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“What is it?” the big-headed-small-faced one asked.
“Yes, what?” the other one asked. She had a small head and a big face. If only they could trade!
“It appears we have to go to a ball. The prince needs a wife.”
“The prince?” Big-head-small-face shrieked.
“A ball?” Small-head-big-face demanded.
They looked expectantly at Cinderella. Small-head-big-face elbowed her. “A wife?” Cinderella asked, because it was the only noun left that hadn’t been turned into a question.
“I hear they call him Prince Charming!” Big-head-small-face said.
“I hear no one ever sees him because he’s so handsome it makes women faint!” Small-head-big-face said.
“I hear wind chimes!” Cinderella said, because she did. And because she never left the house, so she never heard rumors.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” the stepmother said, frowning. “Something about this smells bad.” She lifted the invitation, then grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s left over from the pigpen cleaner who dropped it off. Well, the ball’s tomorrow. So you have until then to find something to wear.”
The stepsisters shrieked in joy, scrambling away. Cinderella turned to join them.
“Not so fast,” the stepmother said. “You still have to finish all your work.”
“But—”
“No exceptions. Back to work.”
Cinderella’s tears mingled with the salt, dissolving it and messing up her sorting. But she knew she would go to the ball. She had to. And she knew that she would win the heart of the prince. He would see her spark, and he would rescue her from this cold life of ashes. After all, she was the only character in this story with a name. Surely that made her more important than anyone else?
The next night, the stepsisters swept down the stairs. The stepmother looked on with silent approval. She nodded tightly. “That will do. Though why anyone would want to marry a prince, I don’t know. And kings are even worse.” She sighed, stroking her ring finger. On it she wore seven wedding rings. It was heavy, and they were stacked so high she couldn’t bend that finger anymore. Marriage was not easy.
Cinderella had worked all day and all night. She had cleaned the cleaning supplies—scrubbing the scrubbers, polishing the polishers, and wiping the wipers, until even the memory of dirt was gone.
But she had been busy, too. Her clothes were ragged, every hem singed. Most of her skirts had small holes burned in them. But she had managed to take everything apart and make it into something new.
This is the scene where the girl shows up triumphant, having created beauty out of all the ugliness. But … Cinderella isn’t that girl. Because instead of getting rid of the singed and burned parts, she had saved those. Her dress was a patchwork of charred fabric. She even smelled like cinders and ashes. She had used the remains of the coal in the fireplace to line her eyes and rouge her cheeks. Her hair was piled on top of her head in swirls like smoke.
Her one concession to normal beauty was a pair of teardrop crystal earrings. The prisms winked when they caught the light. They were her last gift from her father, the only thing she had managed to hide from her stepmother all these years. She loved the way they twinkled. The way they concentrated light to a single bright, hot point. The things she knew she could do with that bright, hot point of light …
“Where did you get those?” Her stepmother stomped up the steps.
Cinderella put her hands over her ears. “They’re mine!”
“I should have known better. You can’t be allowed out. This is for your own good. Girls, grab her arms.”
Cinderella cried and struggled, but it was no use. Big-head-small-face and Small-head-big-face held her while her cruel, wicked stepmother stole the earrings. Then they pushed her into the kitchen and locked the door behind her. She pounded and cried, but it was too late. They were going to the ball without her. And her last treasure was gone.
She crawled out through the cat door. Her stepmother didn’t know she was little enough to fit through it, but the cat that used to live there had been very, very large. Out in the garden it was dark and cold. Sobbing and sniffling, she found two rocks and started hitting them against each other. But her heart wasn’t in it.
Her spark had finally been smothered.
This is too sad. Poor Cinderella! If only there were a fairy godmother to conveniently show up and fix things. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Oh well.
Ha ha, just kidding! Of course there’s a fairy godmother. Cinderella was so busy crying that it took her a minute to notice a light glowing around her.
She looked up, surprised. “Fire?” she asked excitedly. But it wasn’t a fire—it was a fairy!
