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“Lock her in the attic now, Mama,” suggested Dorothea. “Keep her in there whenever she’s not cleaning or cooking.”
“Excellent idea, daughter.” Lady Tremaine glared at Cynthia. “Make haste with the sweeping and the dishes, then hie upstairs without delay. From this day forth, I’ve no wish to see your face unless I’ve specifically—”
A knock sounded at the front door.
All four women froze in place.
“Well?” snapped Lady Tremaine, waving her fingers at Cynthia. “You’re the servant. Answer it.”
Cynthia leaned the broom against the mantel and hurried to the door.
The prince stood on the other side.
She choked on her breath and scurried backwards, nearly tripping over the broom in the process.
He stepped into the house as if invited to do so, followed by his father the king, then half a dozen royal footmen… and Princess Ammalia.
Before Cynthia’s startled gaze could meet Ammalia’s, Lady Tremaine jerked her out of the way, pushing her back toward the unlit fireplace so that her daughters could step forward, blocking Cynthia from view.
The king raised his brows at Prince Azzurro, then spoke in Italian. “You’re certain about this, son?”
The prince shrugged and glanced at his sister, who sent him a furious look. Prince Azzurro blew her a kiss, then turned back to the king. “I’m certain, Father.”
The king held up Cynthia’s lost shoe and muttered in English, “This item belongs to the most beautiful woman in England? Beh. All of them look the same to me.”
Cynthia melted backwards as Stasia and Dorothea arranged themselves in their most alluring poses, eyelashes fluttering and lips plump and pouting.
“Which of you left this slipper behind at last night’s ball?” demanded the king.
Cynthia shook her head frantically. She would not marry Prince Azzurro.
“Me,” Stasia and Dorothea replied in tandem.
“Sketch this moment,” the king ordered a portrait artist, who began drawing as quickly as he could. “I wish it to appear in tomorrow’s newspaper. The rest of you—as you were instructed.”
Three royal footmen rushed forward. Two knelt on the freshly swept stone floor to provide their broad shoulders for each of the sisters to grab for balance, whilst the third attempted to fit the slipper to their feet.
Neither could make the shoe fit.
“It belongs to Cynthia,” Princess Ammalia said softly.
Cynthia’s jaw dropped at the unexpected betrayal. She sent the princess a hurt look and took another protective step backwards.
The king pointed at the crystal slipper.
“Put it on,” he commanded imperiously.
Before Cynthia could do so, Lady Tremaine clapped her hands and hissed, “Morningstar! Now!”
With a rawr, the devil-cat sprang out from the shadows, arcing upwards to land paws-first on either side of the poor footman’s cravat.
The slipper tumbled from the footman’s flailing hands. Crystals scattered on the hard stone floor. Morningstar scooped up the ruined slipper in his jaws and leapt out through the closest window, leaving nothing but glittering debris behind.
Stasia and Dorothea exchanged smug expressions of satisfaction. For once in her life, Cynthia was in full agreement. Their petty vindictiveness had saved her from a fate worse than death.
The king turned to Princess Ammalia. “You’re certain you wished to bring home the girl who belonged to that shoe?”
Lady Tremaine and her daughters blinked in confusion.
