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Oh no. Oh, no, no, no!
Cynthia stared at the littered shards in horror. It wasn’t the prince who had come to make his match, but the princess arriving to claim hers? And Morningstar had ruined Cynthia’s chance!
“It is me,” she blurted out. “It was my shoe. It fits me perfectly.”
“So you claim, scullion.” Lady Tremaine’s expression was triumphant. “I guess we’ll never know. And what did I just tell you?” She shooed Cynthia toward the stairs. “Off to the attic with you whilst my daughters and I discuss what is to be done about the royal wedding.”
Cynthia trudged up the steps, then broke into a run, taking them two at a time in eagerness. Up on the top floor, on the bottom shelf of her broken wardrobe, was the matching slipper.
She scooped it up, heart pounding. She cradled the crystal slipper carefully to her chest as though it were as fragile as eggshells and hurried down the stairs as fast as she dared, in the hopes that the princess and her retinue would still be there.
Lady Tremaine was extolling her daughters’ many dubious virtues to the prince. He and his father hung on rapt to every word, exchanging the occasional approving glance.
When Cynthia arrived in their midst, all eyes swung to her—and the glass slipper in her hand.
“It’s the mate,” exclaimed the king.
“My mate,” murmured Princess Ammalia.
Before Cynthia could set the shoe on the stone floor, the princess hurried forward, elbowing the footmen out of the way in order to be the one to kneel at Cynthia’s feet with the glass slipper resting in her palms.
Cynthia eased her foot inside the slipper.
It was a perfect fit.
Grinning, Cynthia reached her hands down to Ammalia’s and pulled the princess to her feet.
Lady Tremaine blanched and turned back to the prince. “But… But you said you didn’t come for her.”
“That is true.” The prince flashed Ammalia a crooked smile. “I don’t want anything my sister wants.”
The princess blew him a kiss.
“No need to inconvenience Ammalia,” the king agreed. “My son will take the other two.”
“What?” blurted Stasia and Dorothea.
“Both, Father?” said the prince with obvious interest. “Is that not too indulgent?”
“You only get one wife,” the king replied repressively. “The other will have to be your mistress.”
“B-but,” stammered Dorothea, “which of us is which?”
The king looked bored. “I don’t care. Sort it out between the two of you.”
The prince gazed at both young women like a glutton at a feast.
“Now,” Princess Ammalia whispered to Cynthia in Italian. “Hurry.”
They slipped from the house hand-in-hand, leaving the sounds of sisterly squabbling behind them.
Princess Ammalia pulled Cynthia up and into the empty carriage, then took the reins in her hands. “Where to, my love?”
Cynthia kissed her. “Is Italy nice this time of year?”
Ammalia grinned. “Why don’t we go and find out?”
“When will you be expected to retake your throne in Parmenza?”
