Sinful Cinderella

They look nice, Loony and Moody. At least as nice as it’s possible for them to look. Their hair is up, adorned with flowers. The gowns fit, the colors suit, even Loony’s loud purple. She looks pleased with herself, a horse groomed for a parade. And I have to admit there is grandeur about her. Moody looks sulky but that’s normal for her. I pinned her flat, dark hair into a tight roll above her neck and if she slouched a little less, she could be graceful.

Oh well. Not my concern.

Stepmother wears dove grey silk and a shawl of black lace. I can see she approves of her daughters but won’t voice her admiration so long as I’m present. I don’t deserve even an indirect compliment.

The hired coach arrives. My stupid steps rustle out of the house, Stepmother murmuring a reminder about the pumpkins. I slump against the doorframe and watch the coach drive out to the gate. Night is spilling into the sky, staining the clouds purple.

Six-thirty. The ball will start at seven. And my dress is not made.

I climb the stairs to the attic with bones like iron. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. If I use the white magic, I won’t have enough for the ball. But I guess I’m not going to the ball.

I move the bolt of black cloth off my bed and onto the chair. The thought of sewing one more stitch makes me want to hurl myself out the window. I can’t. Could the white magic make a dress for me? I’m not sure. And I still need shoes, a coach and horses, a driver, and the other enhancements I planned. Two inches of liquid. No, it’s not enough.

I lie on the bed and shut my eyes. It’s no use. I’ll never be anything but an unwanted orphan. I just wanted to be special. Admired and honored and loved. It doesn’t matter. If I don’t sleep now I will die.

Mmm.... How wonderful that sounds.