Though inspired by a Germany circa 1800, this story is time- and placeless.
Once upon a time, and yet it was not…
Dozens of plucked pigeons lie in a baking pan. The little birds are unaware of the wild commotion surrounding them. The royal castle kitchen resembles a cooking pot, bubbling, steaming, and sizzling in every corner. The large, brightly plastered stone vault in the basement, with its soot-blackened ceiling and small windows high up in the walls, is bustling with activity. Countless servants are preparing a feast. The imaginative, colorful dishes and meals are each a small masterpiece in their own right. There are pyramids of fragrant pastries, pies of all shapes and sizes, sauces of every color, vegetables from across the world, meat from every animal that can be hunted, caught, or gutted, fish from the seven seas, and a vast array of exotic dishes that would fatally poison you if prepared incorrectly. Not to mention pudding, chocolate, cake, caramels, ice cream and the like in such vast quantities that it seems as if there won’t be a single gram of sugar left on earth after this evening. Chefs bustle about, tasting here, seasoning there, basting roasts, turning potato pancakes, and tossing vegetables. Ten baker’s apprentices alone, dressed in white coats and dusted white with flour, tirelessly knead their way through mountains of dough. Potato peelers peel, wooden spoons spoon, pepper grinders grind. Yet there is order in this chaos. No one gets in anyone else’s way; every movement is precise. Steam and flour dust cloud the air, but everyone rushes, scurries, and swarms past each other without even touching. It’s like a dance, a dance between sharp knives, overflowing trays, open fireplaces, and boiling pots.
In the middle of this lively chaos stands a young, very petite kitchen maid in her simple black dress with a white collar and white apron, the uniform worn by all the servants. The garment is a little too big for her, but she’ll grow into it – after all, this is her first and last job. What catches the eye are her vivid red freckles and her wild, curly red hair. The girl pokes at the cold ashes of one of the many brick stoves with a fork clearly not intended for this purpose. She turns around with a swing and bumps into a passing servant, who nearly drops a tray of wobbly jelly in fine crystal bowls. A low growl from the man makes her take a step back. She is clearly new here and not yet part of this intricate choreography.
The young kitchen maid searches the floor for the fork she dropped during the collision. But in the whirlwind of rushing feet, the piece of cutlery has surely long since been kicked into some corner or under a shelf.
“Where are my pigeons?”
The girl looks up and meets the royal head cook’s eyes, narrowed like gun slits, sharp with suspicion and menace. She is a small woman, barely reaching the tip of her young subordinate’s nose, yet her presence is undeniably powerful. Without saying a word, she directs her employees as an admiral directs his fleet through a storm. Like a massive boulder in a raging river, she remains unmoved as the staff rush around her. However, unlike a stone that becomes smooth after years in the water, she has retained her rough, sharp edges. The young kitchen maid nervously chews on her lower lip. From three meters away and out of the corner of her eye, the royal head cook can tell that the oven isn’t lit.
“You had one job, girl! I have one hundred princesses, archduchesses, countesses, baronesses and Fräuleins up there. Dancing whets the appetite.”
“Ha, they won’t touch the food,” booms a cheerful voice from the background. This deep, clear voice, which could pierce any commotion, belongs to the court baker. He is a bear of a man and just as furry. Dark hair grows from his collar, his hands and out of his ears and nose. Two large, friendly eyes sparkle beneath his bushy, joined eyebrows. He claps his floury hands together, engulfing himself in a cloud of dust, then continues: “Their girdles are smothering them. You couldn’t fit a braised asparagus in there. Tomorrow morning, it will all come back down here, and then we’ll feast like the Tsar of Constantinople, or whatever their king is called, or wherever Constantinople may lie.“
”So be it,“ the royal head cook dismisses him, ”the king wants a lavish feast in honor of his dear son, so that’s what we’ll prepare – no questions, no slipups.”
It’s obvious that the experienced chef isn’t one for small talk. However, since the court baker is perhaps the closest thing she has to a friend, even though the tough little lady isn’t one for friendships either, she doesn’t reprimand him. The two have been working together down here for so long that neither of them can remember when they first met. It certainly wasn’t particularly friendly. They go together like sugar and pepper, and somehow even that fits.
“Do you think the prince will choose this time?” asks the young kitchen maid excitedly, her cheeks turning red to match her hair and freckles.
The head cook rolls her eyes. There hasn’t been this much nonsense in her kitchen in a long time.
“What do you care? You think he’ll choose you? Marry a dirty cinder-brat like you? I need a fire. Hurry up!”
The naive girl grabs a log and clutches it as if it were the last memento of a lost love. Then she babbles on: “No, he fancies that mysterious princess, I heard. But last time she did a runner. He was on her heels, but she was already up and away.”
Now the head chef has finally had enough. This is a kitchen, not a tavern where people exchange gossip. She grabs a tray full of small, brightly colored appetizers in tall crystal glasses and shoves it into the kitchen maid’s hands.
“What a load of nonsense! Take this upstairs and don’t drop it.”
No sooner has she uttered the words than the tray lands on the floor, where everything shatters with a crash. The kitchen maid stares past the court chef in bewilderment. Sudden silence reigns in the large room, only the sizzling of pans and the bubbling of pots can be heard. The entire kitchen staff stands still and rigid as the frozen lake, their eyes fixed in one direction. Even the resolute court cook shows a fleeting look of surprise when she turns and sees who has strayed into her kitchen.
There she is, by the door to the staircase – the mysterious princess. She wears a black ball gown of rugged beauty. Several layers of dark fabrics in different shades overlap, giving the impression that they are floating. Embedded in the material are shimmering symbols and patterns that dance in the interplay of light and shadow. Perhaps they represent plants, trees and animals, as well as animal skeletons – a forest full of living and dead creatures. It is impossible to tell at first glance. Only the image of a dove, woven directly above her heart, is recognizable. Everyone is so taken aback that they probably wouldn’t even be able to recall the color of the dress. The noblewoman’s face is obscured by steam and flour dust hanging in the air. She truly is a mysterious princess.
Male and female staff in the kitchen curtsy or bow. Only the young kitchen maid, completely enthralled, stands ramrod straight, her mouth agape in amazement. The royal head cook grabs her by the hem of the skirt and pulls her down. Failure to observe court etiquette can sometimes cost you your head.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots echoes in the stairwell. The mysterious princess scurries across the kitchen, past the kitchen maid crouching on the floor. She pauses only briefly to scoop a handful of cold ashes from the oven the kitchen maid had neglected to ignite. The latter can hardly believe her luck and whispers: ”It’s her. She’s running again.”
The court cook signals to the girl to be quiet. But the young maid seizes her chance and looks up briefly. Perhaps, she thinks, she will catch a glimpse of the face of the mysterious woman who has kept the entire castle, if not the whole country, in suspense since the last festival. Yet, even though she looks directly into her eyes, she cannot make out any human features. Something dark and twisted, like branches outside a window at night, obscures and distorts the princess’s face. It is as if this person has no face at all. The kitchen maid feels a brief chill of fright running down her spine. Who is standing there above her? Is it even human?
Clutching the ashes, the mysterious figure vanishes through a door at the far end of the vast souterrain. No sooner has the door closed behind her than the prince rushes into the kitchen on the opposite side. His cold gaze sweeps over the heads of the bowed and kneeling servants as he searches the room. His broad, muscular chest rises and falls like a tiger about to pounce: tense, focused. With his strong cheekbones, full, curly, dark hair and gala uniform, he looks like Prince Charming – the stuff of every kitchen maid’s dreams as she lies on her simple straw mattress at night. But this prince is a true nightmare. He grits his teeth and stomps to the middle of the room. His left hand plays with the pommel of his decorative sword. His voice is emotionless.
‘I’ll say three. I’ll say two. I’ll say one.”
Before the startled servants can comprehend what their master wants, he roughly grabs the freckled kitchen maid by the wrist and pulls her up. The girl screams, but no sound comes out. Everyone watches in horror as the prince presses her delicate hand into the ashes of the stove. With wide-open eyes and her face contorted in pain, the kitchen maid stares down at her hand. Only then does she realize that the stove is cold – thanks to her own neglect. A faint sigh of relief escapes her. Too soon the sigh, as the prince already drags her to a stove across the room, where a pot brims with wildly boiling water, bubbling with all manner of colorful vegetables. He holds the kitchen maid’s hand over it and looks into the frightened faces all around. A small smile flits across the prince’s lips. Scaring people and flexing his power are his favorite pastimes; he could do it all day long. He almost loses himself in the moment. But then he remembers why he is there and repeats: “I’ll say one.”
With that, he pushes the maid’s hand further towards the boiling vegetable broth. The young girl’s lips tremble and turn pale, but she stands her ground against her tormentor.
“I’ll say…”
He doesn’t get any further. Countless arms shoot up as the entire staff points to the door through which the mysterious princess has fled. Only the court baker, the royal head cook and the young kitchen maid herself do not give in, although the latter probably more out of shock than boldness. The prince releases the girl so abruptly that her hand almost sinks into the water. Then he marches out through said door, slamming it open with a hard blow from his large palm.
Ahead of him lies a long, dimly lit corridor, illuminated only by a few oil lamps on the walls. On either side, dozens of simple wooden doors lead to storage rooms and poor servants’ quarters. Some of them are open, the rest are presumably locked. At the other end of the narrow corridor, the mysterious princess still tries to find a way out. Three doors remain that she has yet to try. The first is locked, and behind the second lies just another small pantry with shelves full of pickled fruit. That leaves one door. It lies directly opposite the door leading to the kitchen, where the prince now stands.
Locked. There is no escape. The mysterious princess turns toward her pursuer, head bowed. A few strands of hair fall over her face, concealing it once more. When the prince realizes she has nowhere left to run, he takes full advantage of his dominance. Slowly, he stalks his prey, clicking his tongue and cracking his knuckles. He stops just two steps from her. For a moment, only his heavy breathing breaks the silence. She remains utterly still, as if she doesn’t need air to breathe, as if she were just the dark shadow of a person.
“Don’t you want to marry a prince?” the prince asks. “Everyone wants to marry the prince,” he continues grimly, taking another step and now standing very close to her.
His breath makes two strands of hair on her forehead tremble. In that brief pause between inhaling and exhaling, the mysterious princess’s left fist suddenly shoots upwards. But before she can finish the movement, her adversary, who is two heads taller and twice her width, seizes her wrist with lightning speed. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot free her arm from his iron grip. For the first time, it seems as if this delicate woman is really made of flesh and blood.
“Now, now. Who, who, who are you?”
“Everyone…”, she is barely audible.
The prince leans down closer to her and she whispers in his ear: “Everyone calls me Cinderella.”
No sooner has the mysterious princess uttered this name than she raises her clenched right hand, opens it and blows the ashes into the surprised prince’s face. Immediately, he stumbles back, covering his irritated, temporarily blinded eyes with his hands. He tries to force them open and grab his prey, but the stinging burning sensation forces him to lean against the wall. Roaring like a deer and cursing like a sailor, he rubs his face, which only makes things worse. Seizing this brief moment, the princess slips past her pursuer. Her wide dress brushes against his legs. Still unable to see, he immediately reaches out for her but misses by inches. The mysterious princess hurries back towards the kitchen through the sparse hallway, stopping only for a split second to slip out of her elegant black slippers. With the shoes in hand, she continues barefoot.
In the kitchen, everyone is still visibly shocked by the previous incident. The room hums with whispers. Furtive glances keep darting toward the door through which hunter and hunted have disappeared. The court baker claws his fingers into a large lump of dough, frustrated by his powerlessness. The royal head cook has parked her pale kitchen maid on a stool and is gently but firmly slapping her cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to bring some color back to them. Then she takes command of her kitchen again before it descends into a chattering country outing.
“Back to work! Everyone, concentrate on your tasks.” Turning to the kitchen maid, she instructs, “Take two deep breaths, then light a fire and roast the pigeons. Make sure they don’t dry out.”
Just as everyone is about to return to their pots, potato peelers, baking trays, icing and corkscrews, the door flies open once more and the mysterious princess hurries past the bewildered servants towards the staircase. Her face is still obscured by her hair as well as the steam and flour dust that linger in the air. The red-haired, freckled kitchen maid quickly lowers her gaze. She cannot muster any more courage today. This time, however, the spook is over quickly. Like a dark shadow, the mysterious lady in black flits through the kitchen and is gone. Only the court baker notices that she is barefoot. In fact, she even leaves a few white footprints after walking through some flour that has fallen on the floor. A surprised but happy beam spreads across his face. He is the only one who recognizes her: the woman known to everyone else as the mysterious princess, who is now running away for the second time from the most important and pompous celebration at court – an invitation to which many a noble would sever their toes.
Swiftly, the bare, delicate feet fly up the wide, winding staircase. It leads to a sumptuous, lofty corridor adorned with golden stucco, enormous chandeliers, and a heavy blue runner. The little feet pause briefly, curling into the rough fibers of the carpet. Hanging on the walls are gigantic portraits of the families and rulers who have lived in this castle for generations. Each figure is dressed in lavish robes and adorned with swords, crowns, cloaks, armor, beloved lap dogs, hunted game and myriad other trophies and symbols of status. Artfully adorned double doors, towering as high as three men and set with finely cut stained glass, open into grand halls and connecting corridors. The mysterious princess looks left and right. At each end of the corridor, guards stand in elegant blue and white uniforms. With their shiny breastplates, helmets, and sabers, they look more like additional decorations than real guards. The men spot the mysterious princess simultaneously. They approach her at a run from both sides. Their weapons, buckles, and belt clasps clatter, while their heavy boots make the wide floorboards tremble.
“Don’t let her escape!” the shout echoes down from the high, vaulted ceilings before being swallowed by the thick carpet.
The mysterious princess has only one way out: the door directly ahead of her. Several panes of glass shatter as she throws the tall double doors open with full force, sending them crashing against the walls on either side. Before her stretches another long corridor, narrower and lower than the last, but still grand and richly adorned. Busts line both walls, likely of the same highborn ladies and gentlemen depicted in the earlier portraits. Between them, man-high golden candelabras light the way. Large windows to the left offer a view of the night sky, and by day, of the forest beyond, which in the darkness is little more than a vague silhouette. It is gloomy out there, but in the distance, above the horizon, a thin red band shimmers. The mysterious princess pays it no mind. She runs as fast as she can, the rush of air from her dress puts out the candles, suffocating them and plunging the hallway behind her into darkness.
The sound of boots and voices grows louder. She veers left, slips through a low doorway, and emerges into a small green courtyard lined with benches and countless rosebushes, all blooming in a deep, blood-red hue. All is quiet here. The mysterious princess halts and listens. But none of her pursuers follow her through the small archway. Then she hears footsteps pounding down the corridor inside. The door rattles faintly in its hinges and then all is quiet again. Swiftly, the princess darts across the courtyard and reenters the castle on the far side. No one is in sight. She races through two more lavish hallways and at last reaches one of the smaller gates that lead in and out of the building. With her whole body, she pushes against the nearly four-meter-high wooden doors, bracing herself to be seized at any moment. But the guards seem to be searching for her inside the castle, allowing the mysterious princess to slip outside unnoticed. She pauses for a moment.
Before her lies a long staircase of more than 300 steps, leading down from the palace on the hilltop to the country road below. All around, the forest stretches into the night. On the horizon, the thin red band still glows in the darkened sky. It is clearly not a sunset, but a blazing red, like one of the hot ovens in the palace kitchen. The night is warm and humid. A black droplet falls to the ground. The mysterious princess runs her hand over her face. Her hand is black with makeup; she is sweating and trembling slightly. For the first time, she looks exhausted, perhaps even a little unsettled.
“She’s at the North Gate!” a voice bellows from above.
Discovered! The princess gathers up her black dress and hurries down the stairs. Her breath is slowly but surely giving out. She takes the steps two at a time – and they’re deep. She stumbles, but just manages to catch herself. Doesn’t dare look back. Are they already on her heels? Who knows? She expects someone to grab her and drag her back at any moment. Her thoughts race even faster than she does. And then it happens: she takes a step that’s a little too wide. Her foot lands on the edge of the next step and immediately slips forward. She loses her balance. Tries to catch herself, but her second foot also lands in mid-air. She falls hard. Her thin arms, legs, shoulders hit the stone violently. She tumbles and somersaults. Her head hits one of the steps, and blood spurts from her nose. She slides a further two or three meters on her stomach before coming to rest. She lies so motionless that she truly resembles the lost shadow of a noblewoman who, a few hours earlier when the evening sun was low, ascended these stairs in her grand ball gown, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting.
Slowly, she pulls herself up. Her entire body vibrates with tension, yet she doesn’t make a sound – neither when she fell nor now. As soon as she is back on her feet, she starts running again, a little more slowly than before, but still determined.
All that remains are a dark bloodstain and one of her little black shoes. It had slipped from her grasp as she fell. In shock, she simply forgot about it. Now, the slipper waits lonely on one of the wide steps at the bottom of the stairs. At the top of the castle gate, the outlines of the first guards appear, gesticulating wildly. Once again, she has eluded them. The prince will not be pleased.
At that moment, a bloodstained hand reaches for the shoe. At first, it slips from the trembling, delicate fingers; then, they grab hold of it. It is the mysterious princess, who has turned back to retrieve what she almost lost.
TO BE CONTINUED
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