No, I can’t think about that. I have to focus on the present.
Option two: I cut my losses and get the hell out of here and try my luck another day.
The second option galls the witchtits out of me after I made such an effort to come all this way, but I’ve waited years to get the Ember. But it’s the only way. What’s a couple more days?
Next time, I’ll be more careful and put a wide berth between the prince and myself.
I lift my skirts and stare down at my feet, still encased in the glass slippers.
The slippers shimmer in the dim light, a mesmerizing blend of silver filigree and deep, amethyst hues that dance along the glass like living shadows. Delicate yet sturdy, the intricate dark roses etched into the glass weave around my feet, holding them securely in place.
Each step I take in these heels is a balance between fragility and strength, a reminder of the thin line I walk. I can almost feel the magic thrumming through the glass.
These babies are my ticket home.
The Fairy Godmother’s instructions come back to me.Just picture where you need to be.
So simple, yet. . . not.
My brain suddenly transforms into a doomsday machine, thinking of all the places I don’t want to end up.
Don't teleport into a volcano. Boston. Boston. Not a volcano.
More scary bizarre intrusive thoughts crowd their way in.
I could teleport to the bottom of an ocean, to the middle of an underground supernatural fight club where I’d be mauled. Or worse, to that horrifying Build a Bunny shop where they hang the empty skins for children to fill with the fluff equivalent of viscera. Stuffed animal fun, my ass. And people thinkI’mmorbid.
Calm down, Cinder, you are freaking yourself out.
Taking a breath, I try to rally my scattered thoughts, aiming for Boston. My dingy apartment never sounded so good. I think of the smell of acrylic paints that practically suffocate my small bedroom and the dirty cereal bowl I left in the sink this morning.
I concentrate on the slippers, envisioning my escape. Nothing happens. I glare at them. “Come on, you glorified paperweights, do your thing.”
I take a hesitant step, and suddenly, the room blurs.
Oh, it's working!
Or I'm having a stroke.
The slippers light up like a disco floor, and I feel that unmistakable tug in my navel, the one that says,You're about to go on an unplanned trip. Hope you packed clean underwear.
But in my disorienting walk forward, my foot snags on. . . something. Knowing my luck, it's probably a priceless rug.
There's a weird sensation of being pulled in half, like a magician's assistant in a particularly gruesome trick.
And then, just as quickly, I snap back into one piece. I find myself standing in my apartment, staring at a very confused cat who seems to be questioning my mode of entry. Sitting back, its hind leg is stuck up in a near-seductive pose.
The stray black cat with malicious, glowing green eyes keeps finding its way into my apartment, no matter how many times I lock the windows. Its long fur sticks out at all angles, making me wonder if it doesn’t stick its little kitty claw into a socket to shock itself just for the fun of it.
I’m convinced the feline belongs to Satan himself because the cat loves pulling out our garbage on the kitchen floor, hissing at me, scratching up the furniture, and peeing on my sheets.
Therefore, I dubbed thee Lucifer.
I look down. One slipper on, one slipper very much not on.
Fantastic. I've left a shoe behind like an intoxicated pop star.
I flop onto my thrift-store couch in a pouf of skirts, trying not to hyperventilate.
