The Cinderella Theorem Read online

  I used the glass (or gold) slipper doorknocker to announce myself. Nothing happened. I knocked again and waited. Ella was breathless when she finally came to the door.

  “Lily!” She rested her hand on her chest while she breathed deeply. “What a wonderful surprise. Do come in.”

  I followed her into the parlor.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Lily. I gave the maid the day off and I was up in the attic cleaning and didn’t hear the door. Then, when I did, I had to run to answer it.”

  “Oh, that’s fine.” I wondered if the other princesses cleaned out their own attics. I pictured Okera finally finishing hers and being able to sleep again, her mind cleared of the nagging disorganized attic.

  “I’ll bring some tea.” Ella and her deep breathing went out of the room.

  I looked around the room and noticed that the furniture was positioned differently from the last time I was here. The entire room had been rearranged and now the furniture faced the window instead of the door.

  “You’ve moved the furniture,” I commented as Ella returned.

  She looked around at her room. “Oh, yeah, I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was bored over the weekend, so I decided to make a little change.”

  “That’s nice.” I blinked as I realized the walls had been painted also. Ella has a very loose definition of little. “Did Aven help you?”

  Ella smiled and raised her eyebrows. “No, Aven was on Olympus all weekend.”

  “Mount Olympus? Where all the gods live?” I surprised myself again. My fairy tale retention level was rising.

  Ella nodded. “Neptune’s map of the sea floor got dry, so it was completely ruined.” She sipped her tea. “He went over there after finishing the map of Avalon. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. It takes ages to map out the sea floor.”

  “I can imagine,” I agreed, calculating the square mileage of the ocean floor. I sipped my tea and decided to change the subject. “Oh, by the way,” I began, wanting my precious Cinderella Theorem to seem as unplanned as possible, “do you happen to know anyone who paints? Pictures, I mean, not rooms.” I glanced at the lavender walls.

  Ella smiled at my clarification and looked thoughtful. “Well, I…um…yes, I might possibly know someone who paints.” Her words were slow and halting.

  “Wonderful. I’m working Puss-in-Boots’ case. He’s distraught about a recent downturn in business at the restaurant.” I lied. (There was no way to half-truth this story. Although, Puss had agreed to comply with my story if asked. I just hoped Calo didn’t find out.) “Puss thinks that if he had art displayed for people to look at and maybe even purchase, he’d attract more business.”

  “That’s odd.” Ella added some milk to her tea. “I was in Once Upon A Tine the other day, and there was quite a crowd for dinner.”

  “It’s the lunch crowd he’s worried about.” I lied again, hoping there was no magical curse lurking in the atmosphere, waiting to pounce on liars.

  “Oh.” Ella stirred her tea, thoughtfully. “I wonder,” she went on. “I used to paint.” Her eyes glazed as she remembered.

  “Really?” I faked surprise. “You painted?”

  “Yes,” Ella smiled. “I really enjoyed it. There’s just something about holding a brush. It makes you feel completely different. You can say things you can’t normally say.”

  I smiled. “Well, if you’ve got some paintings lying around or if you want to make some for Puss, you should talk to him. He’s very anxious to boost that lunch crowd.”

  I changed to subject after that, but I could tell Ella was still thinking about the paintings. She was probably going through them in her mind, picking out the best ones. I thanked her for the tea and made plans to come back sometime soon for another “friendly” visit.

  On the ride home, my conscience raised a few doubts about the Cinderella Theorem. It might technically be wrong to trick Ella like this, but Puss was open to displaying the work. He just wasn’t having any trouble with his business. And given Ella’s touchy history when it came to her Happiologists, it might not have been a good idea to take advantage of her and “be friends” just to prove she can be happy by being normal.

  But it was all for a good cause, the ends justify the means. Having Ella reach Happy by being normal was considerably greater than any conscience pricking.

  ~~~

  I was quiet as I went through the cubicles. I didn’t know where Calo’s nap room was, and I didn’t want to wake him up. I didn’t need (or want) any Calo questions about where I had been or what I’d been up to.

  But I canceled out all of my previous quietness by shouting, “Sweet Pythagoras!” at the stranger sitting at Calo’s desk. “Who are you?”

  “I apologize for frightening you, Princess.” He stood up. “I’m Thomas, the miller. Calo’s older brother,” he went on, when it was clear that Thomas, the miller hadn’t cleared things up for me.

  “Oh,” I said, breathing more slowly.

  He smiled. “When do you expect Calo to return?”

  “I don’t know. He’s taking a nap.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows, “Taking a nap?”

  I nodded, “He’s got to make a night visit. Sleeping Beauty can’t sleep.”

  “Of course,” Thomas nodded in understanding. “I’ll leave a message for him, then.” He looked around, “Do you have a pad of paper or—”

  I grabbed a pencil and pad off my desk, “Here.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down at Calo’s desk to write.

  I sat at my own desk and began updating my Cinderella Theorem file. Thomas finished, said goodbye, and left. I counted by threes to ninety-nine, then got up to read the note.

  Calo,

  Swing by the mill when you get a chance. I found something that I think you should see. It’s pretty important.

  Thomas

  I wondered what could be so important. I mentally searched my Calo data and remembered that Calo was the second of the three miller’s sons in Puss-in-Boots. Thomas got the mill, the younger brother got the talking cat, and Calo got an old coat and hat and made his way in the world.

  Mills don’t exactly equal places of great mystery and intrigue. What, other than grain, could you find at a mill? And why should Calo see it?

  17

  A Big Mess of Worry

  Calo never directly mentioned the mill mystery, but I caught him reading the note a few times on Wednesday while we processed the outcome of his visit with Okera. Calo managed to raise her one level, but that was all. She was sleeping, but still Less than Less than Happy.

  “Maybe,” I suggested quietly, “her insomnia wasn’t the cause of her unhappiness.”

  “Maybe,” Calo shocked me by agreeing.

  Then I noticed he was reading the note again. He wasn’t paying attention to our debate.

  “Maybe,” I tried again, “you only treated a symptom of the unhappiness, and not the actual cause of the unhappiness.” There. That was practically a blatant accusation. That would get the usual Calo response.

  “Maybe,” Calo stared blankly at the wall behind me.

  Wow. I’d never seen him like this. The mill thing was obviously a big deal. I wasn’t balancing my equation properly. I’d left out a huge factor.

  “Oh, by the way, your brother, Thomas, stopped in yesterday. He couldn’t wait, so he just left you a note. Did you find it?”

  Calo’s head turned sharply. He shoved the note into his pocket. “Yes, I found it.” He looked down at his desk. “What were we talking about?”

  I just looked at him. The mill issue was becoming a larger factor by the minute. “Okera.”

  Calo nodded and began to shuffle papers around his desk.

  I took a deep breath. (Deep breaths = the extra courage and strength needed to do something that you wouldn’t ordinarily, normally do or that you would ordinarily, normally realize was a mistake.) “Calo, is there anything wrong? You seem a little…off today. You didn’t even argue with me
when I suggested you should have considered a more long-term goal with Okera.”

  “For the love of Rumplestiltskin’s beard, Lily!” Calo jumped up; his anger towered over me. “Okera’s case is mine and I will manage it.”

  I moved my head back an inch.

  “And for your information, nothing is wrong. Oh wait, could I possibly be tired after staying up to help Okera sleep? Could I be wondering how I will get my nap before going to Okera’s and get to the mill to talk to Thomas about whatever it is he has found?”

  I didn’t answer Calo. I was 85% confident he didn’t really want an answer. Rhetorical questions are completely unmathematical. In a nice, orderly mathematical world, one asked question leads to one answered question. When a person goes around throwing out rhetorical questions, all you have is one asked question leads to nothing. And people who ask questions, to which they do not in fact expect answers, are often annoyed when you (quite mathematically and normally) answer them. Judging from Calo’s exaggerated hand motions and red face, I placed him on the Doesn’t Really Want an Answer side of my rhetorical question chart. I kept my eyes on my own desk and sat quietly.

  “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” Calo stomped out of the cubicle.

  He wasn’t himself on Thursday either. When I came in, he was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head.

  “Calo?” I asked, cautiously. “What’re you doing?”

  He turned his head–the better to see me with, I guess. “I’m lying here wondering.”

  When he didn’t offer any more data, I asked a clarifying question. “Wondering about anything in particular?”

  “Sure,” he smiled oddly. “About everything, about nothing.”

  I just looked at him. “Okay,” I whispered slowly. “Are we going to work today, or just keep on wondering?”

  “Work, of course,” Calo sprang up, surprised I would even suggest otherwise.

  I noticed the levels in Calo’s monitor had dropped slightly. Perhaps only a millimeter, but enough for a mathematician to notice. I looked at Calo. He seemed to be busy, but a far off look was in his eyes. Probability of him actually comprehending anything he was reading: 15%. Those are not good odds.

  “Calo, listen. I, uh, want to apologize for everything that happened yesterday. I didn’t realize you were so upset.”

  He looked up. “That’s alright, Lily. I have rather low expectations regarding your people skills anyway, so I didn’t take offense.” He smiled.

  I scowled back at him, already regretting my reluctant apology.

  “I do apologize for yelling though. Thomas and I so rarely talk that I was concerned about the seriousness of his situation.”

  “Oh,” I subtracted the warnings in my head and asked anyway: “Did you visit him, then? Is everything okay at the mill?”

  Calo looked like he was thinking very hard for a moment, or focusing all of his energy on something. It’s the way Corrie looks when she’s trying to understand math. “Let’s look at the briefing I wrote up about Okera, shall we?” He pointed with his pencil to a manila folder on my desk. “I made a copy for you.” This time his eyes were clearly there, daring me to ask another question about Thomas.

  “Sure.” I sat down and opened the folder.

  ~~~

  On Thursday night, my father showed me how to mail a letter using the magical mail network. It was pretty simple. You just place the letter in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. (“Of course, Lily, this only goes for our mailbox. Everyone’s got a different one: Jack uses a leaf of his beanstalk, so does the giant, for that matter; Robin Hood and the Merry Men have a hollowed out oak tree that they use–you get the picture.”) Once you have closed the door, you say:

  Magical Mailbox, under my sink,

  Please mail my letter before I blink.

  Then you blink, and check to make sure the letter is gone.

  I had two logical questions about that. “Okay, number one. Why do you have to blink if the rhyme asks for the letter to be gone before you blink?”

  My dad considered the question. “I don’t know, Lily. I haven’t really thought about it.” He sat on the edge of the tub. “I guess if you don’t blink, the magic will know you aren’t being serious.”

  “‘The magic will know you aren’t being serious?’” I repeated.

  “Yep,” he stood up. “Now, what’s your second question?”

  I blinked in surprise. “How did you know I had a second question?”

  My dad smiled. “You said number one. Why point out your first question without having a second one? If you only had one question, you would have just said, ‘I have a question.’” He bounced happily on his heels ever so slightly.

  He might not have been able to satisfy the mathematical equation of Father, but he surprised me with his logic sometimes. He was refreshing after Mom for fifteen years. Mom would never have thought to ask what my second question was; Mom could only be counted on to answer the first question about 50% of the time.

  I smiled. “Two: does everyone have the same rhyme? It doesn’t make a lot of sense for the bird and the happy friends to be rhyming about sinks when they drop their letters into the oak tree.”

  Dad looked puzzled for a moment. “The bird and the happy friends,” he repeated. “The bird and the happy friends,” he tilted his head, “Oh! You mean Robin Hood.”

  “Right. Isn’t that what I said?”

  My father stood there for a moment, then shrugged, “Exactly. To answer your second question: no, everyone does not have the same rhyme. Whenever you set up your mailbox you have to create and register your rhyme. Your mother wrote ours, because she’s a—”

  “Writer,” we finished together, laughing.

  Before I went to bed that night, I wrote a letter and carried it to the bathroom. After I had said the rhyme (and then blinked),[45] I sat on the edge of the tub, with my chin resting on my hand.

  I had no doubt my letter would get to Cinderella and that she would say it was indeed fine for me to come over for a visit on Saturday. I had no doubt she would be happier, because she had something to occupy her time and was surely closer to being normal. So why did I feel guilty?

  ~~~

  When I arrived at HEA on Friday, Calo was spinning around in his desk chair, muttering something that sounded like, “I’m a hot head.”

  “No argument here, Spinning Boy,” I muttered as I sat down.

  Calo grabbed the edge of his desk to stop the spinning. “Lily, I have a brilliant idea.”

  He seemed much happier than he had previously. I checked his monitor, expecting it to be higher. It wasn’t. He’d dropped another millimeter and was just under Could Be Happier–the point at which HEA becomes concerned. The point at which Happiologists are sent out. Do Happiologists even have Happiologists?

  Calo went on, without waiting for me to be curious about his brilliant idea, “Ice cream! We should have ice cream. Go see Tybalt at Once Upon a Tine and get some.”

  “Tybalt?”

  “It’s Puss’ real name.” Calo started spinning again. “No one wants to go through life with a generic name like Puss or Prince Charming.”

  “Huh. I’ve been calling him Puss all this time,” I said to myself. “Calo, have you seen your monitor today?” I decided to employ a very mathematical technique– appearing incapable. Appearing incapable will often bring about a desired result if the person you’re dealing with is an ego maniac like Calo who likes to be a bossy know-it-all. “I might not be reading it right, but it looks like you’re at Could be Happier.”

  “Why do you think I need the ice cream?” He stopped spinning. “A dish of cherry vanilla will make everything better.”

  I stared at him. I did not, for one microsecond, believe that ice cream would fix this. But that was the Calo method: give them something they want and ignore the actual problem. “Fine, one dish of cherry vanilla coming up.”

  I went to get the ice cream, because I needed t
o make sure Calo stayed unvanished long enough to deal with the actual problem.

  As I left the maze of cubicles, pure mathematical genius struck me. Grimm. I would tell Grimm about Calo’s strange behavior. Grimm would be able to fix it. I smiled and maneuvered back through the maze to his office.

  I stopped at his door, or rather, his door stopped me. It was closed. Grimm very rarely closed his office door. It was usually open, a literal “my door is always open” kind of thing. A Do Not Disturb sign now hung from the knob. I flipped the sign over to see if there was any additional information: a time that he would be available, the cause of this closed door, etc. But nothing was written on the back, and the sign accidentally fell off from my flipping. I picked it up, hung it back on the knob and gasped.

  The doorknob was greasy–Levi greasy.

  ~~~

  I quickly put my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I could tell that Grimm was nearly shouting and that Levi was laughing. That sycophant.

  Frustrated with the results of my eavesdropping, I decided I’d better go get Calo’s ice cream. I biked around to Once Upon a Tine, analyzing the reasons I was glad to get out of HEA–if only a few minutes.

  (1) Calo. His behavior was starting to worry me, but I didn’t know what to do about it. Talking to Grimm was still an option. Could I go to the mill and ask Thomas? That might work, if I could come up with a plausible story for why I needed to know what he showed Calo, and if Calo never found out I’d gone behind his back.

  (2) Levi. Why was Levi here? Was he trying to vanish Grimm? Was Grimm arresting him? Could Grimm arrest him?

  I had no answers there, either.

  (3) Ella. I was particularly glad to get to Once Upon a Tine to talk to Tybalt (whose name is not Puss) about the Cinderella Theorem. Had Ella shown him any of her paintings? Had she seemed happier?

  When I went inside, the lyrics of yet another Bremen Town Musician Song assaulted me. This time, however, they were live and in person, rehearsing on the stage at the left end of the restaurant. The rooster moved the mike stand around a lot, bouncing it between his wings.