The path to the well led some ways into the forest, a part of the Underwood estate. On the way, bucket in hand, Fiamma crossed the view of the old well. It dried up long ago and still remained without a drop of water, the gray cobblestone so parched not even heavy rains would cause moss to grow. The path, too, near the home proper was devoid of life for some ways around it. Only in the forest and garden did plantlife dare to flourish.

  The garden was a special place, a place she had not been to in years. Each step along the path transported her back to that day, to that memory.

  Mommy, she cried out, hands on her bedroom window - a room now belonging to Prudence. I want to say goodbye to Mommy too, she sobbed. Now, as an adult, she wondered if she had been selfish and greedy when the former staff also wished to say goodbye to her. Her father’s words echoed in her mind as he addressed Fiamma’s nanny.

  She is to be kept out of the garden. Forever. Nobody may enter the garden. Let it die, like Solichella.

  Even when he had come to fire all the staff after marrying Virtue, at her new stepmother’s insistence as a way to save money, Fiamma understood that it was not safe to enter the garden. She didn’t know why. She only had happy memories of the place. Why did her father long to keep her out?

  When the gardeners stopped tending to it, everyone expected the flowers to wilt and weep, to give up the way her father said her mother had. Instead, every spring, it came into full bloom, and every winter, it rested. No other life, no insect or bird, dared to enter the garden, but still, it was alive the way she remembered it; the same way her mother was alive the way she remembered her. Fiamma did not recall the appearance of her mother taking her last breaths with a cold, knobbly hand stroking her head; she remembered her playing in the garden, full of life and vigor, calling Fiamma, twirling in one of her long gowns, yellow hair shining in the sun while they played tag or examined the flowers growing there.

  In Fiamma’s memories, her mother was alive and well, playing in the garden, waiting for her.

  Perhaps I am selfish and childish after all, she wondered, walking past the invisible boundary into the forest. Not quite invisible, actually, as plants and grass grew closer and closer to the path until it was nearly obscured once walking into the woods.

  But three steps into the forest, a pair of birds came up to her and perched one on each of her shoulders. “I’m sorry, friends,” Fiamma said with a reluctant smile. “I have no food for you today.”

  The birds chirped and chattered at one another. They were both on the smaller side, green-eyed, with an iridescent sheen to their starkly contrasting feathers. One, dark black, Fiamma knew to be a starling. It spoke with a croaking voice, “Radiche.”

  Fiamma came to an abrupt stop, heels digging into the ground. She turned her head to look at the bird. “Excuse me?”

  “Radiche,” it repeated, and hopped up and down on her shoulder.

  Then the other bird, a bright white mourning dove, cooed, “Chima.”

  “Birds that speak… are you perhaps…” Fiamma questioned the wisdom in asking the question she thought as she now regarded the white bird. “... nevermind. My name is–”

  “Cinderella,” both birds said in unison.

  Fiamma grimaced, moving her shoulders up and making a face. The birds did not budge. “I suppose it is, now. Cinderella.” She brought her attention to the faded path before her. “Well. Radiche, Chima. Would you like to accompany me to the well?” The birds tilted their heads this way and that, not responding. “Right, then. To the well.”

  The young woman did her best to be mindful of the birds, trying to keep her shoulders level. Having them there with her lifted her spirit for reasons she could not place, but when she arrived at the clearing, they flew off. “Ah…” She turned and watched them depart, vanishing into the forest and leaves as if they were never there. Perhaps next time they’ll stay a little longer if I give them food.

  Turning around once more, she jumped a small jump at what she saw just past the well. A man. A sleeping man, sitting up with his back against an oak. His resting face looked calm, even serene, unbothered by the world around him. She had never seen someone sleep so soundly before, and without noticing it, she had drawn herself beside him, crouching to put herself at his level.

  The man had wispy chestnut-brown hair cut short in the back, with some volume on top. His skin was just a few shades darker than hers but with a pallid tint that had her concerned. He wore a leather vest of some sort with a long sleeved shirt, and leather pants that now had dirt and leaf litter on the underside, with… hunting boots. A hunter? But this part of the forest belongs to father.

  “Mister,” she said, voice soft. “Excuse me, mister, please wake up.”

  The man made a small “mm” and opened his sky blue eyes, looking up at her. His thin pink, cracked lips upturned in a smile. “Have I died?” he asked, voice pleasant without being rumbling or nasally.

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  Fiamma exhaled a slightly voiced breath, placing a hand on her chest. “No, no, not yet. But you do seem thirsty. Shall I fetch you a pail of water to drink?”

  “A glass will do.”

  “I’m afraid there is neither glass nor mug in the forest. A pail will have to do, or I’ll need to drag you back to the Underwood manor.”

  “The Underwood manor? Who or what are the Underwoods?”

  “The Underwood family is a noble family; if you are not from around these parts, it is no great surprise you haven’t heard of them. This section of the forest belongs to the Underwood family.” Fiamma explained, slowly rising to her feet.

  The man looked up at her, then at his lap, then her again. “Is not all of the forest the King’s land?”

  “The kings of old gifted this parcel of the forest to the Underwood family,” Fiamma said, confident in her memory of what her tutor had taught her all those years ago, before her stepmother and stepsisters came stampeding and crashing into her life.

  “You are quite learned for a young woman who dresses as you do, did you perhaps eavesdrop on your master’s lessons or learn to read?”

  My master’s lessons… My father is not my master, and the lessons were my own! “I can read, but I have no master,” she countered, voice faltering. “None save the King and God.”

  “A pious woman.” The man rose to his feet with surprising speed given how ill he looked, towering over her. He grabbed her face with a gloved hand. “For what do I owe this honor, then, maid of the Underwoods?”

  Fiamma stared at him, and found herself staring right through him, past him. The pain of his grasp on her delicate skin brought her back to the “discipline” she had received from her stepfamily.

  The man released her face slowly. “That look in your eyes. That’s not a good look,” he said. He reached into his pocket and took out what Fiamma could only assume to be the royal seal, pocketing it before she got a good look. “I am a royal hunter. Maid, you may fetch me water to drink, then do as you need to.”

  Fiamma stood there for a moment, then wandered off to the well. She stared down the well and attached her bucket to the rope, then used the crank to lower it into the water. That was the easy part; getting it back up, full? Another story altogether. She slowly turned the crank, struggling. Her arms shook, and her resolve weakened at the realization she would have to do this AGAIN because she was going to give some royal hunter a drink. Some good for nothing–

  Warmth. Warmth at her back, and on her arms. Two gloved hands, one at each side, grasping the crank. She tried to imagine the correct thing to do or say, but every word that sought to escape was strangled into collapse before it made it to her mouth. With the hunter’s help, she finished pulling up the first bucket of water. He held the crank steady as she leaned over and untied the bucket, holding it unsteadily in her arms. The man released the crank, and he moved back, taking his warmth with him.

  Before she could fully turn to face him, his hands were on hers and the bucket, and he was hoisting it to his lips, taking a drink. The forest seemed particularly hot today; Summer had a way of sneaking up throughout the day. Lowering the bucket, a smug smile spread across his lips as his eyebrows lifted. “My, is that how you feel, Maid?”

  “What are you talking about?” Fiamma asked. Maid this, maid that! I am not a maid!... Am I a maid? Oh God, how far have I fallen for my family?

  He released the now-empty bucket and removed his right glove. She closed her eyes tightly when she saw his hand lifting. She shook all over, waiting for the strike. Why else would he lift his hand and remove his glove, if not to strike her?

  It never came.

  Smooth, cool skin met her cheek, and instead of holding fast to her cheek like before, he cupped it with a tender, light grasp. His thumb ran across her skin, and with reluctance, Fiamma reopened her eyes to look up at him in confusion. “I see. I misunderstood. My apologies, dear Maid.”

  “I-I-I am not a maid.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. You are a maiden fair, so Maid is still appropriate. May I know your name?”

  “It’s–”

  “Earnest!” called a masculine voice in the distance. The man looked off towards the voice and released a disappointed “tch.”

  “Next time, Maid. Next time, tell me your name.” He slowly released her cheek, took the bucket from her, and set it down on the ground. He knelt, took her right hand, and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “Until next time.”

  “Till… till next time,” Fiamma said breathlessly.

  “Earnest!!” called the voice again, growing closer.

  The hunter – Earnest? She wondered. – stood up and put on his glove, heading off in a light jog towards the voice. He called back, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  Once the man left, gone somewhere far past the trees that blocked her view, Fiamma looked at the back of her hand, where it had been kissed. She brought her hand to her chest and held it against her racing heart. “What… even was that?” she whispered.

  As if on cue, the two birds returned to her shoulders. She jumped a little and looked at each. “Radiche. Chima. You didn’t see that, did you?”

  “Cinderella,” said Radiche.

  “Prince Earnest,” said Chima.

  The birds made kissing sounds, facing Fiamma.

  “Sh… shhh!” Her face felt like it was on fire. Was she ill? Did the hunter make her ill? Wait. They didn’t say hunter. “Hol…hold on. Prince Earnest? That was–that was the Prince!?”

  The birds chirped out laughter in response.

  Fiamma looked down the well. “Oh my God, the Prince kissed me.”

  “Your hand,” Chima corrected.

  “Do you love him?” Radiche asked.

  She blinked and stared at the starling. “Hardly! How can one love someone they just met?”

  The mourning dove countered in its cooing voice, “Love can grow in all sorts of places, daughter of Solichella.”

  “It’s still too–my mother? How do you know my mother?”

  The birds cooed and squawked laughter as they left their shoulder-perches, flying off once more. Fiamma slowly gathered the water from the well after some great time, knowing Virtue, Prudence, and even Honor, would not suffer her being late with their scones.