Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron

Author:Kalynn Bayron [Bayron, Kalynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult Fiction, Romance, Lgbt, Fairy Tales & Folklore, Adaptations, Girls & Women
ISBN: 9781547603879
Google: _FsbxwEACAAJ
Amazon: 1547603879
Publisher: Bloomsbury YA
Published: 2020-07-06T22:00:00+00:00

21

A woman emerges from the shadows of the covered porch. She stands on the stoop like a ghost, melding with the dark. The enormous crow that has been following us sits on the broken porch rail next to her. She runs her hand down its back, and it takes off, winging its way over the treetops. Constance steps in front of me, hand on her dagger. The old woman hums the haunting melody. Her eyes, black as coal, move over us. Her withered skin creases as she smiles wide.

“You’re a long way from home,” she says, her voice raspy and low. “I can always tell when someone is close by. The wolves begin to howl. They’re quite hungry this time of year.”

Neither of us move. The woman walks to the edge of the porch. She keeps her eyes on me. Something rustles in the trees behind us. At any moment, the wolves might burst from the tree line and tear us to pieces. Snarls and snaps in the distance draw closer.

“Are you coming in or not?” the woman asks. “You’re more than welcome to stay out here, of course.” She looks past us into the woods. Her fingers twitch as she whispers something under her breath. The grunting and snarling move away from us. She turns and disappears through the doorway. Constance motions for me to follow her as the howl of the wolves fades to nothing. We quickly mount the steps and go inside.

The cottage is in a precarious state. The roof slants downward at a steep angle, and when the wind whips by, the entire structure shudders. Dozens of herbs hang in bushels from the beams under the ceiling, and the rear wall is covered, floor to ceiling, with shelves of jars filled with all manner of strange things—dried herbs, liquids, and even different parts of small animals suspended in a viscous liquid.

A black cauldron hangs over the roaring fire, bubbling with some delicious-smelling concoction. Candles cover every available surface, some lit, some melted into nothing more than little mounds of wax. The air is hazy and thick. The minute I step over the threshold, an odd sense of calm envelops me. My fear of the wolves, the uneasiness of the White Wood—it all fades away.

“You’ve come a very long way,” says the woman. “Venturing this far into the White Wood means only one thing—you’re either very stupid or very desperate.”

“We’re looking for information about the fairy godmother,” I say.

The woman bristles and gives an annoyed huff. “Sit.” She gestures to a wooden table in the kitchen area with a set of mismatched chairs crowded around it.

“Forgive us if we’re hesitant,” Constance says. Her hand never stops hovering over her dagger.

“You’re afraid,” says the woman. “And I don’t blame you, but if you draw that dagger it will be the last thing you ever do.” She settles into a seat by the fire, her gaze steely. “When you say you’re looking for information about the fairy godmother, what you really mean is you’re looking for her magic.

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