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“It’s time to release the prince,” the king announced. Everyone turned and looked at him, blinking in confusion. He grimaced and tried to smile. “I mean, it’s time to introduce the prince.”
The queen’s hands trembled as she pulled out a set of keys. Everyone watched, humming with anticipation as the queen unlocked the door. And unlocked it. And unlocked it. My, that is a lot of locks for one door!
“He must be so handsome they’re afraid of kidnappers!” Small-head-big-face whispered.
“He must be so charming, they know we’d storm the castle if we could get to him,” Big-head-small-face answered.
The stepmother, who knew a thing or two about why doors are locked, narrowed her eyes. Perhaps she should have accepted the king’s request for her stepmother-hood, after all.
(Oh, Stepmother. If only you knew.)
Finally, after sliding one last dead bolt free, the door was ready to open. The king stood nearby with a bucket of water in his hands. Everyone held their breath as the queen opened the door to reveal …
SPLASH! The king threw the bucket of water, thoroughly soaking the young man before he could even walk into the ballroom. The prince’s shoulders sagged and he dropped something that had been in his hand. Shaking water from his hair, the prince entered to a smattering of polite applause.
He was neither so handsome you would want to kidnap him, nor so charming you would storm a castle just to be in his presence. He looked like a guy. A wet guy. But he had a nice smile, and cute dimples, and his hair was curling now that it was wet. His eyebrows were even starting to grow back in.
Half the girls in the ballroom nodded. Good enough for them, if he came with a castle! A few slipped out, having expected more. (Oh, darn, your grandma left. I guess she’s picky when it comes to princes. Better luck next time!)
Small-head-big-face and Big-head-small-face (this is confusing, I really should have asked the stepmother what their names are) were more than happy to give him a chance. They both stepped forward, smiling, but he looked right past them. No one seemed to be able to catch his eye as he strode through the ballroom, right for the fireplace. It had been bricked completely shut.
He looked disappointed. But then, from across the ballroom, he saw her.
She was on fire, and so was his heart.
It took him a moment to realize the girl was not actually on fire; she was simply wearing a very odd dress. A mesmerizingly beautiful dress. As he watched, she slipped out a side door. She was carrying a large stack of books. (Oh, Cinderella! She came to a ball and only wanted books!)
“Wait!” he called. He pushed through the crowds, stepping on feet and dodging attempts to talk to him.
“Prince Charming!” “Prince Charming!” “Prince—ow, you stepped on my foot!” The girls at the ball were surrounding him and he couldn’t get through fast enough. Finally, with one last elbow to one last pretty nose, the crowd parted and he was out the door. He looked left and right. There was no sign of her.
But in front of him, deep in the gardens, a golden glow grew.
He ran toward it. Bushes caught on his sleeves. Branches scratched him, but he didn’t care. Finally he found the source of the glow.
The girl was crouched in front of a pile of books, their pages torn free. She blew tenderly, cupping her hands around the tiny flame to protect it from the wind. (Wait a second—she’s BURNING the books? What a horrible girl! I hate her! Quick, make sure she isn’t burning this one, because we still have a lot of ground to cover before the end.)
“Hello,” the prince said.
Cinderella squeaked in fear. Then she jumped up and stood in front of the fire to try to hide it.
“Prince Charming!” she said.
“Actually.” He smiled and scooted her to the side. Then he pulled out a small bottle hidden in his pocket and poured it on the flames. They leaped higher, crackling intensely. He leaned so close that his eyebrows once again burned off. “It’s Prince Charring. And you are?”
“Cinderella.” She turned and watched the flames as they greedily jumped to a nearby bush. She sighed in contentment.
“You don’t like snakes, do you?” he asked, suddenly sounding nervous.
“They don’t burn very easily, so no.”
He slipped his hand into hers. “You smell like ashes,” he said, leaning over and breathing deeply.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You smell like gasoline.”
It was very romantic. If you are obsessed with fires. Which I hope you are not, because that is a terrible hobby.
As the clock struck midnight, a familiar scene unfurled. Cinderella ran down the steps of the palace, losing a single glass slipper. The prince was close behind.
