PROLOGUE

Cruella De Vil wasn't born.She was made.Although, if we are being technical, she was, in truth, like any living, breathing being, born.Her name was Estella.And it is rumored that on the night of her birth, the stars didn't shine and the moon dared not peek out from behind the stormy clouds.Some say that wolves howled, and others say the rivers around her home ran hot.

But people say a lot of things.

And a lot of the time, those things are not true.

At least not all of them.

Estella came into the world like any other baby—kicking and screaming.But from the moment she arrived, it was clear that she was not like any other baby.Unique, some called her.Special, said others.A few kinder souls who came across her rolling along in her pram might have even dared call her cute—until her knit cap fell off, revealing her hair.

Jet black on one side, pure white on the other.It was, from the moment she was born, thick and distinct.And when people saw it, they usually stopped thinking cute and started thinking bizarre.

But mothers are blinded by love and Estella's mother, Catherine, was no exception.To Catherine, Estella was perfect and brilliant from the moment she entered the world.As the days and years passed, Estella grew from a curious baby who was quick to smile to a precocious toddler who insisted on doing everything on her own.She walked before other children of her age and by two was having full conversations with her mum.She never seemed to notice the strange looks people gave her and never seemed bothered that no one came to visit the shabby but cozy cottage where she and her mother lived.

To Estella, her tiny home wasn't drab or sad.The clothes her seamstress mother mended brightened the small space and became her world.She slipped silk, chiffon, and taffeta through her fingers, marveling at their smoothness.She compared clothes and dreamed up patterns.As Estella grew older, other talents began to shine through.At her mother's knee, Estella quickly learned how to thread a needle and soon was darning socks and hemming skirts.When the meager furniture at home became too threadbare, Estella would create colorful patches out of fabric remnants.

While sewing came naturally to Estella, following the rules was a bit harder for her.On more than one occasion, Estella's mother had to give her a gentle reminder."You must follow the pattern, "she said to her daughter."There's a way to do things."

"It's ugly, "Estella said, holding up a pattern and comparing its straight lines to the wild ones she had imagined for her doll's new dress.

Her mother shook her head."That's cruel.Your name is Estella, not Cruella."

Cruella was the nickname her mother had given her when she was younger and in the throes of the "terrible twos, "which were followed by the "tyrannical threes."Estella's temper, when it got the best of her, could make her quite cranky and sometimes even mean.Her mother liked to remind her to keep "Cruella"in check—though some moments were easier than others.Sometimes, at the reminder, young Estella shook her head or—if in a particularly pouty mood—ripped up a pattern or stomped her feet.But she always returned to give her mother a hug and a "sorry."She didn't want to be cruel.She just wanted to sew.

By the time she was twelve years old, Estella was a talented seamstress.While she still didn't have many friends, her mother told her every day she was special."You can be anybody or anything you want, sweet girl, "her mum said."You aren't just black or white.You're every color of the rainbow."And Estella believed her.Estella didn't need friends.She had her mum and her imagination.

So for the most part Estella was happy.

But all that was about to change ...