Grace Lapointe

Saint Emma

Every Saturday morning, Emma rode into town with her father, Henry, in a wooden carriage. It was always the highlight of their week, despite the uneven, gray cobblestones that threatened to throw the swaying horse and carriage off balance. Rain refused to drain from the street, and ice could be treacherous. In rough weather, Emma’s custom-carved wooden cane could be particularly helpful. “It’s an adventure, just you and me,” he’d say confidently. So, Emma never feared.

Shoes had always chafed Emma’s weaker side, her left foot, more than her right. Working with the cobbler and with Emma’s doctor, Henry commissioned cushions in her shoes to protect her feet. Emma and Henry also visited the blacksmith, Roland, and his son, Roland Jr., his apprentice. Roland Jr., who was Deaf and communicated with his father in a signed language, made a metal brace for Emma. She always enjoyed trips to the blacksmith and all her other friends in town.

Downtown, Emma could choose food, books, or toys from all over the world. She listened to storytellers and music. And several of the vendors, cooks, and artists, were disabled, like Emma was. Most of them had been denied any apprenticeships, so they found their own trades and art forms.

Sometimes, a stranger would ask Henry an uncouth question about Emma, as if she weren’t even there. “What happened to her? Why do you even let that poor child out of the house?” Itinerant preachers would offer her “miracle cures” on the spot or pray over her without her consent.

Henry had a quiet, dignified way of deflecting unwanted attention. He’d ask calmly, “Why, whatever do you mean? She’s here because she’s my daughter.” Or he’d exclaim, “I beg your pardon!” in a fierce way that exposed his outrage. Emma admired him for this power.

When Emma was little, the excitement of the marketplace outweighed the strangers’ inappropriate comments. She ignored them but never forgot them. By age ten or eleven, the questions made her feel exposed and self-conscious. Emma tried out her father’s responses herself, shouting indignantly, “Because I’m his daughter!” If strangers found Henry’s defenses proud and gallant, they thought the same words were unspeakably rude when a young girl said them. A young girl with crooked legs, who limped, no less. They called her “crippled” and pitied her.

“Why, leave Emma alone!” shouted Victoria from her marketplace stall. “She has as much right to be here as any of us.”

The well-dressed strangers dismissed Emma but feared Victoria. She was a hedge witch whose trips to the market were the only time she left her cottage in the woods. Emma had bought trinkets and charms from Victoria back when she sat on the ground in the town square. Now, she was glad that Victoria had her own stall. Fearing that Victoria might curse them (perhaps transform them into animals) the harassers relented.

Emma’s mother, Lady Cecilia, had died weeks after Emma was born. Townspeople still gossiped about that too, somehow blaming Emma’s birth and disability for her own mother’s death. Henry told Emma that all these remarks were malicious nonsense. He’d always sung all of Cecilia’s favorite songs to Emma and shared his dearest memories. So, Emma felt that her mother knew and loved her.

One day when Emma was eleven years old, Henry told her solemnly, “I’ve always regretted that you and your mother didn’t have time together in this life. And that you have no siblings to keep you company. You remember my friend Lady Cordelia. She and I are engaged to be married, and she has two daughters around your age: Effie and June. I always wanted you to have siblings. And now you shall!” He looked so elated.

It made no difference to Emma or her father that Effie and June weren’t her blood siblings, but Emma did not have the heart to tell him when they were cruel to her. They were subtle jabs, anyway—at least at first, in Henry’s presence. “That dress is so old! It’s vintage! Was it your mother’s? Why do you walk with that cane, anyway?” They called her Ella sometimes. Either they forgot her name or didn’t respect it.

Sometimes, Cordelia’s contempt slipped through even to Henry. She was born noble, like his first wife had been, and he had become wealthy as a merchant. Of course, Cordelia understood the vagaries of the upper class better than he did, she often said. Money and influence were invisible and too gauche to mention.

A few years later, Henry contracted a serious illness on the road. Emma kept a vigil near his bed, feeding him soup and reminiscing about their love of music and carriage rides. After he died, days later, Emma struggled to get out of bed.

“I’ll miss the gifts he’d bring us from his travels,” said Effie. “And who knew Emma could cook? I thought she couldn’t stand at the stove long enough.”

“She really loved him,” June said. “That’s why she did it. And she surely felt sorry for him.”

“Well, why does Mother hire servants when we’ve had Emma all along?”

Henry had updated his will to protect Emma, but he hadn’t thought of every contingency and loophole. After his death, Cordelia’s lawyers negated his will, unpicking it like Penelope’s tapestry in The Odyssey. Cordelia considered finding a doctor willing to send Emma to the local asylum. Henry should have done that when the child was born, Cordelia thought, but it was probably too late now. The neighbors would gossip. Some even called Emma a friend.

On the third morning after Henry’s funeral, Cordelia lost her patience with Emma oversleeping.

“I’ve been very kind, but I won’t tolerate any more laziness,” Cordelia told Emma.

“Laz—” Emma exclaimed indignantly.

“Hush, I wasn’t finished. Your care for your father made it clear that you’re perfectly capable of cooking and cleaning.”

“Of course, in my own way. Father would help me with the more dangerous tasks. And so are you, Effie, and June. We can share work.”

“That’s out of the question. Effie had an excellent idea of firing the help and letting you serve us. It’s unjust that you always had your own bedroom while your poor stepsisters were forced to share one. June wants your room, and you can move either to the basement or the attic.”

“They’re both inaccessible,” Emma shot back.

“Whatever does that mean? You and your father were always book snobs, making up words.”

Emma chose to ignore that and countless other daily gibes. She explained calmly, “They both require steps, which I cannot climb, to reach them.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child,” exclaimed Cordelia, never one to concede a point. She threw out most of Emma’s belongings and gave the rest to her daughters. She set a pallet on the kitchen floor, near the cooking fire, for Emma. “You’re always in the way,” complained June, almost tripping over Emma’s pallet.

“Well, someone took over my room,” snapped Emma.

“Cinder Emma, it was me. Don’t you remember? Cinderella sounds better, don’t you think?” She laughed and nudged Effie.

Emma didn’t bother to explain her sarcasm. Her stepsisters were sarcastic enough, mockingly calling her “Saint Emma.” They thought she was sweet and passive—incapable of malice or sarcasm. “Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” Effie said. If that were the case, I’d be a corpse, thought Emma. Though her stepsisters laughed whenever Emma fell, she always carefully moved her pallet, so they’d avoid falling themselves. Her parents had also been saints for loving and accepting Emma, her stepsisters and stepmother always said. Her father catered to her every whim, as they described it.

Her stepmother and stepsisters’ abuse of Emma escalated. Cordelia acted like she was doing Emma a great favor to accommodate her, then stopped accommodating her altogether. The three of them often punished Emma for not fulfilling impossible tasks and deliberately hid or withheld her cane or brace. When she outgrew or wore out her brace and adapted shoes, they did not replace them, though they could afford to do so.

When Emma was in her late teens, June ran breathlessly into the manor house one spring afternoon, rambling about the prince’s upcoming ball. “The prince will hold a ball to choose a bride from all the eligible maidens in the kingdom,” she said, looking flushed. Emma thought that sounded strange. Didn’t royals usually arrange marriages as alliances between kingdoms? At least, that was how they usually did things in books.

“Oh Emma, you absolutely must alter my pink dress for me,” June begged her.

“No, I’d wear that. It was Mother’s,” Emma countered.

June and Effie both laughed uproariously. “She thinks she’s going!” Effie gasped, always talking around Emma, like she wasn’t there.

Cordelia said, “I usually hate to take sides in you girls’ squabbles, but I must insist. Emma cannot go to the ball. She has too many chores to do here. What’s more, that leg is an eyesore. We’d have to distance ourselves from her—explain we’re not her blood relatives. Otherwise, the prince might be afraid to marry into our family.”

“Excellent point, Mother,” Effie crowed. “Who would want royal heirs who might not walk, or worse—”

Not wanting to know what Effie considered “worse,” Emma interrupted loudly, “I’ll go!” She hadn’t been interested before, but now she wanted to go, just to spite them. She longed to leave her abusive home, if only for one night.

“Why would she even want to go? And how would she dance?” June asked. “‘Oh, excuse me, Your Highness. Would you mind holding my cane?’”

“Or maybe she could dance with it?” Effie suggested mockingly. They hobbled in a circle, giggling.

“You wouldn’t just need to clean yourself and change your clothes. You’d need to fix your limp as well!” June said triumphantly to Emma. Seething, teeth clenched, Emma carefully walked away.

On the evening before the ball, after Emma had finished her errands, she visited Victoria’s stall. Pungent, dried herbs hung from wooden rafters. Clockwork animals waved, moving out of sync with one another. “You look troubled, dear,” Victoria observed. She had liked Henry and noticed Emma’s depression since he died.

“Victoria,” Emma whispered. “Remember when you said you owed me a favor?” She felt awkward even mentioning it.

“Of course I do. You were one of my first customers, when I had nothing. I’d hoped you’d call in your boon one day.” Call it in? Emma thought. Henry had taught her to be kind without expecting anything in return, and now she felt like she was imposing or using Victoria. “Now, how may I help you? First, I have some ground rules. I can’t resurrect or contact the dead.”

With one hand leaning on her cane, Emma leaned forward, shocked. “Victoria! My father has been dead for several years. I’d never—”

“I don’t think you would, but many people have asked me. I don’t deal in necromancy, but neither can I judge. Grief can make us desperate.”

“No, nothing like that. I’d like to go to the prince’s ball tonight.”

“You don’t need me for that, surely?”

“My dress!” Emma shrugged, pointing to her tattered work dress with the hand not on her crutch.

“Pish posh!” Victoria exclaimed. “You’re so beautiful. That dress is fine. Your stepsisters wear new dresses. What about you?”

“They took Mother’s old dresses for themselves. Besides, I have no transportation.”

Victoria clicked her tongue. “What, you mean they’ve forbidden you to go? I remember you riding in your father’s carriage when you were little. He’d help you get in. They won’t even hold the carriage for you?”

“No. They say I would be ‘unsightly.’”

“They’re lucky I don’t do curses. Come to my cottage.”

Emma nodded. She’d visited before. It was only a short distance from the marketplace. Victoria held a lantern, and they both leaned on canes as they slowly walked down the dirt road.

The garden was larger than the A-frame cottage behind it. Victoria had given Emma rhubarb pie and herbal tea before, but they didn’t go inside tonight. Victoria took a hazel wand from the ground and waved it towards Emma. Her ragged, gray work dress transformed into a silk, lavender gown with a triangular waistline and tulle sleeves. The skirt was long and elegant, but not long enough to trip her. The shoes remained flat because Emma couldn’t balance in heels.

“Oh! Thank you so much, Victoria!” Emma exclaimed. “My shoes!”

“Do they hurt you?”

“No, they feel amazing.” The shoes now had cushions inside them, and she wore a metal brace. They fit perfectly, like they did when she was a child.

“And now a carriage!” exclaimed Victoria, waving towards a comically large pumpkin. It could win the local fair, Emma thought. The pumpkin grew and turned from orange to white. It acquired wooden walls and windows and glass doors. “Now, you understand why I can’t conjure horses or drivers out of thin air, right? Or turn these mice over here into men.”

“I think so?” said Emma, almost too stunned to speak.

“My magic has hard boundaries. I’m not a god, creating or changing the essence of animals, living or dead. Or violating their consent.”

“That’s reasonable,” Emma agreed. She was still shocked, trying to pretend this wasn’t the most surreal experience of her life.

“So! A horseless carriage! Driverless, in fact. Let me know if it’s to your liking. These will be all the rage someday.”

“What? How?”

“Some of us live backwards, you know, or out of time and space. But enough about that. There’s no time to waste. At midnight, my magic will expire, and everything will be as it was.”

“Oh, I understand, but I’ve never dreamed of anything like this!”

The carriage had a slight incline and railing leading up to the door. Emma found it much safer and easier than steps. It was perfect—as if the magic carriage read her mind, anticipating her needs. The ride was far smoother and more comfortable than a horse-drawn carriage. The strange new vehicle was compact and sleek inside and out. It knew the way to the palace, and she was unsure whether the magic was somehow sentient or automated. Either way, she wished she could travel like this every day. So many of her friends from town had never been chosen for apprenticeships because they couldn’t see, hear, walk, or ride a horse.

Emma had seen the exterior of the palace before, on trips with her father, but she still found it breathtaking at night. The marble walls were strung with lights. Emma’s crutch and shoes sank into the soft grass as she approached. The lights were not fire or oil, but some substance she’d never seen before. She felt her body tense when she saw marble doors and three wooden, spiral staircases. She was exhausted and frightened just imagining trying to climb them.

The imposing marble door opened on its own as Emma walked up to it. Amazing, she thought, walking through. One of the staircases remained the same, one transformed into a ramp before her eyes, and the third became a wooden box that could ascend to the higher floors. While Emma gaped at this, a red carpet rolled out onto the ballroom by itself. Emma considered the gently sloping ramp, which still would have taken her a while. Tonight was magical, a night for daring. So, she stepped into the wooden box, which carried her aloft to the main ballroom. Her stomach dropped, her body lifted, and she felt like she was flying.

The ballroom was vast, with high ceilings and a floor with a black and white chessboard pattern, but Emma somehow didn’t feel tired. Touching the walls and holding her cane for balance, she felt secure in her shoes and brace.

“Pardon me. May I help you?” asked a handsome, tall, young man, extending his arm to her. He had pale skin, dark brown eyes, and dark brown, short hair. He wore gold epaulets on his white jacket, almost like a military uniform.

Emma wanted to protest, “No, thank you. I’m fine!” but changed her mind. Instead, she answered, “Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful.” He took her arm and walked slowly with her to a corner of the ballroom. He let her set the pace. She was pleasantly surprised how easy it was easy to walk and even dance with his support. The waltz was slow and sweeping, and her dress flowed around her. The buoyant feeling intensified when they leaned towards each other and kissed.

And then it happened. The man laughed—surely at the way she moved, she thought.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I messed up the moves. I can never get those right, no matter how much I practice. I spun in the wrong direction,” he said.

Emma saw no malice in his face, nor prurient curiosity. His apology was sincere. She laughed too. “I’m surprised I haven’t knocked you over accidentally! Everything is beautiful. And that elevating box—an elevator, I guess you’d call it—it’s marvelous!”

He waved his hand. “They always go overboard. It’s embarrassing. Why do the announcements describe what each lady is wearing? Why project song lyrics in the air?”

“For the blind and Deaf guests, of course. Like the box helps me.”

“Oh. It sounds so obvious when you say it like that. Yes, I suppose those things are helpful.”

Emma glimpsed the glowing clock tower over his shoulder. She realized how far she still had to walk—suddenly frantic. “Oh no, it’s almost midnight! I must go back! Goodbye!” she exclaimed. She remembered to pace herself, not even trying to run, or else she could trip and fall.

“What? Why? No, wait! Please! I didn’t even catch your name.”

“I’m so sorry. Goodbye!” Emma sneaked past the guards, through some hidden area where the young man didn’t follow.

Gripping the wall, Emma made her way back to the wooden box. From inside, she could hear the clock discordantly striking midnight. Combined with the box’s abrupt descent, it made Emma feel dizzy, almost sick. The box transformed back into a staircase as soon as she reached the ground.

That could have been much worse. I might have suddenly fallen down a spiral staircase, she thought. The automatic door turned into a heavy, manual, marble door in front of her, like a stone barring a mausoleum.

“No! Stop!” Emma shouted, panicking, until the guards opened the door for her.

“Thank you!” she said as she rushed through the door. Somehow, her carriage was still there. Maybe Victoria’s spell had affected each object slightly differently. While the ride to the ball had been smooth, the return was fast and choppy. Emma lurched as if an invisible, skittish horse pulled the carriage. She was panting and shaking as she reached the house. The carriage transformed into a pumpkin, which looked out of place in their garden. Her elegant, lavender dress turned back into rags, but she kept her shoes and brace.

A few mornings later, Emma overslept, still exhausted. Her stepsisters usually would have yelled and awakened her anyway, but they were busy gossiping about the ball.

“Did you hear Prince Ethan fell in love with some little invalid? Like Emma.”

“I can’t imagine! Choosing someone like her when he could have any maiden he wants!”

“A rare beauty in a purple gown, they say. He’s searching the kingdom for her and wants to marry her. He danced with her all night and barely looked at anyone else. Maybe he has some kind of fetish. Or maybe she bewitched him.”

“June, you don’t think—”

“Yes, that makes much more sense. If he wasn’t in his right mind . . .”

“I mean, do you think it could have been HER?”

“Of course not. How would she even get there? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Later, the prince’s representative knocked on their door, asking for all the eligible young women in the household. Effie and June giggled, pushing each other, as Cordelia insisted there were no other young ladies in the house.

Emma trudged by, dragging a laundry basket too heavy for her to carry. The visitor’s face brightened when he saw her. “Prince Ethan didn’t even catch the lady’s name, but his love had golden-brown hair, blue eyes, and walked with a limp. I don’t have an example to show you, but she had a brace or apparatus on her foot, like—” His voice trailed off.

Emma put down the laundry and stepped towards him. “Like this?” she asked quietly. She was still wearing the metal brace on her left foot. It extended up her leg, showing underneath her knee-length work dress.

“Emma, our scullery maid? Please, be serious,” Cordelia scoffed.

Prince Ethan stepped out of the carriage. “Emma, it’s you! What a beautiful name!” he exclaimed.

Emma and Ethan rode to the palace in the horse-drawn carriage. They laughed and talked excitedly for the entire ride.

At the palace, Ethan said to the queen, “Mother, this is Emma. She taught me so much. She’d make a wonderful princess. Do you remember those, um, adaptations at the ball? The stairs that turned into a ramp?”

The queen laughed coldly, sounding almost like Cordelia. “That dreadful security breach? We still haven’t figured out who’s responsible for that, you know. We fired all the royal carpenters, as a precaution.”

“No, the changes were wonderful. Emma would like them to be permanent.”

“Why, whatever for? They were enough of a nuisance for one night. And how did they work? I still suspect witchcraft.”

“Not only permanent but throughout the palace and the entire kingdom,” Emma added confidently. “And no more asylums or workhouses for anyone, ever.”

The queen was no longer laughing. She looked furious, reminding Emma of her stepmother. “Why? So the riffraff can access the palace? Hideous, damaged, beggars, reprobates—”

“We are your subjects, Your Majesty,” Emma said tersely.

“We? Oh no, child, you are beautiful, intelligent, and highborn. You are not one of them. You’re the exception. Given long enough dresses, no one would even notice your leg. If you stand still, you look almost normal. We can install a few ramps for you, surely. Ethan will help you, and servants could carry you in a sedan. But implementing changes for the entire kingdom?! Have you any idea how much that would increase taxes?” She asked her son in exasperation, “Are you sure you want to marry this one? Any other girl would be a far more appropriate choice—and grateful, polite, and tractable besides.”

“No, Mother, I love her. I’ve never met anyone who believes and speaks as passionately as she does.”

“Well, she’s certainly unique,” the queen remarked sarcastically.

Emma realized that they were standing on a balcony overlooking the palace courtyard. A crowd had gathered beneath them, and a servant had drawn back a curtain. She suddenly feared that Ethan would introduce her to the crowd or even propose marriage. Can I marry into this family? she wondered. It’s better than my home, at least. She cared for Ethan and didn’t want to humiliate him by publicly rejecting him. If she stated her plans for accessibility forcefully, they could sound like a royal decree or even a coup. They could start a riot.

Was this the kind of person she’d become, who feared or forgot her friends or her own beliefs? Emma wondered bitterly. Would she grow complacent in the palace, viewing the access that everyone needs as luxuries for herself alone? She might become a symbol of the royal family’s generosity, like a mascot or a beloved pet. Saint Emma! The queen wanted her to simper and say basic courtesy was more than her wildest dreams. The thought grated on her. Emma hated to grovel.

Be brave, Emma told herself. I could make changes from within. I could live up to my sarcastic nickname and become Saint Emma.

As for Emma’s stepsisters and stepmother, they’d continue to prosper, as cruel people often do. The world considered them beautiful and was kind to them.

When Ethan knelt and asked Emma to marry him, she said yes enthusiastically. Then she scanned the crowd for Roland or Victoria. Their help as friends was worth so much more than the royals’ offers of charity. If Emma could direct her words towards her friends, they would be sincere. As soon as Emma spoke, she realized that she sounded as meek and obsequious as most people expected her to be. She was used to acquiescing to her stepmother and stepsisters to survive. Now, feeling like she was speaking through a tunnel and barely present, Emma smiled. Her speech was short: “Thank you. Thank you all. This is more than I ever dreamed. I’m lucky just to be here.”