©Jason I. Stutz 2008

This is where my love of writing classic fairy tales began.  It was the first time in a while that I felt connected with the spirit who guides my heart to write. I love that these old tales offer a brilliant blueprint I could freely borrow from to express my own heart’s experience.  After so much time, they are no one’s property- thus, they are everyone’s.  I consider this a gift, a love letter, to the women in my life.

Note: Cinderella did not “need” a man- it just happened that way.

Cinderella

 

Cinderella 

By Jason I. Stutz

 

After many years of enforced servitude to her cruel step-sisters, Cinderella has become a master dressmaker.  Her step-sisters rely on her magic to make them appear the minimum of pretty.  When they have gone off to their dates, Cinderella seeps back into her closet, where she sleeps, with the cats, and the dog, and the mice who come and visit (she likes the mice very much and shares her crumbs with them).

She lights a candle, and falls back on her potato sack bed and fantasizes about the wonderful things that might happen to her:  a dinner with meat and fresh vegetables and delicious bread!  A chair that did not hurt her backside!  A bedroom of her own with a nice mattress where she could sleep!  And even a man who would visit her after her step sisters and step mother had gone to bed:  a man who came in through the window and placed his hand over her mouth with a gentle whisper and a mischievous smile and she closes her eyes as though his mouth is made of chocolate and his kiss transports her far away, far away, far away.

 

Cinderella opens her eyes.  The candle has burned out. The wax has dripped upon strips of cloth; the throwaways from her stepsister’s dresses.  There is sequence and silk, linen and lace in a puddle of hot wax.

She stands on her aching knees, groaning slightly, not too loud in case someone would hear.   Her feet scrape on the hard floor.  A blister breaks and bleeds on the splintered floor.  She grits her teeth and cries fearfully.  What if her step mother found the blood?!  She would be beaten for her stupidity, her ingratitude of having a place to live despite being only a stepchild.

 

Why her father ever married that woman, Cinderella will never know.  Some say that her step mother is a witch with powers that entrapped her father, who was once a very handsome and noble man.  Even before the wedding, he seemed to be declining.  By the time of the wedding, he spoke only of visions, a mixture of childish fantasies and dark omens that no one else could understand.

His appearance was sloppy, and the color had left his previously robust face.  His new wife scolded him ceaselessly on their wedding day and he only held up his hands apologetically, resigned to his folly.  Cinderella weeped, pleading with him to come to his senses.  There in front of everyone, she bent and clasped his ankles before he walked down the aisle, so tightly that all three of the witches daughter’s had to pry her from him, cursing her wickedly under their breath between gnashing teeth, and shuffled the hapless man to his dark fate. Soon after the wedding, he died:  heart failure.  He left his entire inheritance to his new wife.  Cinderella became their slave.

 

Cinderella stepped forward to find the dirtiest rag she could find, in case her step mother wondered where a less-dirty one went.  But the blister hurt too much to walk, and the blood was flowing more.  To catch the drippings, she placed her foot on the pile of cloth strips, into the wet wax, turning it bright red.  This was lovely to her, and the wax felt good on her feet, in the soft strips of silk, linen, lace.  Without even thinking, she began to mold from these strips and wax and blood, a pair of slippers to cover her feet, and to conceal the blood.  But she thought the slippers beautiful, and, although she was sure she would get beaten worse than ever before, she added sequence and semi-precious stones that were too rough to use on her step-sister’s dresses.  By the time the blood-colored wax had hardened, she had molded from these scraps the most lovely slippers she had ever seen.  She stood.  Her feet were warm, and soft, and happy.  She caught a glance of herself in the mirror and saw that she was smiling!  Seeing herself smile made her so happy that she giggled, and, despite herself, she began to dance on her new slippers, twirling as the cats stood on their hind legs, and the dog leapt up and down!  Twirling and laughing!  She was laughing!  And the entire room seemed bright with her laughter!  Even the clock banged a hearty note, and then, despite being past the hour, banged again just for fun!  She took her mop and lifted it in the air and her laughter infused it so much that it started to dance on it’s own!  And the candles burned bright and flickered with her as though the flames were dancing too, and it appeared as though gold dust and light was swirling in the air that came from her mouth as she laughed and flew around the room.  She danced with the mop and the cats and the dog and the candles burning bright and the clock banged and clanged in delight!  Her slippers were soft and they were the most lovely slippers any one had ever seen.

At this time, a messenger knocked upon the door of her step-mother’s house.  Her step mother and step sisters had departed for the ball with all of their dates.  She crept cautiously toward the door and opened it.  A pleasant but stern looking man was there.  He had a twinkle in his eye, though.  He extended his arm, at the end of which was a letter.  He put it in Cinderella’s hand, which she reluctantly opened.  She was not used to having anything put into her hand.  Not since before her mother died.  The man said only this, tenderly:  “Be home by midnight, or I don’t want to tell you what hell will transpire… you hear me, child?”  Shocked, Cinderella could only nod her head.  No one had called her child since before her mother died.  And she could not imagine a hell worse than what she already lived, and became afraid so much that she trembled.

Cinderella lowered her eyes to look upon the envelop in her fragile hand.  Raising her eyes again, the messenger had disappeared.  Totally shocked, heart fluttering, anxiety spread wings in her till she could hardly distinguish between her heartbeat and the always-stammering clocks in the house.  She thought to toss the envelop in the garbage, but then, as if by miracle, her hand slid under the flap and pulled out a distinguished looking card.  In rather ornate lettering, it said, “Come tonight, to the Grand Ball and meet your Prince of Destiny.”  Cinderella was, to say the least, bewildered.

Her head swayed and she could hardly focus to re-read the sentiment.  But as her eyes cleared, the original message was no more, and a new one appeared.  “This is probably a hoax;  throw this away before you lose your mind!”  Cinderella agreed with the new message and walked to the incinerator and threw it in.

She grabbed a cup for water to drink, but when she reached her hand to the water pale, she caught her reflection on the surface.  She was marvelous, astonishing, the most lovely girl she had ever seen.

For a second, only a second (but a second long enough for her to remember), she knew:  I was made from the most beautiful magic God could, in His Might, envision.  The glass dropped absentmindedly from her hand into the water pale as her head swirled, and with the sound of that “thunk”, she was full of grace.  Not the type of grace that the people of the court put on and work hard to train themselves to wear;  but the grace that descends from a hundred thousand stars and interpenetrates a human being so that not only their footsteps are in harmony with the universe, but their every thought, their every feeling, their every whim.

In that reflection, she was transformed:  her hair was “almost” as it was only 5 minutes ago, but as though designed by a talented stylist.  And her clothing was as before, but suddenly it fit and fell upon her like a gorgeous gown.  And her slippers, her lovely slippers!  They were the magic that started it all.  She could hardly conceive of what had happened to her.  But in place of her dark, brooding inner silences and self chastisements, was a bright, gay playfulness.

A fire caught within her heart and warmed her cheeks.  She felt unburdened, almost floating.  She dashed to the front door and swung it open upon the world and her arms extended toward the stars and the endless, endless night!  “Where have I been?!” she cried!

Yet, she was shocked again, as there, 20 feet from her door at the curb, a sweet, gentile man sat atop a simple, but well made carriage teamed by 4 white horses who snorted patiently… patient for her to arrive.

The man, the driver, winked lovingly at her and tipped his stovepipe hat, “Miss?  I believe I am at your service for this evening.”  He turned slightly away, and though he did not intend for her to see, she saw that an obvious tear welled in his eye and sparkled in the moonlight.  Clutching her heart gently, she approached.  “Why, yes, dear, sir.  It would seem that you are true, and I thank you,”  she said, although she hadn’t a clue as to why. Stepping forward, lifting her skirt with two hands above her slippers, it flashed in her mind she was stepping forward into the arms of her father… whom she loved and who loved her when she was a child, before he went mad, before her step mother was even a word that he knew (or thought he knew).  She felt completely safe, and utterly adored.

On the shiny black carriage were crystal windows from which she peered a moment at the house she came from.   The warm glow of a gas light cast a golden glow upon her silhouette.  The seat was gentle upon her bottom— she felt a deep ache in her low back ease, and she sighed deeply.

“Evening, ma’am.  Lovely night, eh?”  said the driver.  There was an ironical smile in the tone of his voice.

“Oh, yes, it’s a magical night!  Please, sir, reach behind here and pinch my hand so I can be sure I am not dreaming!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that, ma’am.,” said the driver.  “If I even so much as touch you, the spell will be broken and we will all return to what we were– myself, you, these horses… and if your story is like my own, we’d do best to abide by the rules.”

He continued, “It seems there is an angel in our works this evening. To be frank, though, it would be delightful to place even one finger upon your beautiful skin- but it makes be fear to even think of it, knowing that all of this would be for naught if I did.”

Cinderella, demure, accepted his statements with both humility and curiosity.  Her driver, sensing an onslaught of questions approaching her lips, advised her to “Please, ask no further, my lady.”  She felt embarrassed and pressed her lips together.

“Ha ha!,” laughed the driver.  “Let’s just enjoy this incredible evening, shall we?”  Cinderella loosened with his joviality and laughed in agreement.  They spoke of other things, not themselves:  the indigo hues of the sky this night, and the white and grey birds that twirled and sang playfully about the carriage, escorting it on its way.  The horse-drawn carriage bounded gracefully along the paved road.  The horses seemed utterly delighted merely to be exercising their muscles.  They leapt like deer along the road, yet the carriage ride was smooth.

 

As the castle lights approached in the distance, they could see banners and the tiny silhouettes of party-goers swaying against the palace walls.  The horses made one final leap, straining all of their muscles in utter joy, and they landed on the spot at the foot of the grand staircase whereupon at the top, the Prince stood facing the activities inside the ball, looking very stoic and displeased to say the least.  He had a large goblet in his hand from which he took copious gulps.

As Cinderella descended from the carriage, there appeared a train of 6 well-heeled servants to assist her.  Her feet, in those glorious slippers, felt hardly to touch the ground.  Four of the servants departed and the remaining 2 escorted her up the steps toward the ball.

As she ascended that grand staircase, Cinderella noticed the Prince standing there and observed him curiously.  Sensing her gaze, he turned.  Instantly, the displeasure on his face melted to an expression of wonder, such that a child would experience noticing a butterfly for the very first time.

He is very handsome, she thought.  Cinderella scolded herself: Of course he is, he’s a Prince, he is supposed to be handsome!

I wonder, she mused, if he would be very boring to talk to.  At that thought, as she neared him, the Prince blurted out some nonsensical thing, “Funny set of occurences, eh?”  Cinderella and the Prince both shirked back, a little confused at that statement.  But something else within the both of them pulled them toward each other, past any discomfort they might feel upon opening to a stranger for the first time.  The twinkle in Cinderella’s eyes found the twinkle in the Princes eyes looking back, and they both, for no reason, giggled.  I say it was for no reason that they giggled, but a giggle was the most true thing they could say to each other at that priceless, sacred moment in each other’s lives.

With no words in his grasp, the Prince relented to gently hold out his hand, inviting Cinderella inside.  She demured, and when she placed her hand in his, an electricity circuited between them both.  Alivened at once, the both of them, they could not help but skip, lightly, inside to dance.

The Prince was very young, she noticed;  a year or two younger than she.  He was, to say the least, a little awkward in his bearings, but in a completely charming way.  He was introspective, and a little tender hearted and shy when met with a beauty that mirrored his own.

They began to dance.  It was apparent that neither of them had learned any dance-moves, but they were fluid and beautiful as they danced with each other. The Prince, with her, felt unable to be at all false and spoke as though with a confidant: shyly at first, then quickly his heart opened and he talked in humorous as well as shyly revealing tones.

At one point, taking him in fully as they twirled on the dance floor, Cinderella’s heart leapt into her throat and stayed there so that she could hardly speak. She closed her eyes for a moment and saw in her mind a bright blue sun beaming in her throat.  The Prince twirled her and she laughed and laughed.  It is unknown how many songs had past.

 

At once, the words of the messenger, and of the driver who warned her, claimed her thoughts,.  It was almost midnight.  Cinderella let her arms fall from the Prince and stepped back from him.  The Prince’s face dropped as her fingers fell from his hand. Placing both hands over her heart, she bent slightly toward him, her eyes full of happiness and tears.  The Prince did not ask why, but knew she must leave.  “Will you return tomorrow?”  He looked about, embarrassed, his voice crackling, “There… there is another ball!”  Cinderella’s eyes became soft, black discs and a laugh so sweet and gay emerged from her parted lips.

She agreed, “Of course, of course, I will come!” though she was frightened, and did not know how she ever could. She decided that this night was heaven enough for a lifetime and that if it was the will of that magic who gave her this night never to return, she would be okay being a slave to her step-sisters and step-mother for the rest of her life.  (Upon hearing these thoughts, the angel who presided over her shed a tear upon her life and blessed her for all eternity).

The Prince smiled his awkward smile as wide and open as the Great Hall itself.  In that smile, Cinderella thought, she could lay and laugh forever.  At that instant, the clock over the doorway of the Great Hall showed 11:59– she turned and dashed away from the Prince, his magnetism still pulling upon her heart– she looked back, eyes furtive, a final glance at the Prince (total joy!).  Running, she felt she was flying, caught him one last time and she swore a kiss flew from his mouth to hers in that air between them. As she closed her eyes, she wished a glorious wish, and her lovely, bejeweled slipper, as if by accident, that instant came loose from her right foot.

Startled, she thought to retrieve it but feared even a second’s loss against the clock, as the clock was closing in on midnight like a clamshell sealing tight this night.  As she reached the stairs to the outside, her gentle lungs panting, the carriage lay in wait glowing softly, yellow-green from the gaslights pouring out from the inside through the crystal-paned glass.  The servants appeared once again, hearts proud and gracious, and they whisked her down the great, wide, stone stairway of the castle toward the carriage, and inside with a shutting of the door, like a clam shell closing shut.  She shook her head, it was all too much— and yet she wondered if she could have drank from this cup even a drop more than she did!

And there was the driver sitting lovingly up front, smoking a wooden pipe.  “To the darker life!” he said, through his teeth, and ironical smile halting Cinderella’s stream of thoughts in their tracks— he cracked the whip above the horses ears, and they responded like deer leaping out across the night.

 

The carriage arrived at Cinderella’s house.  The servants appeared again, and gracefully brought her down.  As her feet touched the ground, midnight struck, and though her slippers remained, her dress became her ashy house-gown, her hair fell helpless across her face, and she looked meekly at the men who assisted her.  They, too, were untransformed.

In each their way, faces with grease and sweat, their clothing torn and ill-fitting, their hands rough and damaged, but she saw in each of their faces the most beautiful light.  They smiled a smile that showed both love and pain, present happiness and acceptance of a life that few men should ever suffer.

Her heart beamed from her lovely bosom and she was grateful merely to know these men who seemed, to her, the sweetest men she had ever known besides her father.  As she turned to the driver, she was startled to see that the carriage had turned into an old, ratty steamer trunk, and, running in dismayed circles at the driver’s feet were four screeching mice.  The driver turned toward the bright moon- he covered his face with his hands and wept.  She could not tell if they were happy tears, tears of sorrow, or both.  Cinderella, for fear she would attempt to embrace him, did not console him and this decision stabbed her in the heart and she, too, began to cry, but not for herself— for the world that created the pain that these beautiful souled men endure.  The driver, the men, the mice, all wordlessly took themselves up and departed, each their way, into the night.  If the messenger wanted them tomorrow, he would call.

Cinderella opened the door of her house, the house that was once her father’s, her mother’s and her own.   She skulked toward the kitchen as the two cats purred and meowed at her feet which remained slippered, now, only on the left.  And the dog looked up, as usual, panting happily when he saw her, then searched around nervously, just in case.

She went to her closet, scolded herself for her clumsiness, hid her remaining slipper under her hard, potato sack bed,  lay down, and fell instantly asleep.

When she awoke her step -sisters were yammering in the kitchen to each other, and, as though they forgot themselves before, sharply commanded Cinderella to wake up and get them tea and make them biscuits.  And not like the biscuits she made last time, or the time before, but better— they would like more sugar in them, but less butter.  And to put them on the fine porcelain they kept downstairs in the cellar.  And that their tea should be drank on the balcony in view of the moon.  And that the balcony should be covered over in case it began to rain.  And if she didn’t do everything very quickly they would beat her with the broom she will use to clean up their bedrooms before they go to sleep!!

Cheerfully, Cinderella obliged all of their wishes, until at last, her older step sister reached for the broom to beat her, and as though giving up with nothing to hold against her, put it down, with a cautioning look in her eye, which Cinderella smiled at and curtsied.

The step sisters mocked Cinderella’s happiness, calling her stupid as a monkey, and they laughed wickedly like hogs.  Maybe if they beat her, one said, she would be happy forever!  They rolled and rolled in their coarse laughter until the step-mother came in and hushed them all, especially Cinderella, smacking her on the back of her head.  Cinderella shirked and eyed her step mother— she had a proud countenance, one that could not be beaten from her.  Blinking their eyes in disbelief, the two sisters and mother observed her for a moment.  Not knowing what to make of Cinderella, seeing something new, something strong in her, they looked back at each other conspiratorially.  Cinderella felt a chill up her spine; her heart revolted and she was afraid.

Wickedly, the older step-sister suggested that they all go to sleep for the night, even Cinderella.  The younger step-sister and mother agreed.  This veil of kindness was deceitful and full of wicked guile.  They wanted a little time to contemplate Cinderella’s demise.

They departed for their respective bedrooms— Cinderella, her kitchen closet and potato sacks.  She felt helpless, even more helpless than ever, knowing that all of the force and cleverness her step-sisters and step-mother possess would now fuel their tormenting of her until she died.  She collapsed on her bed of potato sacks weeping, until her hand moved on its own accord under the bed to touch that lone, lovely slipper which she made herself (herself!  She made them herself for herself!  Herself!  Herself for herself!) and her tears dried instantly and her heart was emboldened with fire.  A voice in the air around her spoke:  “Tommorrow, Cinderella.”  Shocked, full of hope and doubt, she fell, gratefully, asleep.

 

 

 

 

The Royal Court arrives to try each woman

 

A jovial but businesslike rap on the oak-planked door awoke the house the next morning.  The Prince had been distressed all through the night about a certain slipper.  He had found she who would be his Princess— all that was left of her, however, was a single slipper that fell from her foot ‘round midnight as she left the ball.  This was explained to Cinderella’s step-mother and step-sisters upon letting the Royal Court in.  Every house in the town received or will receive such a visit, and every house in all the towns surrounding, too.  “The Prince,” says the Court Assistant, both haughtily and with servile concern, “will not be satisfied until his Princess is found.”

“Here,” he said to Cinderella’s step-mother, “every (achem) lady must try this on… gently, my lady, it is frag-— GENTLY!” he said, as she tried to grab it from his hand like an ape, her fat, rough fingers greasing the sacred shoe.  The Court Assistant rolled his eyes, as he was wont to do.  He grabbed the shoe quickly and instructed them to each wash their hands and mind their manners, and, if that wasn’t enough, told them that if there was any funny business they would be taken to the tower and hanged.  The step-women giggled playfully, chaotically, worming their charms into the assistant’s heart.  He was greatly confused.  But somehow he withstood their black magic.  His sense of duty to his Prince was enough— it was the direction of his thoughts, the meaning in his heart.  He was literally unbreakable in this sense.  He, like many in the court, had been with the Prince and his family their entire lives, treated well, often removed from painful, tragic lives to serve with him, handpicked according to virtue, or, perhaps, simply a simple inner radiance the Prince had seen in them­- not their wealth or status, but their humanity.   Love.  It conquers all, doesn’t it? Even the dark, athletic oil that seethes venomously from Cinderella’s step-mother’s heart.  Each of them were chastened to try the slipper on and they had no power to destroy it with their schemes.

 

Cinderella hunched low in her closet, afraid to come out.  Her heart made her want to leap into the Court Assistant’s noble arms and say, “Here I am, it’s me!!”  But her fear of her step-mother and step-sisters swam around her like quick shadows threatening to devour her, making her shiver and moan from fright.  Alas, she moaned.  She could not help it.  And that moan saved her life.  With perfect alertness to action, the Court Assistant interpreted that moan as the sound of a woman’s voice, and, in the space of time it would take to blink, he ordered his men to discover her and bring her out.  The evil step mother and sisters blurted each in their own about no one else worthy of anything good living here.  “It came from the kitchen,” remarked the Court Assistant.

The closet door opened to reveal her, huddled anxiously on the far wall, lit only dimly by the light of a candle barely keeping it’s flame alive.  The shadows of these men fell upon her, dispersing the evil shadows that tormented her- the shadows conjured from a spell cast upon Cinderella many years ago by her evil step-mother, to enslave her in those fears.

A hand reached for her:  “Pardon me, Miss, but I believe you are wanted in the antechamber.”

In her disorientation, she was uncertain as per whether or not it was only a dream.  Her heart sought that hand, even if it were only a dream— if it were only a dream, she would live forever in the imaginary world it invited her to.

Heartened by the kindness of those fingers, the gentle intention offered to her from the arm they hung from, and the graceful, soft, brown hairs on the man’s forearm (she wanted to stroke the arm, to feel it against her cheek, to hold it and hug it with all her might) – this arm seemed strong but accepting, not hard and cruel, and it offered itself to her like an incomprehensibly fortunate gift.

She felt her arm lift to it as though her heart had moved it itself.  At the moment Cinderella’s delicate hand touched his, some witnesses later stated that a transformative light filled that closet- soft, bright gold, warm, beautiful, like the sunlight that fills the air on a clear, spring morning.   It was a light, perhaps, that burst out from many dying stars around her body and filled themselves anew with faith.  How many billions of years will a new star live in Cinderella’s name?  And how many new stars were born that instant?

On shaky steps the man escorted her with his hand steadying hers as they approached the antechamber.  The dog and cats gathered at her feet and moved with her.  There, to her fright, watched, coldly, her step-mother and step-sisters, their eight eyes which, since her father died, have entrapped her in the dark schemes through which they view her.  Little did Cinderella know how much the four women behind those eyes (like 4 separate parts of a single, hungry spider) needed her, how they would be consumed by their own fears and jealousies without her, and eat each other alive, flesh and all, eyes and mouth and organs.

The feeling of the man’s soft skin on her arm was incomparably delightful.  His deliberate guidance steadied her.  There before her was the Court Assistant, like a shoe salesman who had only one customer who he had sought far and wide to give this slipper to as a gift.  Cupped lovingly in his right hand, the toe pointed toward her like an arrow. Its semi-precious stones twinkled when they saw her and the wax heaved a happy sigh.

Suspecting what to angels would be obvious, the Court Assistant eyed Cinderella with surprise— her tattered dress made of an old table cloth, soiled and fallen from her frail shoulders; her hair a mop, a maze; her eyes bright but weary; her mouth, a smile that never felt sure of its own light. And there beneath her, like many-travailed peasants, the feet upon whose blistered soles was placed, without hesitation on the part of the Court Assistant, that sacred shoe- a perfect fit.

The shoe embraced her heel, her toes, her sole, a little lost child coming home after its frightful night away.  The Court Assistant whispered something definitive in his company-mens’ ears, before his eye fell back upon Cinderella— her face, he saw, through the ash on her cheeks, was fair.

Her lowered eyes rose to meet his— she shuddered a sigh which was replete with the mulch for all what would become- a sigh perhaps only she and the Court Assistant perceived; and a smile bloomed out of that sigh upon her face, which somehow expressed to the witnessing eyes of the Court Assistant the whole realm of suffering she had endured and would now move on from.  This smile rose now to her eyes, and beamed through red, weary whites and dark ringed hazel corona- beamed through small, wet tears, loosened from the nerves of her eyelids.  Her smile now travelled the space of that room to meet that bright beam emanating from the kind, witnessing eyes of the Court Assistant.  Another sigh loosed from her body, shaking her through shivers from her bones, thus shaking her loose her step-mother and step-sister’s constant gazes, which were her prison, and now fell into the atmosphere of the antechamber like glass cylinders, broke apart forever, never to be put together again.

A fire erupted in her heart and she had no room for hatred as even pain was erased in her.  And thank God for that— it would be no use falling into her husband, the Prince’s arms with all of that burden to work out.  Better they laugh in all delight as they did the prior night.

Truly, God came and snapped his fingers above her head and all of that pain went the way that birds go across the sky; the way that clouds go as they hover over a town…  the way of wind through autumnal tree branches, stripping here a leaf, there a leaf, until the branches are bare; the way of death itself, melting, melting, and poof!-  blown, far into the past where even there its significance was erased- so that now, her delicate feet in those sacred slippers could take the first solid steps into her destiny.

The Court Assistant looked Cinderella over again.  She felt his gaze scanning her body, her clothes, her hair and she felt frightened at her appearance compared to when she met the Prince the previous night at the ball.   The Court Assistant took the layers of Cinderella’s clothing off with his eyes and saw her pale, weary skin.  He looked through the veil of her skin and her muscles were knotted, weak, and her nerves were like frayed electrical wires. He looked through her muscles and nerves to her bones: he found there a strength that surprised him and when he saw this, as though nourished by his awareness, she jolted strongly upward and stood arrow straight, surprised even to herself, boldly, bravely, brashly under the eye of God. And now, deep in the center of her chest, the Court Assistant found he something more beautiful than he had yet to lay eyes upon in all his many years…

“As you are, my lady… straight away.”