Wisteria petals drifted gleefully on a light breeze, twirling through the air like fanciful dancers. The thick air carried the delicate scents of summer - lavender, climbing honeysuckle, and the distinct aroma of a past thunderstorm. Large gray clouds shifted to smaller, white, fluffy ones, and small droplets of water gathered on the flora of her father’s estate told the tale of rain not-quite-forgotten. Sunlight beamed down, filtering the leaves of the massive trees that outlived all those who lived within the building, casting a luminescent gaze on the garden.

  Fiamma missed her mother.

  Her vision shifted from the garden to her own reflection in the faded glass panes of the kitchen window. Caramel hair bearing blond highlights that shone and changed color like spun gold under natural light was pulled up into a messy bun and covered here and there with dirt and dust from house cleaning. Otherwise fair skin looked ashen in places, darkened in others, especially by her hazel-green eyes. Adorning her was a coarse dress she had woven herself of flour bags, and similarly, shoes made of flour bags as well. She exhaled a small sigh, causing it to make a small patch of fog on the window. She rested a hand on the window. Just once, she thought, I’d like to sit in the garden during the day again, to find the joy there Mom had, to–

  The ringing of a bell chimed throughout the house, and Fiamma pressed her hands to her ears. Each bell’s ring made her head pound; it was an unspoken command, demand: come here, NOW. Fiamma’s feet brought her to the source against the will of her heart, against the will of her soul, each begging her to reconsider, to go anywhere else but there. Sooner than she’d like, she found herself in the parlor, standing before three women: Prudence, Honor, and Virtue.

  Prudence was the elder of Virtue’s two daughters. She sat on an upholstered couch with her back straight, brown-black curly hair done in a neat updo that Fiamma had styled herself earlier that morning. Somehow she managed to maintain her posture despite wearing a violet corset and several layers of lilac-colored skirts in this heat, and shoes that dug into her heels, making the skin of her feet turn pink. She didn’t spare so much as a glance to Fiamma, and had her attention on Virtue.

  Virtue, likewise, paid no mind to Fiamma. Black hair with streaks of gray and white were done up in a respectable bun. No, you idiot - you fool! - after all these years of caring for you, you still can’t do anything right! How hard is it to style hair!? Fiamma could hear the words, pointed and full of venomous contempt, in her mind as clearly as they had been spoken that morning. Fiamma could still recall Virtue’s harsh blue glare, one she had suffered every day since Virtue and her daughters arrived in the mansion. She wore a maroon dress with a black corset. Her shoes bore less of a heel than either daughter’s, but each ended in a thin, sharp finish that Fiamma knew all-too-well.

  Honor, on the other hand, was holding the house bell in her hand, ringing it over and over even with Fiamma right there. The youngest of the three, Honor had nearly no regard for noble niceties; she sat next to Prudence with a slouch, unlike her mother and older sister, and had slid her shoes off beneath her dress just so, in an attempt to have the fabric hide her lack of feet in the confining footwear. Fiamma knew she did this, because Fiamma had taught her this trick herself, back when she felt a fondness for Honor who was two years her junior. Now Honor was an adult, and Fiamma held no love for the woman with the black hair and black eyes.

  “Did you need something?” Fiamma asked, doing her best to keep her tone even.

  That wasn’t enough. Virtue put a hand up to Prudence and both turned to face Fiamma. “Who do you think you are to address my daughter?” Virtue hissed, the weight of her stare boring down on Fiamma.

  “She… rang for me?” Fiamma said, brow furrowed.

  The older woman’s pretty, makeup-covered face twisted into a disappointing snarl. “And who do you think you are to address me, no less?”

  “Cinderella messed up again,” giggled the nineteen-year-old Honor as she lowered the bell down to the table before her, making the incessant ringing finally end. In any other circumstance, Fiamma would have let out a sign of relief - a sigh, a smile, even a ‘thank you,’ but she knew that all of these were the wrong option in this current situation. Instead, she lowered her gaze.

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  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Cinderella,” Virtue demanded.

  Fiamma knew this was a trap, so she did not.

  Virtue stood up, moving a few steps away from the decorated upholstered chair she had been relaxing on, and reached down. Her fingers found purchase of the roots of Fiamma’s hair, and she gripped on, hard, tugging forcefully to reposition Fiamma’s head, making them face one another.

  Fiamma kept quiet and kept her eyes shut tight.

  “A coward, just like your mother,” Virtue said.

  “And a fool, like your father,” Prudence added.

  Virtue jerked Fiamma’s head around and released her, making the young woman stumble and fall to the ground, to her side. Fiamma opened her eyes and stared at the floor with wavering, watery vision, a heat growing in her face that made her want to run and hide.

  “What did you want, anyway, Honor, dear?”

  “I wanted something sweet to eat.”

  Prudence chastised, “You’re going to get fat.”

  “At least I won’t be as fat as you.”

  “Girls,” said Virtue, silencing them both. She walked up to Fiamma and placed her foot lightly on the side of the fallen woman’s ankle. Fiamma trembled a little and curled her shoulders in, but kept perfectly still otherwise. “What will you do, Cinderella?”

  “I will make scones for the family,” Fiamma said in a quiet voice.

  “You will make scones for the family… who?” Virtue pressed her foot down hard on Fiamma’s ankle.

  Her breath caught from the pain. Don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. “... I will make scones for the family, Mother.”

  “That’s right. Don’t you forget, I could have turned you away sixteen years ago. Had your father cast you out like the rat you are. Deliver the scones to our rooms as soon as they are ready.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Fiamma went to get up, but then Virtue pressed as hard as she could on Fiamma’s ankle.

  The pain was overwhelming.

  She wanted to scream.

  Virtue did a half-turn towards Honor and Prudence, who were watching raptly. “Come, girls. Let us retire to our rooms so Cinderella can deliver our food accordingly.” Finally, Virtue lifted her foot, and headed out.

  Prudence followed close behind her. “Good. I was getting tired of this trash, anyway.” She brought her head back, but Honor got up, nearly tripping over her shoes to get to Prudence, and stopped her.

  “Mama said no spitting in the house, remember? And certainly not in front of others, even if it is Cinderella.”

  “... I suppose you’re right, thank you, Honor.”

  Honor cast one final look that Fiamma couldn’t place, almost like disappointment, before both of the sisters left.

  Fiamma crawled along the floor to the wall, where she tried to pull herself up. Somebody, somebody please… Mom… somebody… anybody… she cried out in her mind. Somebody help me.

  Nobody came.

  Fiamma managed to get herself to her feet, but failed to support her weight on her ankle. Her mind fought with herself once again.

  Bandage.

  Scones.

  Bandage, scones.

  Bandage, scones, bandage, scones, bandage–

  Virtue will hurt me again if I dare show I took time for myself.

  Scones.

  With great difficulty, she hobbled off once more to the kitchen. There, she found the ingredients she needed; flour, honey, yeast, lard, and milk. The honey was nearly gone, but she knew she’d need to get it out if she wanted to avoid something worse than what she had already experienced today.

  She took a moment to look off towards the garden with a sad, distant look on her face. “God, if you’re out there… I think I need your help more than ever,” she whispered. Fiamma got to work making the scones. She recalled her father telling her with pride that her mother had given up everything for him and for God, but he never went into what that exactly entailed. Some days, he said her mother was a beautiful enchantress, and others, a seductive conwoman who had made a fool out of him.

  She paused for a moment. “Water. I must fetch water for this.” She hurried out of the kitchen, leaving behind naught but the start of a batter and some faintly glowing lights, hovering in the dark of the kitchen, almost watching her depart.