The Unmasking of Cinderella
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Amella Augustus has lived as her stepmother Iona's personal servant since her father's death. School is something she can only dream of. She's homeschooled in order for her to have more time to do Iona's bidding.
At the dingy Laundromat that Amella frequents she meets the mysterious, enigmatic Dayla. What the supermodel-looking woman is doing in such a place Amella can't imagine. A day later she runs into Char - literally. Amella is stunned by the charming, gorgeous guy who feels badly for making her drop her just laundered clothes.
Amella and Char strike up a friendship, spending time together at both the Laundromat and the library, the only places Amella can escape Iona. When he asks her if she'll be attending Jake Charmaine's birthday masque, she knows it's impossible.
Until Dayla steps in. She provides Amella with the dress, hair, and mask needed to attend the ball. The magical night ends with Amella humiliating herself in front of Char. She runs away, determined to hide herself from him.
Just when Amella begins to believe she's found her happily ever after, Iona pounces in and takes Amella away from Char, Dayla, and dreams of happiness. Now Amella must take charge of her own destiny, and make a decision that can either give her the peace she’s longed for . . . or return her to the misery she’s lived in for so long.
Cindy C Bennett
Cindy C Bennett has been writing her whole life, but she fell in love with young adult novels after her teenage daughters introduced her to the genre. Her first two novels, Heart on a Chain and Geek Girl, were written for her daughters, who then encouraged her to publish them. Today, she has eight published novels to her name, including the Whitney Award–nominated young adult romance The End of Feeling. The mother of four grown children and two grandchildren, she enjoys writing, hanging out at the Salt Lake Comic Con, and riding her Harley all over Utah, where she was born and raised.
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The Unmasking of Cinderella - Cindy C Bennett
The Unmasking of Cinderella
by
Cindy C Bennett
Copyright 2013 Cindy C Bennett
USA All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition
Cover Design: Cindy C Bennett
Cover Photos Copyrighted:
http://arivanna.deviantart.com/art/Masked-Maiden-171867435
http://blair-w.deviantart.com/art/Portrait-114124821
http://becs-stock.deviantart.com/
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The Unmasking of Cinderella
I
Amella pushed her back against the Laundromat door, swinging both herself and her loaded basket into the tiny, dingy, hot business wedged between a pawn shop and a bar. The poorly vented dryer air smacked her face. She was immediately assaulted by the smells associated with the place. The clean scent of the detergents couldn't mask the fetid smell of clothing left too long in a wet heap, or maybe from the mold that clung to the edges of the washing machines. Dust bunnies cluttered the corners, some blown there by the dryers that didn't quite close tightly, others pushed by the disinterested attendant's broom. That same attendant, overweight, with stained clothing that could use the services offered by the establishment, sat behind rusted iron bars, eyes glued to a small TV as he mechanically fed cheese puffs into his mouth. He didn't even glance up when she entered, something Amella was grateful for. On the occasions he did notice her, the perusal he gave made her squeamish.
The only other patron within the Laundromat was a woman. Amella did a double take. The breathtakingly stunning woman looked like a model stepped out of a magazine. She didn't seem real. Amella breathed a sigh of relief. Some of the clientele that frequented the Laundromat could be a bit . . . frightening.
The Laundromat was a necessity since the washing machine at the house had broken two months ago and Iona—her stepmother—refused to pay for repairs. Amella had used her precious spare time on the internet searching for parts. Nothing she tried worked, so she now found herself trudging to the Laundromat on the corner while her stepsister Dina went off to school. Amella burned with a silent jealousy.
She loaded a washer with as many clothes as possible without mixing any colors that might harm others and started the machine. She followed suit with two more machines, using Iona’s allotted amount of quarters. With all loads started, she moved to one of the cracked, hard plastic orange chairs pushed against the wall. She shook her head—the retro chair was a testament that if you kept something long enough, it would come back in vogue. She pulled out her chemistry book, wishing she could be home studying rather than here. She'd learned the hard way—made harder by Iona—about leaving the clothing unattended in the machines.
She glanced up beneath her lashes to look at the other woman who occupied the opposite side of the room, mesmerized again by the woman's appearance. She thought that maybe she'd been mistaken before, that the light played a trick on her mind. And truly, it seemed it had. The woman appeared even more beautiful than Amella first realized. Auburn hair hung in thick waves, gleaming even in the dim light. Her skin was flawless, her face shaped as if by an artist from ceramic. Eyes so blue that even in the semi-darkened place they shone. Her fingers were long, as if meant to play music with the finesse of a concert pianist. She sat on one of the folding counters, legs crossed at the ankle swinging casually as if she weren't completely out of place in this rat-hole.
Hi there.
Amella startled, embarrassed to have been caught staring. She gave a small wave, nearly bowled over by the woman's smile which transformed her already lovely visage into something almost ethereal. She quickly dropped her eyes to her textbook, wishing she could turn invisible until the woman forgot about her.
The woman laughed, drawing Amella's eyes once more. Even her laugh was beyond exquisite—carrying a lilt that compelled a smile. The woman hopped gracefully from her perch and moved toward Amella. Amella's stomach tightened. As a general rule, people in the laundry kept to themselves. The one's that didn't usually meant trouble. She watched warily as the smiling woman approached.
I didn't mean to startle you,
she said, a hand pressed to her heart. My name is Dayla Poche.
She held out a hand toward Amella, which Amella stared at mutely. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had offered her a kindness as simple as a handshake. Dayla waited patiently, and finally Amella placed her hand in Dayla's. Long, elegant fingers wrapped around Amella's, warm and firm.
Amella,
she said, feeling gawky in the face of Dayla's grace.
Hmm,
Dayla said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.
Amella removed her hand from Dayla's. There was definitely something wrong with the woman if she were speaking of Amella as beautiful. Maybe she was a bit . . . insane, or something. Maybe she teased.
My parents meant to name me Amelia, but my mother misspelled it on the birth certificate. After she . . . afterwards my dad didn’t have the heart to change it.
She wasn’t sure why she was babbling on about things this woman could care less about. Dayla didn’t comment on her ramblings.
May I?
Dayla asked, sweeping a graceful hand toward the chair a foot or so from Amella's. She considered saying no, but decided she had no right to tell Dayla where she could sit, so she nodded. She glanced up at the ceiling, more out of habit than anything. It was a game she played, inventing shapes out of the stains there. Her attention was drawn back by movement.
Chemistry, huh?
Dayla’s head tipped sideways as she read the title printed on the spine of the book, which Amella had closed upon the strange woman's approached. Never my best subject,
she laughed.
Mine either,
Amella heard herself answer.
I always preferred language arts, poetry, history . . . anything dealing with words. Numbers and formulas were beyond my easy comprehension.
She didn't sound insane, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Amella decided she would do well to be cautious with Dayla. I prefer that as well.
It was true. Words were her true love.
'Words are deeds,'
Dayla recited, looking off as if seeing something beyond the peeling walls. 'The words we hear may revolutionize or rear a mighty state. The words we read may be a spiritual deed excelling any fleshly one, as much as the celestial sun . . .'
'. . . transcends a bonfire, made to throw a light upon some raree-show,'
Amella finished.
Dayla smiled. You know Wentworth?
Amella shrugged, self-conscious. A little,
she admitted.
"More than a little if you can