Page 2 of Of Curses and Courtship

“Poor thing.” I cup her in my hands and stand, looking about. “This isn’t a safe place for you, I’m afraid. Let us go to the woods. You’ll find friends there—beings who will help. Perhaps another pixie.”

She answers with a twinkle.

“I know.” I hold the pixie close to my chest and scurry into the woods that surround our gothic estate.

She will heal and rest there, and all will be well. This pixie will be free to fly wherever she pleases. In so many ways, I envy her.

My wings have been hidden for so long.

“Apologies,” I whisper. “If it were up to me, you could stay in my garden for as long as you’d like. Alas, it isn’t preciselymine—not that you would ever find my stepmother with her hands in the dirt, digging up carrots.”

Her next twinkle almost sounds like laughter.

I step into the darkened woods, and a cool shiver runs through me as I set the pixie on a tree branch. “Stay there until you heal. You’ll be safe.”

“Ophelia!” A wretched voice, loud enough to echo through the trees, cuts into my soul.

The pixie’s wings shake, as do my hands.

“Oh no. I must go.”

The music she creates sounds like a plea, like reluctance. The pixie wants me to stay, and oh, how I wish to. To leave the little thing alone elicits a guilt I can hardly swallow, but?—

“Ophelia!” There it is again. That hideous voice. “I am going to town, and you have not even begun your chores.”

“Blazes,” I mutter, stepping out of the woods and backinto what little sunlight remains. “This is what I get for trying to be helpful to someone aside from that horrible woman.”

I give the pixie a fleeting look before running inside.

“I’ve never knownwomen of your stature to be so messy.” I squeeze a sponge with both hands, dripping soapy water onto the floor.

My youngest stepsister, Raia, peers at me with earnest, round eyes.“We don’ttryto make such messes.”

“Frankly,” my other stepsister, Elisa, says, “I blame Mama. You’ve no idea how often we ask her to remove her shoes indoors, but she doesn’t listen.”

“I can imagine,” I mutter. “She enjoys giving me more work, doesn’t she?”

I shouldn’t complain about living in such a lovely home. Then again, I’m the one who does the brunt of the cleaning, keeping it as beautiful as it is. The chestnut floors wouldn’t be polished if not for me. The beauty of the place—from the stained glass windows to the vibrant red rug—does little to ease my frustrations.

These days, I hardly notice how attractive our home is, but it was oh-so lovely when I was young. I would wrap myself up in the curtains and admire the sunlight that peeks through the windows. My father would play jovial tunes on the piano, and I would reveal myself, dancing and twirling around the room as if our home was a palace and I was the princess.

Father certainly made me feel that way, for a time. Long before he met Lady Ashbridge.

The only music to enjoy now is my squabbling stepsisters. Growing up is a bothersome thing.

My stepsisters are hardly any help. They flit around the room with feather dusters, and I know I must redo whichever task they attempt. Try as they might, cleaning is not among their many skills.

My stepsisters were trained to play the piano with expertise, their lithe fingers able to dance along the keys in a furious flash. They were taught to charm, make connections, and—above all—to always obey their mother. They were not trained to join me on the floor. Their hands are still delicate while mine, once so much like theirs, are red and raw from a day of work.

Only I live in the dirt, with bruised knees and a broken spirit.

I scrub harder.

“You must not let her hear you speak that way,” Raia says.

“How could she hear me?” I blow my hair out of my face, craning my neck up. “She left half an hour ago.”

“She may come back at any moment,” Elisa says. “There’s no such thing as being too careful when it comes to Mama.”