Eleven
C in had just dissipated the last of his flock’s magic and locked the kitchen door behind him when Emma and Manfred pounded on the front entrance, Louise calling around the side of the house for the carriage to be retrieved.
What relief Cin felt turned quickly to annoyance, then exhaustion as his siblings bickered and protested over irrelevant nonsense.
The moment they made their way to bed, their mother proceeded to describe just how Floy had taken it upon themself to stay at the ball longer, how honorable a sacrifice it had been, and how of course she’d left money for their travel home at the city’s carriage-house.
Once Louise finally finished her dramatic speech and turned in, however, it left Cin with another hour of work and nothing to preoccupy him but his growing fatigue, the effervescent pain in his sides, and the thought of Floy still at the ball.
The ball, to which Prince Lorenz had surely returned, giving his attention to guests who could actually accept his hand in marriage, and all that would follow such a union.
One of those guests might even be Floy. Imagining that—Floy dancing with the prince, holding him, whispering of their perfect life and wooing him with the many talents they’d honed—made Cin sick to his stomach.
But when he tried to picture himself there instead, a part of that crowd seeking the prince’s lifelong partnership, all he could think of was the price the crown had rightfully levied on his head, the watch stationed around every turn of the ballroom, and then, the way Emma would call for him after a bad dream or a hard fall, like Cin was the only thing keeping her together.
No, his place was here. With her, with his family, being the only bit of good and pious he could manage.
Even when he hated it.
T he next morning, Cin took one look at the mirror in the hall and froze.
Slowly, he lifted his fingers to the round, tender bruise on his neck.
It sat just where the prince’s mouth had been.
Cin’s stomach fluttered. A part of him almost wanted his siblings to see it—to know he, the Cinder-whore, had someone willing to mark their affection upon his skin.
But that would lead to more questions, and when he didn’t answer them, to more scrutiny.
Grabbing his scarf from the kitchen, he wrapped it carefully around his neck and tucked the ends into his shirt.
They made lumps against his chest binding.
The tight wrapping seemed to pinch especially hard around his ribs as Cin struggled through his work, tired and sore and daydreaming of the prince.
His trio of pigeons sat nearby whenever he was outside, and when he moved into the house, they perched by the windows and hopped across the kitchen stoop.
The sight of them got him through the grumbles and snaps of his family, until Louise finally demanded Cin pick her up a new ledger book from town.
“Ribbons!” Emma added, throwing herself dramatically over the back of the couch where her mother sat. “I want a pair of ribbons for my dress! Blue and white, to match my gloves. Please, please?”
“I need a new hat,” Manfred added.
Cin swore Floy muttered under their breath, “What you need is a new brain...”
Then the room broke into shouting as Emma and Manfred argued with Louise over who deserved what most. Cin slipped out the back. He could feel Floy’s eyes on him as he left, prickling against his neck like they could see straight through the weathered fabric of his scarf.
By the time he reached town, he was winded inside his binder and had to loosen his scarf twice.
He rested in the square, the hustle and bustle moving around him, and stared in newfound wonder at the towers glinting on the horizon.
He had been there—toured through one of those very towers with none other than the Prince of Hallin himself—and he wanted to shout it to every passing townsperson who seemed bent on ignoring him.
After so many eyes on him the previous night, it felt odd, suddenly, to be delegated to the background once more.
Out in the open, and yet no one to actually see him, for him .
Not that there would ever be anyone to see him in his entirety.
He could be the Plumed Menace, or the good and pious sibling, or the man who’d bantered and danced and come on the prince’s fingertips, but not all three. Not for anyone but himself.
A hand clasped onto Cin’s shoulder from behind. He inhaled, spinning to face the stranger. His throat caught at the sight of her. “Mrs. Earhart?”
Widow Dorthe Earhart was dressed in a short blue frock and trousers, her hair neatly done up and a single black ribbon of mourning at her throat. Her cheeks glowed with color. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” She smiled at Cin, and quieter she added, “I just… wanted to thank you.”
Cin’s stomach still dropped out from under him. She’d known. All this time? It had been two weeks—two weeks since he’d come face to face with her in the darkness, her late husband’s corpse cooling down the street and his blood still staining the inside of Cin’s cloak.
But maybe, maybe it wasn’t that—or she was pressing on purpose, hoping he’d acknowledge it?
Cin’s gaze went instantly to the street corners and shop fronts around them, searching for any sign of the crown’s watch hiding in wait.
Setting him up seemed too cruel for what he knew of Dorthe, but he couldn’t risk discounting it entirely, even if the square itself seemed as quiet and peaceful as she did.
Cin tucked his scarf tighter and tried to look confused instead of terrified. “Thank me for what?”
“The sugar, of course.” She pushed her hair behind her ear, and her gaze dropped. “And you know, everything else.”
Everything else .
But there was only one other thing Cin had ever done for her. His heart ached at the thought that this was real, that he had done something right—something right for Dorthe, anyway. It couldn’t wash the blood from his hands, but there was a peace in that, at least.
Hoarse and still a little wary, he replied, “You’re welcome. For the sugar, I mean.”
A flush spread across Dorthe’s cheeks. She was quite pretty, Cin realized, now that she had the space to be herself: lightly plump, with soft hair and long lashes, perhaps five or six years Cin’s senior—around the prince’s age, Cin figured.
“Good. I, um, thank you.” She laughed awkwardly—so sweet and embarrassed that Cin felt bad even thinking she had been trying to set him up, even if he hadn’t quite managed to pull his attention away from the space around them. “I suppose I just said that.”
“Yes, well, it’s no problem,” Cin replied. He tried to smile for her, and thought he almost managed it. “I’m just happy that you’re safe.”
“Thank you.” Dorthe bobbed her head, and turned away—nearly—shifting half back a moment later, not quite making eye contact with Cin.
“You know,” she said, even more softly, “Once it’s appropriate, I’d like to pursue someone new.
” The flush in her cheeks strengthened. “I’d be honored if you’d consider me. ”
The thought hit Cin like a blow to the head: a dizzying, breathless rush as a blur of imagery poured with it.
He tried to see himself moving out of the family house, slipping into a home where Dorthe’s soft singing filled every room, waking up to her smile and laughing as they made their dinner, never afraid that she wouldn’t know the whole him.
Perhaps he’d take over the position the late Mr. Earhart had vacated at their local inn—learn the trade well enough to open a place himself, with Dorthe at his side and a couple of adopted children underfoot.
It felt like a good life—a great life.
Just not Cin’s life.
“I mostly like men,” he managed, awkwardly, tugging at his scarf again.
It was an excuse. Maybe he could be attracted to Dorthe, or maybe he couldn’t, but hers was likely one of the best offers he’d receive.
She was beautiful, in her way, and Cin knew regardless of his own attractions that he could find it in himself to give her anything she needed, if he could find it in himself to give her anything at all.
But that was the problem: he couldn’t. He couldn’t be hers.
He already belonged to the Reinholzes, didn’t he?
His family needed him, and the house, if it was to stay warm, and the garden, if it was to grow anything good, and this just wasn’t the right time to leave them, if there was a time at all.
He had to be good in this, as good as his birth mother had wished for him, and leaving his family for anyone, even Dorthe Earhart, was as selfish an act as strapping his blade to his back when he’d left to follow her husband that night.
Dorthe must have picked up on Cin’s emotions, because her blush deepened, though it seemed with a different kind of embarrassment this time. “I’m so sorry. Please forget I suggested it.” She turned to go.
Cin wasn’t sure what came over him, but in that moment he couldn’t let her leave feeling unwanted. He grabbed her arm gently, slipping in front of her. “Dorthe?”
She looked a little haunted, but she paused for him.
“You deserve someone amazing,” Cin said. “You’ll find that person. It’s not me, but they’re out there.”
A hint of Dorthe’s smile returned. She placed her hand over Cin’s and squeezed. This time as she walked away, she held her head up and her shoulders back. She would be okay... because of Cin. It didn’t make his murders right, but it was something, at least. Something good.
Though a small part of him still worried over her knowing his identity—even with no malicious intent on her part, there were so many ways this could go wrong—it was almost worth it just to have someone, anyone, see who he was.
It almost made him want to run after her, not to accept her offer, but to counter it with friendship.
The longer he thought of it, though, the harder it seemed to get his feet to move or his voice to call out.
He’d already given in to his desire for the ball, for the prince—and those, at least, would be short-term.
What time did he have to selfishly waste on a friendship with Dorthe?
What right did he have to ask that of a woman who’d already been through so much?
She deserved the space to find herself an amazing partner.
If he could not bear to give that to Prince Lorenz, at least he could give it to her.
Cin pulled his emotions back together and forced himself to move along.
The local shop had not replenished their last stock of ledger books, but the shopkeeper directed Cin to another in the town over where their supply was likely better.
It would be a bit of a trek for a simple book, but he had no particular interest in being home at the moment.
Before he left, he bought one of the cheaper blue ribbons in the tailor’s shop.
Louise would complain, but the joy that would come over Emma’s face was worth the trouble.
Cin followed the north road through the scattered farms, houses, and woods that out-skirted most towns in the region, his binder aching against his ribs.
The sound of a man’s shouting and a woman’s crying caught his attention.
He thought of Dorthe—her smile, her blush—and before he could stop himself, he was slipping through the trees, perfectly quiet in his magical shoes.
The home was barely off the path, a four-room structure with the back door open to the well.
A middle-aged woman fled through it as she sobbed.
She crumpled on the far side of the well, her hands over her eyes.
The sleeves of her dress slipped down, revealing a series of purple bruises like claw-marks.
Cin could still hear the man inside the house, slamming and clattering. He seemed done with her for now, at least. Cin made a vow to come back, though—perhaps this was a rare occurrence—perhaps there was some explanation Cin wasn’t seeing. By the darkness of those bruises though, he doubted it.
And next time, he’d have his knife with him.
T he home off the north road was quiet the next few times Cin visited that week, but his own house made up for it with the chaos that seemed to erupt at every turn.
The high of the ball that weekend turned to a low of arguments, Manfred going so far as to hit Floy in the jawline, which they blamed—rightfully—on Cin because he’d dodged a similar blow minutes before, after the breakfast had been eaten without saving any for Manfred.
It hardly seemed to matter that it was boiled duck eggs and bread, which even Manfred could manage on his own.
Somehow, Cin made it to the next ball-night without murdering any of his family members, forcing a fake smile as he waved them off in the carriage. The moment they were out of sight, he whirled around and sprinted for the garden. He swore his magical steed had never run so fast.
When Cin arrived at the castle, the line for the entrance appeared longer than usual, but as he waited in it, he realized it was simply moving slower.
The guards—all a part of the crown’s watch now—scanned through a series of papers as they spoke with each participant before determining which to allow in and which to deny.
As Cin counted, it seemed at least half of those who’d been deemed acceptable before were being turned away.
His stomach twisted and he could feel his nerves transfer to his mount as it danced from foot to foot in line.
He told himself that with so many barred from entry, it could not have anything to do with the Plumed Menace.
But if not their sins, what would the attendees be judged on?
Perhaps the only the most elite families were being admitted.
Perhaps the most beautiful. Perhaps the most good. Cin fit none of those.
When he reached the front, the watch member barely glanced at him.
“Full name and hometown?” they asked.
Cin swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Cin—Szule Reinholz, from the village of Darmburg.”
The watch member scanned through their papers, pausing for longer in a few places, before shaking their head. “Unfortunately you’ve not been included in the reservations for this gathering.”
Cin felt as though the world were caving in around him.