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Stepmother summons me to the sitting room. Once I have enough white magic, I’ll crush her like a beetle beneath my heel. Crunch, crunch, crunch will go her bones. White magic is the gooey stuff that gets collected when I do good deeds. I keep it locked in a cupboard, in my half of the attic and the key on a necklace around my neck. “Hello, my darling,” Stepmother says. Though she treats me like a servant, she insists on calling me ‘darling’ like her daughters. She holds a long sheet of parchment in her brittle fingers. The bottom of it curls upward and I notice the royal seal at the bottom. It’s from the king. “It seems,” Stepmother says, “that the prince is giving a ball.” “Oh,” I say, perfectly respectful. But really I want to say, so? The prince can’t go a season without a ball or two. Stepmother taps the parchment with her finger. “This one is interesting. He has requested that all the unmarried young ladies of the kingdom attend.” “Unmarried?” My fingertips tingle. “Does that mean I may go too?” Stepmother lifts her pigeon-gray eyes to me. Amused. Disdainful. She doesn’t have to say a word. “Now,” she says, “my daughters will need gowns for this ball. New gowns, naturally. Something... striking... and sure to entice the prince.” She smiles coldly at me. “You have three days.” My stomach pinches. “Three days?” To sew two ball gowns from scratch? Buying the cloth, selecting a design, cutting the pieces, sewing-sewing sewing, and then the fittings, adjustments, revisions while my stepsisters fuss and fidget. I need a month to make those gowns. “In addition to your other chores, of course,” Stepmother says. I don’t trust my voice so I merely nod. Stepmother stands, rolling the parchment. “You should buy the cloth now before the best pieces are snatched up. I hate everything about my life. Even this city. It's so quaint and cutesy, you’d throw up if you saw it. The royal palace is probably just as cutesy. But that will change when I am queen. Frigid elegance is what I go for. Black marble floors. Silver chandeliers. A throne made of crystal. A solid crystal throne where I’ll sit and wield terror to the people of this paltry kingdom. You’re not a true queen unless they’re all afraid of you. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m beautiful. Why should I be modest about it? It took years of stowing up white magic to perfect my appearance. I had to scrub floors for a year to get my hair this golden. Scrape out fireplaces for two winters to straighten the slope of my nose. Mend mountains of stockings and petticoats to shrink the size of my feet. My feet are really too small now, almost like a child’s. But I don’t mind. Something else for women to envy. Which brings me back to Stepmother.... I said she treats me like a servant. That’s true, of course, but I have to admit it’s largely my own doing. Once I discovered that acts of servitude gained me more gooey globs of white magic, I began offering to do chores for my stepmother and stepsisters. My chores mounted, my beauty blossomed, but hate curled like briars around my heart. Because Stepmother changed. I don’t see why sweeping stairs and washing linen should suddenly make me inferior, but that is how she acted. And her dimwitted daughters followed suit. Faster than a baby bird plummets from a nest, I became an object of mockery and contempt. The work was no longer requested but commanded. Stepmother was right as raisins. The shop is wall-to-wall women. Bumping, churning, grabbing, yelling, haggling. The floor is lost beneath their skirts, swishing and sliding around each other. One glance at the heavily shelved wall tells me the red cloth is already gone. No matter. My stepsister Lunilla will be mad but she’s always mad. I call her “Loony” to myself. My shoulder bumps the far wall of shelves and here I find some breathing space. No one is interested in the bolts of black and somber gray. My eyes rove over the fabrics as I patiently wait my turn (patient waiting gains more white magic). And that’s when I see it: a roll of satin, dark as midnight but luminous as a black pearl. The room behind me fades into mist. I see myself entering the royal ballroom in a gown made of this shimmering darkness, my golden hair glittering above it, the only woman in the whole room wearing black. How could the prince fail to notice? I curl my fingers around the heavy roll and ease it into my arms like a baby. Somehow, someway, I am going to that ball. Three bolts of cloth lie on my bed. My gorgeous black, garish purple for Loony, and a gentle blue for Moody, my other stepsister. Her real name is Melodie but trust me, there’s nothing harmonious about her. Her personality is one flat note, the lowest groan on a pipe organ. I’m checking my eyes in the small, square mirror that hangs on my wall. They’re good. Naturally a nice, pale blue. But this ball, this prince will call for the exceptional. I need eyes like jewels. Like sapphires. My stupid steps are all out, having their big, knobby feet fitted for new shoes. Lots of luck. Now’s a good time to use the white magic. I lift the string over my head. I click the key into the lock and turn. Behind the wooden door, alone in the cupboard, sits a crystal decanter, much like what my father once used to keep brandy. It’s round and beautiful with tiny flashing facets. The decanter holds two inches of white liquid, thick as cream, but giving off a rainbow sheen. I don’t know what substance the white magic is made of, but I think of it as melted pearls. Slowly, reverently, I lower the decanter to my dressing table. I open the top drawer and dig out the silver spoon I use only for white magic. It probably wouldn’t make a difference what kind of spoon I use. But to me, details count. Two inches of liquid. Nineteen months since I last used some magic and the bottle wasn’t empty then. That’s how hard it is to earn. Washing every window in the house yields, maybe, half a teaspoon. But it’s worth it, every bit. I remove the crystal stopper. Drip by drip, I fill the spoon. I stand before the small mirror to admire the girl within, her immaculate skin, sensuous lips, petal-pink cheeks, delicate chin. All the work of white magic. But thus far I’ve never touched my eyes. “Beautiful eyes,” I say to the spoon. “Brighter. Bluer. And long lashes.” I swallow the spoonful. It’s smooth and sweet, like almond milk and honey cake and a hint of something tropical, like coconut. I close my eyes as the magic becomes sparkles of light that swarm into my irises. It doesn’t hurt. Just feels a bit warm and ticklish. I open my eyes. Amazing! My eyes are as blue as peacock feathers. Bright as stained glass windows with a late sun behind them. I swallow. And it’s worth it. My lashes are lush, dark brown, curling beautifully around my new eyes. Goddess eyes. Temptress eyes. Eyes that no man can resist. “CinderelLAH!” “Yes, Loon – Lunilla?” “This is the dress I want.” She points to a page in an illustrated book of fashions and my head wants to explode. Outrageously puffed sleeves and a wide skirt with so many ruffles it’ll take ten miles of fabric. And I still have to make Moody’s dress. And then my own. In two and a half days. I’m going to die. I look at Loony. She’s a big girl, big all over – chest, hands, nose, teeth – with wild hair, orange as carrots. She likes to wear cherry red and other blazing hues that clash against her hair. Which is why I bought garish purple for her gown. It looked like something she’d wear. And I was right. Both Loony and Moody liked their fabrics. I know because they said nothing. It’s late, my neck is stiff, my fingers cramped. I’ve got all the pieces cut for Loony’s purple monstrosity. Now I’m stitching them together. I need to finish the entire gown tonight. Spend tomorrow making Moody’s. Then on the next day, the day of the ball, I can make mine. But it’s not enough time. I yawn, sucking in the whole night. So, so tired. My stupid steps went to bed hours ago. I wonder if the white magic could perk me up a little. I never tried it for that and don’t want to. I will need every drop for the ball. Our prince’s name is Edgar. The name may not be beautiful but oh my, he sure is. Blonde like me. A confident grin. I’ve caught glimpses of him when his carriage rolls through town, just a flash of face in the window. I wonder if his eyes are blue, or green. I wonder if his voice is soft. I wonder if his smile can make me feel snug and safe, like my father’s did. Edgar, you see, was married before. He had a sweet, smiling wife with shiny black hair and I hated her. And then she did the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me: she dropped dead. Clunk, just like that. No one seems to know what caused it. But it didn’t matter because the prince – and my chance to be queen – became available again. And you never know. The daughter might be just as nice and follow her mother’s example. After all, children can have accidents too. Papa. When I was a child, he would curl me into his arms, let me tuck my face in his neck. I remember the scratch of his beard on my cheek. We took all of our meal together, sitting at the table’s corner where we could talk companionably, and he’d say, “Tell me what’s in your Cinderella head tonight.” On days when business tied up his time, he would squeeze my elbow as he hurried past me, a reminder that I was loved even when he couldn’t say it. I close my eyes and think about Papa. It smooths the wrinkles in my heart. The only person I have to love. You realize I spend a lot of time hating: Stepmother, Loony and Moody The only mistake he ever made was marrying That Woman. But even that I cannot hate him for. He did it for me, to replace the mother I lost at birth and give me sisters to play with. It wasn’t a bad idea. They seemed nice at first; I was happy. I tried to ignore the resentment I saw in Stepmother’s