with me and banishes me to a room next door so he can see to Bianca’s dancing lessons. Obviously she shows a lot more promise than me.

Too eager to leave, I get stuck in the doorway. That stupid crinoline under my skirt wedges in the door frame. Pierre groans audibly. I have to turn around and adjust my position until I can safely pass through.

Once I shut the door, I sink on the floor (as far as the crinoline allows), my feet aching and my bum bruised and sore. I miss my family. I want to go home. I want to tear off this heavy fancy gown, slip into comfy sweatpants and a T-shirt, and curl up on the sofa with a book. Being a lady is tiring and frustrating, not to mention boring.

“Miss Katriona?”

Elle’s voice, soft and hesitant. I didn’t even hear her come in.

“Are you all right?” she whispers anxiously. “Where are Miss Bianca and Master Pierre?”

“They’ve eloped.”

At her gasp and look of sheer horror, I quickly amend, “I’m just kidding. They’re still in the main room. Bianca’s practicing her dancing.”

Elle looks visibly relieved. “What’s that word you said—kidding?”

Oops.

“Forget about it,” I say, and quickly switch the subject. “Elle, can you do me a favor? Don’t tell anyone about my fading memory. I...” I search my mind for an explanation. “I don’t want to be sent to an asylum.”

Her hand flies to her mouth. “Miss Katriona! How could you possibly believe Madam would do that!”

“I know, she’s my...my mother,” I say. It isn’t easy saying it. That woman looks nothing like Mom. “Anyway, can you please not tell the others? It’s only a bump on the head. Soon I’ll be back to normal.”

She looks a bit frightened, but nods. “I promise. It would be unfair if you had to suffer consequences because of that fall.”

“Yeah, losing my memory is bad enough.” I stand up. “Okay, so here’s my first question: why does Pierre insist that I must be presented to the queen? Did I do some honorable, worthy deed that merited it? Scratch that, Bianca’s also going. So what’s the deal with it anyway?”

“Why, it’s customary for young ladies to be presented when they’re of age. You are seventeen, so it’s about time. When you are presented, it’s an announcement that you are on the marriage market.”

Marriage! Geez, I’m barely surviving high school, let alone marriage.

Oh well. Whatever it takes to get to the palace. Once the prince agrees to throw the ball, the next on the list will be...

“Do you have a fairy—er—do you have a godmother, Elle?”

She gives me a blank look.

“No.”

I should have seen this coming. If Elle knew she had a fairy godmother, she would have begged for help long ago and not let herself be trampled upon like a doormat.

I put both hands on my head. I can’t do this. The other stepsister is drop-dead gorgeous. The prince would have to be blind to pick Elle over Bianca. My only hope is that the fairy godmother, with her magic, can transform Elle into a more stunning person somehow. But where is the fairy godmother?

Damn. Where’s Google Search when you need it?

“Tell me more about this place,” I say finally. “This country, the monarchy, everything.”

FIVE

By the time we start lunch, I have learned a couple things. The family name is Bradshaw. Lady Bradshaw, whom they call “Madam,” is the widow of Earl Bradshaw, who used to live in the countryside, someplace called Lochden. Bianca is a year older than me and ten times snottier. This country is called Athelia and is currently ruled by King Leon and Queen Isolde. I tried to acquire info about the prince, but unfortunately, Elle doesn’t know anything about him.

During lunch, Lady Bradshaw is displeased that I made zero progress—or rather, I regressed—in my performance.

“There is no way I can have you presented to the queen if you lack the ability to walk,” she says, slicing into a lamb chop. “I have already scheduled for Bianca to present in three weeks. If you fail at presenting, then I have no choice but to let her go alone.”

My fork falls on the plate with a loud clatter; I choke on my goblet of water. Which only makes things worse. Both Lady Bradshaw and Bianca shoot me looks of disgust.

“How many times have I told you,” Lady Bradshaw says icily, “that you do not eat and drink at the same time. Really, Katriona, your recent behavior is disgusting.”

“In fact, hardly anyone could tell we’re related,” Bianca says, not even bothering to glance at my direction.

Lady Bradshaw looks apprehensive. “My dear, I would not want anything to have the potential to affect your reputation. We must tread carefully if you...” she pauses and gives Bianca a meaningful glance, “if you are to be permanently installed in the palace.”

For the first time, I catch a flicker of nervousness in Bianca’s eyes. It does not become her cool, composed character. I guess when it comes to Prince Charming, even the beauty queen isn’t so sure of herself.

“We have to pay calls this afternoon,” Bianca says stiffly. “Perhaps I can learn something new, if I can manage to convince some of the girls to confide in me.”

“Indeed. Let us hope that the prince will announce his intentions of marrying soon. However indifferent he may appear to the idea, a man of his rank and position will require a wife.”

Bianca rises. “I must go and change now. Katriona, I suggest you leave that apricot pudding alone. It will be most detrimental to your figure.”

Her tone is so condescending that I am tempted to ladle two of said puddings on my plate.

“Katriona,” Lady Bradshaw says severely, “go with your sister.”

Once I return to my room, Elle peels away the silver gown along with the train (finally it’s off!), folds the garment over a chair, and goes to my wardrobe.

“Why do we have to pay calls?” I whisper. “Actually, what do you do when you pay calls? Sorry, I still don’t remember this part.”

“You pay visits to other young ladies of your social circle, and they do the same. It’s an important way of forming acquaintances and learning of important events.”

Important events. Yeah, I’d definitely want to go and see if I can pick up something useful. Pity they don’t use Facebook or Twitter.

“So it’s just hanging out with your friends,” I say, and realize I used another modernism. “Um, is there anything I should observe when paying calls?”

Elle hesitates. “I have never been instructed in the etiquette of calling, but I’m sure you won’t have to worry when Miss Bianca’s there with you. Just follow whatever she does.”

Urgh, I doubt that will be simple. I’ve never been good at socializing. But I have to go.

When Elle is done, I am wearing a chocolate-brown dress that reaches my ankles, thick-soled boots, a woolen mantle, brown gloves, and a velvet bonnet. My eyes bulge when I see my reflection—it looks like I’ve just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel.

“Can’t I go without this?” I tug on my bonnet strings.

Elle looks puzzled. “But Miss Katriona, you spent half your pocket money for that bonnet, and you’ve only worn it twice.”

Oops. I guess I’ll let it go this time. Better try to act more like the old Katriona.

Bianca is already waiting for me by the carriage with her arms crossed. She’s frowning and she keeps tapping her fingers on her upper arms. “Hurry, the roads can be crowded when everyone’s out,” she says. Then she addresses a young man who’s holding a horse whip by the carriage. “Van, make sure you drive round the puddles. Mother would be furious if the new carriage were splashed with mud.”

“Yes, Miss Bianca,” the man nods eagerly, his cheeks going pink. “I’ll be sure to pay attention.”

“See that you do.” Bianca ignores his proffered hand and enters the carriage without difficulty. I try to do the same, but my gloves make it hard to grip for support. I slip once, bang my elbow on the door, then barrel into the carriage. Bianca rolls her eyes and mutters, “Clumsy oaf.”

As the carriage rolls along, I can’t help noticing the city—this new city I just arrived in. It feels like I’ve stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or like being Harry Potter, entering Diagon Alley for the first time.

The road is paved with cobblestones, not cement, which makes the ride a hard, bumpy one. Thank God our carriage is lined with cushions. Bianca bears every jerk and jostle with a perfectly normal face, while I squeak and groan, wishing I could stand instead. Despite multiple layers of clothing, I believe my bum could still get bruised. But it’s not just the ride itself that’s unpleasant. After a while, the tall, stately townhouses gradually disappear, the streets start getting narrower and more crowded, the air reeks of horse manure and smoke and ew, sewage waste. Flower-sellers, broadsheet boys, and street collectors holler and shout as they mingle with the traffic; it’s amazing how they navigate through the horses and carriages and carts. There’s even a live band with bagpipes and violins and drums. I put my hands to my ears until we pass; the cacophony of noises from the band and street sellers is deafening.