The first warning was the scrape of iron against stone - a sound that shot straight through Drizella's bones as she rounded the corner of the east wing corridor. Cinderella stood halfway up the servant's stairs, her arms trembling beneath a massive black cauldron that threatened to tip with each labored step. Steam billowed from beneath its lid, carrying the acrid scent of boiled lye soap.
She'll kill herself trying to haul that alone. Drizella's feet were moving before her mind fully processed the geometry of disaster unfolding. The younger girl's right foot caught on her worn hem. The cauldron pitched forward, scalding water already beginning its lethal arc.
"Hold!" Drizella lunged up the stairs, her fingers closing around the burning iron handles. White-hot agony exploded through her palms. The metal seared into her flesh, but she locked her elbows, throwing her weight backward to counterbalance the cauldron's momentum. Her shoulder slammed against the stone wall. Better bruised than boiled alive.
Cinderella's blue eyes went wide with horror. "My lady, your hands—"
"Shut up and lift," Drizella hissed through clenched teeth. The pain was a living thing, spreading like molten glass through her fingers. Each heartbeat sent fresh waves of fire up her arms. She could smell her own flesh burning.
Together they wrestled the cauldron back to center. Drizella's vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. The rough stone steps bit into her knees - when had she fallen to them? She forced herself to maintain her grip until Cinderella steadied her own hold.
"I have it now," Cinderella whispered. Her face had gone chalk-white. "Please, let go."
Drizella's fingers had fused to the metal. She had to peel them away one by one, strips of skin staying behind on the handles. The cool air hit her ravaged palms like needles. Red blisters were already rising across her flesh, weeping clear fluid.
"Why?" Cinderella's voice cracked. "You could have let it fall."
Because I'm not my mother. The thought came unbidden, sharp as broken glass. Drizella swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. "Don't be dramatic. That much scalding water would have taken half the skin off your legs. Do you know how much replacing a scullery maid costs these days?"
She pushed to her feet, ignoring how the world tilted. Her palms throbbed in time with her racing pulse. Each finger felt swollen to twice its size, clumsy and useless. Can't let her see weakness. Can't let anyone see.
"Take it up in smaller portions next time," Drizella said, forcing ice into her tone. "I won't always be here to save you from your own stupidity."
She turned sharply on her heel, keeping her ruined hands pressed against her skirts. Three more steps. Five. Ten. Only when she was around the corner did she allow herself to sag against the wall, pressing her forehead to the cool stone as tears of pain slid silently down her cheeks.
Mother would have watched her fall. The thought circled like a carrion bird. Mother would have smiled.
Drizella straightened, squaring her shoulders despite the tremors wracking her frame. She needed bandages. Salve. Something to kill the pain before tonight's ledger review. But first, she had to make it to her chambers without anyone seeing what the perfectly poised Lady Tremaine had done for a servant.
Her palms left bloody prints on the wall as she pushed away from it. Each step sent fresh agony lancing up her arms. But she kept walking, spine rigid, chin high. Let them whisper about the ice in my veins. Let them call me heartless. Better that than letting them see the truth.
The truth burned far worse than any cauldron.
The silk tape measure coiled around Anastasia's waist like a serpent, each number a fresh wound to her vanity. Drizella's burned palms screamed as she pulled the ribbon taut, but she kept her face professionally blank, watching her sister's reflection fragment across the three-paneled mirror.
"Twenty-six inches." Drizella let clinical precision sharpen her tone. "Up two from last month."
Color flooded Anastasia's cheeks. She sucked in her stomach, the motion making the half-pinned bodice of her new gown gape. "That's impossible. You're doing it wrong."
"Numbers don't lie, dear sister." Drizella circled to Anastasia's front, adjusting a loose pin. The blisters on her hands throbbed with each precise movement. Perfect. Let her simmer.
"Well, your numbers are wrong." Anastasia's fingers clawed at the measuring tape. "Mother always said I was twenty-four inches."
"Mother said a great many things." Drizella deliberately fumbled the next pin, letting it drop. The tiny metal click against the hardwood made Anastasia flinch. Now press harder. "Though I suppose it's easier to believe her fantasies than face reality."
"How dare you!" Anastasia whirled, sending pins scattering. "You think you're so clever, so superior—"
"I think," Drizella caught her sister's wrist as Anastasia reached for the measuring tape again, "that we're running out of time to play pretend."
The leather document case sat heavy in her pocket. Anastasia tried to wrench free, but Drizella held firm, ignoring the white-hot pain lancing through her burned palm.
"Let go of me!" Anastasia's voice climbed higher. "I'll tell Mother—"
"Mother can't help us anymore." Drizella released her sister's wrist and withdrew the case. The brass clasp gleamed accusingly in the afternoon light. "But these might explain why."
Anastasia's fury faltered. "What are those?"
"See for yourself." Drizella spread the foreclosure notices across the velvet-topped fitting table, arranging them with deliberate precision. The red ink of the final warnings burned brighter than her blistered hands.
Silence stretched between them as Anastasia's eyes darted over the papers. Her perfectly painted lips parted, then pressed into a bloodless line. "These... these can't be real."
"Three months behind on the property taxes." Drizella tapped each notice in turn. "Two on the merchant guild dues. And that's not counting the outstanding balance on Mother's..." She let the word hang, watching Anastasia's shoulders curl inward.
"Why didn't she tell us?" Anastasia's voice had gone small, young.
"Because she couldn't admit she was losing control." Drizella gathered the papers, each movement sending fresh jolts of pain through her hands. "Just like you can't admit your waist isn't twenty-four inches anymore."
Anastasia's head snapped up, but the usual venom was gone from her glare. Instead, something calculating flickered in her eyes – an expression Drizella had never seen on her sister's face before.
"How long have you known?"
"Long enough to start making arrangements." Drizella returned the papers to their case. "The question is, do you want to keep playing Mother's games, or are you ready to help me fix this?"
Anastasia's fingers traced the half-finished embroidery on her bodice, the silver thread catching the light. When she looked up, her chin had a new angle – sharper, harder. "What do you need me to do?"
Finally. Drizella allowed herself a small, grim smile. "First, we need to talk about the upcoming merchant's ball. And what really happened to Father's shipping ledgers."