Stroke of Midnight Plus Two Days, Twenty-One Hours, and Thirty-Two Minutes
Sybil ran through the forest.
This was not the friendly sun-dappled wood of her youth. There were blue-black shadows, and frightening noises, and the moon cast a mysterious silvery light through the trees that was not at all comforting. There was a path, though not much of one, and often she had to crash through underbrush. Thin branches whipped her across the face in the dark; she stumbled over a root and nearly fell, clutching the bundle she held closer to her chest, wondering why she bothered to protect it.
As she ran she fretted. What if the cottage wasn't where she remembered? What if it was empty?
What if it wasn't?
But the cottage was there in the clearing, and warm light shone through the cracks between the boards and where the door pulled away from its frame. Something loosened in her chest as soon as she saw it. Everything would be all right, now.
She pounded on the door. It flew open a second later; the cottage was so small, you'd barely have to stand up and you'd be across the room.
"Sybil? What—"
"I'm sorry," she said to his wide eyes. "I'm so sorry, but I need your help."
Tom shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, which was already mussed. "How did you know where I live?"
Instead of answering she began to unwrap her bundle. Tom's eyes dropped to her hands, widening even more when they finished their work. She'd used the only fabric she had to hand. Against rose-colored silk and torn lace, the glass slipper shone like the evening star.
He looked at her. "You? You're the one they're—"
"Please." He'd recoiled instinctively, but she shoved it forward, into his hands. "You've got to help me hide it," she said. "If they find it at my stepmother's, I'll have to marry the prince."