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And the king and queen were close behind him.
And everyone else was close behind them, screaming. The now-empty castle erupted in flames.
Hmm. This is not quite how I imagined it. I don’t think it’s what the fairy godmother had in mind, either. Maybe the stepmother had a good reason for keeping Cinderella very, very busy at home and always locking her up?
Prince Charring caught up to Cinderella. They stood with the crowd, watching as his tower was engulfed in fire. (I’m so glad your grandmother got out of there safely!)
“At least we don
’t need servants to staff the castle now,” the queen said.
“And we found him a wife,” the king said. The queen shrugged. At this point everyone could have broken into song and she wouldn’t even have had the energy to banish them.
The stepmother searched desperately through the crowds, but it was too late. There was no way she could force Cinderella to go back home now. The stepmother had failed, yet again. She shook her head. Then she made sure Big-head-small-face and Small-head-big-face were merely singed and not actively on fire. After several years with Ella, they were used to it.
Prince Charring and Cinderella looked lovely, backlit by the raging fire. They had never been so happy as they leaned in for a kiss. Theirs was a love that would burn forever.
Do you remember that time you were wandering around the woods by yourself and you saw a house, so you were like, “Hey! I should go in and eat their food, sit in their chairs, maybe break some stuff, and then go to sleep in their beds”?
Oh, you don’t remember that time?
GOOD. Because none of that is acceptable behavior, which you are obviously smart enough to know. What kind of kid would do something like that? One without parents or responsible guardians. Unfortunately, Rapunzel and Snow White and Cinderella and Jack’s stepmother couldn’t be everywhere, much as she tried. Some things slipped through the cracks while she was (literally) putting out fires. One such thing the stepmother had missed is the subject of our next story. Her name is Goldilocks, and she has not learned any of the lessons about proper behavior that you have. I suspect it will get her into trouble. Let’s go watch!
Goldilocks skipped through the woods, humming happily. Her locks of hair bounced in cascades of golden ringlets around her. You might think, “Ah ha! No wonder her name is Goldilocks!” She’s glad you think that.
As she skipped, Goldilocks kept her eyes fixed on the forest path. Not because she was afraid of tripping—she was very coordinated—but because there were strange tracks there. Not the snake tracks she sometimes saw. These were different. Like someone had forgotten how to walk. Like they were shambling, feet dragging slowly. Here and there, scraps of red cloth had caught on branches. They decorated the path like streaks of …
Well, not blood! Blood would be scary and gross. Like streaks of a bright red thing that wasn’t blood!
Up ahead, she saw a house, shaded and half-hidden among the looming trees. (Is it Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house? No! I wouldn’t do that to you. We don’t want to go in there again.) Goldilocks looked up and down the path, but the forest was silent. Eerily silent. You might even say dead silent.
Still humming, Goldilocks climbed the steps to the front door. There were deep scratch marks gouged into the wood. Shards of shattered glass crunched under her feet. A window to her left had been broken, and a sad blue curtain waved mournfully from inside, caught on the wind. Goldilocks, you really shouldn’t be here!
But she didn’t listen to us. The door was locked, so she pulled a small bag out of her dress pocket. Inside, gleaming as golden as her hair, were several lock picks. She crouched in front of the door and carefully worked on the lock.
It’s almost like she’s not some silly, stupid kid skipping aimlessly through the woods. Goldilocks looked up and winked, holding a finger in front of her lips like she was trying to shush me. The door swung open. Goldilocks went inside.
The first room was a kitchen. It was a cheerful yellow, like fresh butter. A bunch of hydrangeas in a clumsily painted vase sat on the table next to three bowls of porridge. Pease porridge, it looked like. (Oh no.) The first bowl steamed. “This porridge is too hot!” Goldilocks exclaimed, looking warily around. If it was still hot, it couldn’t be that old. Goldilocks certainly notices a lot of details!
She put a finger on the side of the second bowl. “This porridge is too cold.” If it was still cold, it couldn’t have been out for that long, either. Goldilocks knew that hot porridge and cold porridge both turn into room temperature porridge eventually. She paused and listened, but the house was silent. Except there—a small groan. Well, this was an old house. It could have been simply the house settling on its foundation, or the wind, or some ghastly fate awaiting this poor, innocent girl.
Probably just the wind, though.
Goldilocks leaned over the third bowl. She picked up the spoon next to it and dipped it into the porridge. “But this one is just …” Her nose wrinkled. “Just the most awful thing I have ever smelled in my life.” Gagging, she dropped the spoon. The porridge spilled out. There was another splatter on the table, as if someone had already done the exact same thing.
Goldilocks left the kitchen. The next room was a family room. Fishing magazines open to centerfold spreads of salmon were left out on a coffee table. There was a well-loved picture book called The Kidenstain Kids. A “Three Is a Magic Number” cross-stitch was lying half-finished on the floor. There were also three chairs.
The first was a humongous chair, with stiff, dark hairs that looked like fur all over the wood. “This chair is too hard,” she said.
The second chair was decorated with a floral pattern. The cushion was worn thin, sinking so low it almost touched the floor. Whoever regularly sat in this chair was much, much larger than Goldilocks. And, judging by the way the armrests were shredded, had much sharper claws. I mean, fingernails. “This chair is too soft,” Goldilocks said.
She turned to the third chair in the room. It was made of solid wood. Small, as if for a child, but sturdy. “This chair is …” I see where this is going. Goldilocks, you shouldn’t break into strange houses and sit in their chairs!
She glared, then leaned over and picked up a piece of wooden chair leg, shaking it up at me. “This chair is just smashed to pieces.” She hefted the splintered chair leg, wondering what could have broken such a well-made chair.
Goldilocks yawned. She hadn’t slept well in so long. Those strange tracks kept her up at night. So much to do. Down the hall she could see a bedroom. The thought of a nice, warm, safe bed called to her. Keeping the chair leg in her hand, she walked silently into the bedroom.
The wall was covered with children’s art. But the kid wasn’t a very good artist! All the people had ears on top of their heads and long noses more like snouts. Their hands were clumsily painted to look like massive paws. Goldilocks considered them thoughtfully, feeling for whether the paint was dry. I’m getting so nervous. I wish she’d just hurry up.
