Cinderella could not believe it-she'd lost her shoe, and it was glass, too. "Oh," she choked out to her friend in the corner-Marcel, her own sweet pet-a gray dormouse so generous with his company. "What will Fairy Godmother say?" She sniffed back irritating tears.
Marcel cocked his head to one side and perched on his hind legs squeaking an acquiescence.
"Thank you. I appreciate your support. But the answer is easy," she told him, shaking her head in disagreement. "She will only chastise me on how irresponsible I've been." Cinderella scowled. 'Twas a shame her nature disallowed dropping to the floor in the wake of self-pity. "There's no way back to find the blasted thing either. That ridiculous coach undoubtedly has already morphed back into a big fat pumpkin." 'Twas only by sheer luck she, in the interim, had not been dwarfed into a seed.
Flying back on a broomstick had been out of the question-who did she think she was, the Wicked Witch of the West?
Cinderella paced the floor from her own little corner to the cottage door. Back and forth she wore a path on gleaming worn-wood floors (by her own hand), peering through cheerful red and white gingham-checked curtains with each pass. She needed these few moments to compose herself. What if they somehow recognized her as the unknown guest at the ball? Stepmama was sure to kill her.
"Non. Non. Stepmama would not kill me," she said aloud. At least she hoped she wouldn't. "Fairy Godmother would surely save me from a fate as dire as death." But Cinderella was not all that convinced the entire evening was one wrought entirely from her own imagination.
The vibration of carriage wheels rattled the window panes, trundling down the isolated road in their small corner of Chalmers Kingdom. Knots of trepidation formed in her stomach. Mayhap she was not so ready for them after all.
How had she allowed herself into this predicament? Her hands twisted through her apron. She should have heeded her lessons. This was what came of believing in fairy tales.
Heartbreak and fear.
With deep measured breaths, Cinderella made a concerted effort to crush her jangled nerves. But anxiety palpitated through her veins. Each passing second the carriage drew closer, and with it, roiling queasiness. Cheeks warm with distress, she rushed to the wool-padded footstool and sat. Even that was not enough to soothe her apprehension. A place where she'd spent many a day dreaming of being a young Norwegian princess or a milkmaid.
She rose again and peered through the parted curtains. She brushed clammy, trembling hands over her drab skirts and waited for the conveyance to creak to its excruciating stop. She inhaled deeply.