Author's Note: This fic is a rewrite of my earlier Cinderella fanfic 'Sunset in a Gilded Frame'. That fic is now cancelled because it had some problems with pacing and the sheer number of threads going on as well some actual problems with the story (in particular the whole Kilpatrick business was badly handled by me), which this fic will hopefully resolve as it goes forward instead.

A lot of the material at the beginning of this fic will be taken directly from the other, because I remain quite happy with a lot of the stuff from the beginning. From the second chapter on, however, however, new material will creep in and eventually take over completely.

The Rose and the Crown, Book 1

Scipio Smith

Dreams Spun From Glass

The slipper fit.

The glass was cool on Cinderella's skin, encompassing her foot with a deceptive perfection - after all, if they were such a perfect fit then the other would not have fallen off her foot.

Or perhaps it would have? Who could tell when magic was involved?

As the Grand Duke whooped with joy in a thoroughly undignified manner, Cinderella closed her eyes and allowed herself a modest smile of happiness. After so many years, after so many humiliations, after all the indignities piled upon her shoulders, she was finally free.

She might have wept for joy, but she did not want that to be His Grace's first impression of her.

On the stairs, Cinderella could hear her dear friends, her mice and her birds, jumping up and down in happiness for her, expressing on her behalf the exultation she could feel rising within her breast. She looked up at them, her eyes sparkling as a smile spread across her face in silent thanks for all that they had done on her behalf.

The Grand Duke recovered somewhat his composure and rose to his feet, offering Cinderella an elaborate and courtly bow. "My dear. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the palace?"

Should I say that I would be delighted, or that I would be honoured? Cinderella considered the question as she stood up, slowly and gracefully. "Thank you, your grace," she said, taking off the glass slipper and sliding her foot delicately into her black working slipper. "I would be delighted." Perhaps she should have said honoured, but she had decided to express how she felt on this one occasion.

She felt...she felt as though her heart would burst from joy. She felt as though every time she opened her mouth a glad song would surge forth. She felt as though she could dance all the way to the palace. She felt as though she had stepped out of the darkness and into the light. She felt as though a new and golden world was waiting for her.

None of this she showed to anyone, unless the most perceptive of them saw it in her eyes. Cinderella had learnt from a young age to keep her feelings, the good and the bad, concealed from all except those closest to her heart. A lady's armour was her grace and courtesy, and passion was the death of both. And if people knew how you felt then they would use your feelings against you. Her stepmother had taught her that lesson early enough. Weeping for what she had lost had only cost her more, and it was only when Cinderella had stopped showing how every fresh deprivation hurt her that the deprivations had ceased while she still had a few treasures left to hold on to.

Yet at this precise point her stepmother appeared to have lost the composure which she normally upheld so well. Her jaw was slack, her mouth agape, and her eyes wide. Anastasia and Drizella were scarcely better. They all looked poleaxed with shock. It suited them better than their usual supercilious scowling.

"Stepmother," Cinderella said, meeting Lady Tremaine's gaze without flinching. "Since this may be our last meeting for a while I would like to thank you, before I leave, for all of your many kindnesses to me."

Cinderella had little doubt that Lady Tremaine was intelligent enough to understand the hidden meaning behind her words, even if her daughters were not: This will be our last meeting for a while because you needn't have any illusions I will show you any favour.

Anger flared in Lady Tremaine's eyes, and only her eyes, as her face recovered its usual expression: stoic as a cliff face carved from the flint. Her lips twisted into one of the faux-smiles that Cinderella knew well enough, though not so well that even she could not be taken in once in a while, if she wanted badly enough to be deceived.

"You are very gracious, Cinderella," Lady Tremaine said. "And far too kind to thank me so. I hope that you will not completely forget about us."

"I'm sure that I will not," Cinderella said quietly. She turned to the Grand Duke, and hoped he did not understand the volleys being exchanged between the two of them. "Your Grace, may I collect my things before we leave? I don't have much, so it shouldn't take me very long."

"Of course, my dear, of course," the Duke said. "Shall I send my man to help you?"

"No, your grace, I will be quite alright," Cinderella said. She sensed that her new life would not be one greatly conducive to solitude, and she felt the need for one last quiet moment. Besides, she needed to talk to the mice.

She turned away, walking quickly - she wanted to skip, but this was the next best thing - towards the stairs.

Lady Tremaine spoke just as Cinderella's foot touched the staircase. "I suppose, Cinderella that you will be wanting your dog and your horse as well."

Cinderella looked back, mind searching for the inevitable trap in her stepmother's words. "Is something wrong, stepmother?"

"Not with the hound, no," Lady Tremaine said. "But the horse does a lot of work on the estate. If you take him then I feel entitled to a little compensation."

Cinderella was still and silent for a moment. Money. Her stepmother wanted money, either that or a chance to see Cinderella lose her composure when she exclaimed that Major had never done any work on the estate because her stepmother had never been interested in managing the estate.

"Your grace," Cinderella murmured. "Would it be too much to ask the crown to pay my stepmother a consideration for my horse? It belonged to my father and has been a companion of mine since I was a girl; I wouldn't like to part with him."

"I do not see the trouble, young lady, provided the price is reasonable," the Grand Duke said.

Cinderella curtsied. "Thank you, Your Grace. You are very kind."

His Grace smiled fondly. "You are most welcome, my dear."

Cinderella walked quickly up the stairs, gesturing with one hand for the mice and the birds to follow her up into the tower. The mice climbed through their secret ways while Cinderella took the rather more rickety staircase up into her tower room. The mice clustered at her feet, offering their congratulations, but Cinderella said nothing to them at first. She walked slowly to the window, the same window from which she had looked out at the palace so many times, and leaned with her elbows on the windowsill and her chin resting in her hands.

The mice and the birds fell silent. Out of the corner of one eye Cinderella saw Jaq scurry up onto the windowsill beside her.

"Long way down," he said, looking down at the drop out of the window. He looked up at her. "Cinderelly, you alright? Something wrong?"

Cinderella looked at him. She remembered when he had first turned up in her house - not that it had been her house for many a year, not really - cold and hungry and wet. She had fed him up, clothed him because he looked so cold, and talked to him because she had no one else to talk to. She had been surprised when he started talking back, and at first she had thought she was going mad, but mostly she had been glad of the opportunity to rest her voice while exercising her ears for hearing something other than peremptory commands.

She had never imagined that he would stay with her. She had expected him to leave once his strength returned. When he had told her that he wanted to stay, in spite of Lucifer, her first thought was that she had let slip her selfish desire for company. It was only later that she understood that he had been every bit as lonely as she had.

Cinderella smiled. "I'm going to be living there, Jaq. Soon I'll be looking out of my window and seeing this house instead of that palace. And it's wonderful, or at least I think it is, but...everything is going to change."

She turned around, looking down at all the mice and then up at the gathering birds, her true and faithful friends.

"First of all: thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything. Not just for today, not just for last night. For everything, for all these years. I wouldn't be here without you."

"It isn't nothing, Cinderelly," Jaq said.

Cinderella's smile widened. "No, you're quite right, Jaq. It is not nothing. It's everything. But, the fact is, I don't know what this will mean to us. I don't know what the palace will be like. I want you all to come with me, of course I do, but I need you to understand that we might not be able to see each other any more. I don't know. I just...don't know."

"We'll be okay, Cinderelly," Jaq declared. "If this is goodbye, I'll take care of everybody!"

"I know you will," Cinderella said. "But let's hope it doesn't come to that. And now I'd better start getting my things together before the Grand Duke starts to worry about me."

Progress was swift, mostly because she did not have very many things to collect: a nightgown, a few ribbons for her hair, a hairbrush and comb, a pair of headscarves. She would have had her mother's dress, but that had been destroyed the night before; Cinderella had swept up the tattered remains when she got home from the ball. A few books were all that was left to go into the chest, which Cinderella closed and locked, feeling the weight of it experimentally. It was very light, to contain a life.

"I suppose I ought to congratulate you, Cinderella."

Cinderella started, turning around to see her stepmother standing in the doorway.

"Calm down, child, I'm not going to lock you in again," Lady Tremaine said, walking into the room. "What would be the point? His Grace has already seen you, attempting to keep you away from the palace now would be futile, and would only hurt me. The same could be said of pushing you out of the window." She laughed, but that gave Cinderella no comfort.

"Why are you here, Stepmother?" Cinderella asked.

"I told His Grace I was going to see if you needed my help," Lady Tremaine said. "He is a very trusting man."

"He is an honest man," Cinderella said.

"Is there a difference?" Lady Tremaine asked. "As I said, I suppose I must congratulate you, Cinderella, you have won. Though I would like to know how."

"I imagine that you would," Cinderella replied.

Lady Tremaine studied her for a moment. "I see. I imagine that you will make a good queen, though you may not like the fact."

Cinderella blinked. "I don't understand."

"Your mask is very good, but I see around the edges," Lady Tremaine said. "You want to be kind, to be good, to be sweet and even to be innocent. You want to be a font of virtue devoid of all vices, and look down on all of us who only have our good points. But you are not. I have heard you sniggering at my daughters, I have seen the way you look at them out of the corner of your eye - not often, but you do. A queen cannot be free of vice, any more than a great lady can. You will have to dissemble, lie, deceive and manipulate, and you will be good at all of those things and it will rip you apart."

Cinderella kept her face frozen; showing no sign of how much her stepmother's words riled her. "You will not ruin this, stepmother. This time, you will not take my happiness from me."

"Of course not, was that my intention?" Lady Tremaine smiled. "Shall we go down?"

"One question, please stepmother," Cinderella said.

"Go on."

"Why?" Cinderella asked.

Lady Tremaine was silent for a moment. "Because you are as I was, once, but better," she said. "I had to stop you from becoming as I am now, only better, lest I should have to fear you."

"You could have made a friend of me," Cinderella said.

Lady Tremaine's smile was cold. "You have so much to learn. Come, now, Cinderella. You don't want to keep His Grace - still less His Highness - waiting, do you?"

Prince Eugene of Armorique, Prince of Rennes and heir to the Armorican throne, paced vigorously up and down the east sitting room, his feet wearing out the crimson carpet as they scuffed and trod upon the same spots repeatedly.

"Has he returned yet?" Eugene muttered to himself.

"When he does, I'm sure that they will tell you first," Etienne Gerard said from where he sat on a settee, his back to the window and the grounds spread out beyond. He looked up from the walnut he was cracking in his hands. "Unless, of course, they decide to tell your father first, so that he can send her away discreetly if he disapproves."

Prince Eugene stopped pacing. "At this point, I doubt he would disapprove of the match if I were to pluck a beggar of the street and propose marriage to them, as long as she was fertile."

A smirk flashed across Etienne's face.

"You're finding this terribly amusing, aren't you," Eugene said archly. "I am glad that you are able to find so much jollity in my heartache."

"Your heart does not ache so much that you've gone out to search for her yourself," Etienne said, the blandness of his tone belying the sharpness of the words themselves.

Eugene waved one hand dismissively. Inwardly, he knew that he had handled this situation quite badly from the moment the clock struck twelve. First he had grabbed her by the wrist when first she went to go, a moment of wretched indecency which any gentleman would be ashamed of, but an error that he had only compounded by letting go of her moments later. Then, when she had turned to run he had been so confounded and flat-footed by the revelation that she had no idea of who he was that he had given her too much of a head start, and when he finally got around to pursuing her he had allowed himself to be entangled in a crowd of admirers. By the time he had extricated himself from them the girl had disappeared, leaving only her slipper behind.

He had been so distraught at letting her slip away without so much as a name that, having vowed despairingly to marry none but the girl who fit the slipper, he had retired to his bed sick at heart and scarcely had the strength to rise in the morning. It had taken Etienne telling him that the Grand Duke had been despatched to place the slipper on the foot of every maid of Armorique to get him up, washed, shaved and dressed, and now waiting anxiously for a happy conclusion to the Grand Duke's quest.

Eugene halted. "I should have thought of it myself," he confessed. "If I had not been too upset to think clearly-"

"If you had been thinking clearly you would have dismissed a quest as quixotic as this," Etienne said. "It took His Majesty's singular genius to devise a plan so...innovative."

"Yet if it proves successful I will not doubt him again," Eugene replied.

Etienne's eyes fixed upon his prince. "You're serious about this, aren't you? I wasn't sure at first. But this matters, doesn't it?"

Eugene looked down at him. "Does that surprise you?"

Etienne shrugged. "There have been other women. Or there were, before... None of them lasted. None of them you ever thought of marrying. None of them made you so... this. What power does this girl you've known for four hours and whose name you do not know possess to reduce the greatest rake in Gallia to a love struck schoolboy?"

"Is it so unbelievable to you that my whole life, my feelings, the very core of my being could change in a single moment?" Eugene asked.

"Yes," Etienne said.

Few men would have spoken so boldly and so plainly to a prince of the blood, but Etienne Gerard was not most men. Though he was of an age with the prince, or near enough, he looked as much as five years older, with a weathered face that contrasted sharply with the dark hair he wore in braided cadenettes down the sides of his face. He had a sharp nose and sharp dark eyes that made him look a little like a bird of prey. He had also been Eugene's companion since they were boys; racing their ponies across the fields and jumping hedgerows together, and more recently he had done Eugene a singular good service at great personal cost, and for that Eugene was willing to forgive him almost anything.

That did not, of course, mean that he was willing to forego the right of reply. "One day, Etienne, your whole life will be thrown into turmoil just as suddenly and I will smirk and chuckle at your discomfiture."

"I am sure you will, your highness," Etienne said earnestly. "But in the meantime, that particular boot remains firmly upon your foot." A wicked grin blossomed upon his face, softening all his features in the process.

"Of course it is," Eugene muttered, turning away and running one hand through his short, black hair. He bowed his head, and spoke softly. "I suppose that from the outside it must seem quite ridiculous."

"It will only seem ridiculous if His Grace returns with a harpy in tow," Etienne said. "It does seem strange. After the matches which you rejected, after the wasted effort of the noble families to court you for their daughters, after the dalliances which you abandoned, after all the arguments with His Majesty and then, suddenly, you spend a few hours with girl, you do not even learn her name, and you declare she is the only one for you. Some might call it arbitrary."

"Would you?" Eugene asked.

Etienne was silent for a moment. "Do you remember what she looks like?"

"I remember everything," Eugene said, whirling round to advance upon his old friend. "I remember the blue of her eyes which I nearly drowned in. I remember the softness of her face, I remember the fairness of her skin, I remember the shade of her lips and the plumpness of them. I remember her voice, like a whisper but at the same time not, breathless but at the same time as clear as a bell, like water trickling through a brook, like pouring syrup, like light cast upon shadow. I remember how it felt to hold her in my arms, to feel as though I had been incomplete for all these years and was at last made whole."

"You make her sound a veritable angel," Etienne said, and though Eugene expected a quip to follow, one did not come.

Eugene sighed. "And like a heavenly apparition she was gone in a moment. Yet before she left she struck me to the bone. My life will not be the same."

Etienne uncrossed his legs and climbed to his feet. "Then I hope that you find her, and that she makes you happy."

"If she can be found, I am certain that...it feels right," Eugene said. "It feels fated."

"Then if it be so, then she will be found for sure," Etienne replied. "Though all the kingdoms of the earth scheme to prevent it."

Eugene smiled. "Fortunately, the one kingdom that cares is bending its effort to make it so."

Etienne laughed. "One question, if I may?"

"Of course."

"What made you look at her in the first place?" Etienne asked. "Was the string of fate so strong that you could sense it from across the ballroom? All those women, presenting themselves to you, you couldn't even pretend to care. Why her? What made you go over to her?"

"She wasn't looking at me," Eugene said.

Etienne blinked. "Truly? That is the reason?"

Eugene nodded. He was used to women looking at him. He was, if he said so himself, a fine figure of a man, and a prince and the heir to the throne what was more, and so he was used to women desiring something about him, whether it was his looks or his potential power and status. But this girl, she had not even glanced his way. Instead she had turned on the spot at the back of the room, admiring the opulence of the palace as though she had never seen anything like it. She had not come to claim him as her prize, indeed she had turned out to have no idea who he was, and that had drawn him to her. And what he had found once she drew him in had bound him to her with chains that, though invisible, were nonetheless as strong as steel.

"There is not another like her Gallia or beyond," Eugene declared. "I know it for a certainty."

Etienne might have had something to say by way of a reply, but at that precise moment they both heard the sound of feet rushing down the corridor moments before the door was thrown open by a breathless servant.

"Your Highness!" he cried. "The Grand Duke has returned!"

Cinderella's hands tightened around her apron as the carriage carried her through the streets of Nantes towards the glittering spires of the palace.

She could feel the Grand Duke's carriage bumping over the cobbles of the road; apparently enchantment had done a great deal to make her previous carriage-ride go so much more smoothly. She could hear the horses trotting along in front of them. But she heard them without paying attention, for all Cinderella's thoughts were turned inward, towards herself.

At first, when they had left the chateau that had been her home before it became her prison behind, Cinderella had been barely able to conceal her excitement. It had taken a great store of self-control to keep from smiling, from laughing, from singing even. But with every turn of the carriage wheels that carried them closer to the palace, the more doubts overtook Cinderella's thoughts, until it was now taking all her effort not to display her nerves by shaking.

It did not help that a silence had settled between His Grace and herself. The duke had asked her a few questions, when the ride had begun: her name, her age, her birthday; but the questions appeared to have stopped now. There was nothing to distract Cinderella from her fears, from her concerns.

What would happen to her if she was turned away?

When she had felt a touch upon her hand at the ball and had turned, startled, to see who it was...she had stared into a pair of beautiful brown eyes, and as this strange gentleman had bowed to Cinderella had felt her worries melting away. When he had taken her hand in his grasp and kissed it she had felt joy blossoming inside her. When they had danced, with his hand upon her waist, she had trembled with delight.

And when she had heard that that man, who had been so handsome, so gallant, so kind, the man who had for some span of four hours become for her the entire world, had been so taken with her in turn that he desired her hand in marriage, Cinderella had become so lost in happiness that she had lost all her wits and betrayed herself and her secret to her stepmother.

And yet he was a prince. The prince, in fact.

And she was Cinderella. She had been born to a gentleman, but she had no money, no land, and no title. She came from no great house who would promote her fortunes. She had no alliances to bring, swords to place at the feet of the throne. She was simply Cinderella, with a horse and a dog and a band of faithful mice to stand as her supporters.

The last time she had walked into the palace she had been clad in a gown of white and silver, with sparkling earrings covering her ears and a hair band of white silk on her head, wearing glass slippers on her feet. Now she wore a torn apron, a dusty skirt and a well-worn blouse, with black working slippers on her feet and her hair hanging loose down to her shoulders, without even a ribbon in it.

The prince had fallen for a highborn maid in silks and petticoats. Would he not the think it cruellest joke when she stood revealed to him as a scullion in threadbare rags?

If the King were to say to her, 'Begone! You are not fit consort for my son, to be his wife and bear his children.' Cinderella would not blame him.

If the Prince were to say to her, 'Who are you? You are not the maid I fell with whom I fell in love. Go.' Cinderella would not be surprised.

That did not mean she was particularly anxious for the humiliation, or for the unenviable choices that would confront her. She had no desire to go back to her Stepmother's house, to the mockery of Anastasia and Drizella. But where else could she go? She had no friends who would take her in, she could sew but she had no formal training in it...she would be reduced to tramping from manor to manor, seeing if anyone had a position open for a maid; even then, her Stepmother was unlikely to give her a good reference.

Cinderella suddenly realised that His Grace had spoken and she had ignored him. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I am afraid I did not hear." She hoped he did not think too ill of her unforgivable rudeness.

The Grand Duke smiled. "I was saying, my dear, that it is not mere loyalty or flattery which leads me to name His Highness Prince Eugene as the foremost gentleman in Gallia, nor to say that, despite his unrestrained demeanour, His Majesty is in many respects a most excellent judge of character."

His smile was kindly, and Cinderella read into his eyes that he had sensed her fears and was trying to reassure her. The King, he seemed to say, would see beyond her straitened circumstances, and Prince Eugene beyond her tattered clothes.

Cinderella very much hoped that that would turn out to be the case, but she could not give herself to hope completely, not yet. Her hopes had been dashed too often for her to put all her weight upon them so easily.

"You are a very astute observer, Your Grace," Cinderella murmured.

"I have had little choice but to become one, my dear, living as I have," the Grand Duke replied.

Not too long after, the Ducal carriage passed through the palace gates - which closed behind them - and stopped near the front steps. The Duke dismounted first, and held out his hand to help Cinderella down.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Cinderella said softly as she stepped down onto the gravel path. The palace towered above her, the marble spires rising upwards into the clouds so steeply she could scarce see the top. Before her, the steps lead into the great gaping mouth of the palace itself. Strange, that it should see more imposing in the daylight than at night. Or was it simply that she felt herself to be less than she had been.

"Come, my dear," the Grand Duke said. "I shall escort you to His Highness."

Cinderella took his proffered arm. "Please, Your Grace, you must call me Cinderella."

"Indeed," the Grand Duke said. "Such a pretty name, if I may say."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Cinderella allowed His Grace to lead her up the steps, her delicate footfalls making no sound at all upon the crimson carpet, and into the palace itself. The corridor was guarded, as it had been last night, by a long row of soldiers in blue jackets and white crossbelts, with tall red plumes in their shakoes and pikes gripped in their gloved hands. Last night they had seemed to stare at her in amazement and admiration. Now it seemed to Cinderella that they were looking at her with contempt. She kept her face to the front, keeping her expression fixed with a stillness that these cold soldiers might have been proud of, and allowed the Grand Duke to lead her past their ranks.

He led her, not up the staircase towards the grand ballroom, but through a side door not far from the stairs, and from there through a confusing labyrinth of corridors that Cinderella soon stopped trying to remember. She found herself comforted somewhat by the fact that, although she was undoubtedly to be taken before the prince straight away, she was not going to be presented before the gaze of the entire court. It seemed that she was to have a private audience.

Cinderella felt her heart beating faster with every step she took. It was not that he was a prince, although to have been presented to a prince would undoubtedly have been course enough for nerves. But she had not known he was a prince last night, when the sight of his eyes was enough to calm her anxiety and make her aflutter with excitement, when the feel of his hand in hers had been enough to tell her this was right, when sheer joy of dancing with him, of walking with him, of being with him had been sufficient to rob her of all sense of time. All of that was what was making her both nervous and excited at the same time as the Grand Duke led her back to him.

Cinderella was not well acquainted with men. In fact, she could not say that she had really known a man since her father died. Her Stepmother had sent her into town, and she had exchanged pleasantries and the occasional kind word with the shopkeepers; she knew that the green grocer was worried by how delicate his wife's health seemed, she knew that the butcher disapproved of his sister's beau because he was a cavalryman, she knew that the candle-maker's son had won a scholarship to a public school. But these were mere acquaintances, such as one might have with someone they passed regularly on the street, she would not call it knowing. Occasionally a man would stop her in the street and ask her to join him for a drink or some such, but Cinderella had always refused, lest her reputation suffer and shackle her forever to her Stepmother and stepsisters even more securely than she was already. She did not know men; so how could she tell if she loved this man? She felt...something, but was it love? Cinderella had no idea; she had never felt anything with which to compare this feeling. She thought it was love, it had felt like love at the time, she had sung of love...but was it? She hoped it was, if only because the Prince clearly thought that it was.

Whatever it was, it was something, and if it was not love it was something almost as precious, for Cinderella had never felt so happy as in those few hours.

Yet what if, when he saw her, the Prince did not agree? What if his feelings, conjured in the night, melted away under the harsh light of day?

What if she did love him, but he no longer felt the same?

The Grand Duke stopped before a white door, gripping the brass handle lightly. "I am afraid that I must leave you here, my dear."

Cinderella took a deep breath and composed herself, fighting down the emotions swelling and swirling in her breast. "His Highness is..."

"Yes," the Grand Duke said. "Good luck, Cinderella."

Cinderella curtsied. "You have been very kind, Your Grace."

His Grace smiled fondly, and opened the door.

Cinderella lowered her eyes, keeping them fixed on the floor as she stepped through the open doorway. Only when she heard the door close behind her did she look up.

And there he stood.

He was nearly exactly as she remembered him. A little more rumpled-looking perhaps, a little more tired, but there was no doubt that this man - the prince of Armorique - was the same man who had kissed her hand, who had taken her in his arms, who had stolen her heart away in the span of a single night. She had only to look into his eyes to know the truth.

Cinderella did not look long. Humility would become her, in the circumstances, and she did not wish to disconcert the prince by staring at him too long. So she lowered her eyes, bowed her head a little, and curtsied.

"Your Highness," she murmured.

Inside, her soul was singing. It was he! He truly was the Prince! She was the girl he had been seeking! She would be free!

Provided he was not dismayed by her homely dress, her lack of wealth, her poverty.

The moments flew by. The room was silent as a mausoleum. The Prince said nothing.

Cinderella felt her mouth begin to dry. She waiting, looking down at her feet in their common black slippers, waiting for him to speak, either to summon her - though that seemed unlikely now - or to dismiss her from his presence.

He said nothing.

Cinderella closed her eyes, and hoped that her dismay did not show too much on her face. It was too much to hope that it would not show at all. So. After the talk of love, it had all come to nothing after all. It was her gown and slippers, her glimmering hair band and her long gloves, her borrowed air of elegance and sophistication that he had loved, not her.

Of course it was. He had not even known her name, nor she his. How could she have imagined that he would desire such as she, would choose to turn his back on the princesses and ladies who desired him and sweep a scullion to a better life. Foolish girl, had not her Stepmother's rule taught her that life was not a song?

She would not go back. Cinderella swore that to herself. She would go anywhere else, but she would not go back to her Stepmother's house. Anywhere, even to sleep on the street with the sky as her blanket, would be better than facing the humiliation of returning to that place, rejected and empty-handed, to laughed at by her stepsisters, to see the cruel, triumphant smile upon her Stepmother's face. She would rather die, at this point.

But she would have to go somewhere, for she could stay here no longer.

Would she live, after this...for love had fled, would hope fly with it? Perhaps not, but she would love no other now, she knew that for sure. At the very least she would not love like this, so purely and so strongly. Anything else would be as a candle to the sun.

Yet it would be candles, for the sun did not want her. And why should he, when he had the stars clamouring to be his consort? All she could now was spare His Highness the embarrassment of having to dismiss her, to tell her that a terrible mistake had been made, that he did not wish to take her as his bride.

Cinderella curtsied once again. "I apologise, Your Highness, for the mistake. And for my presumption. I beg your pardon." She turned to go, one hand reaching for the door.

The Prince hummed. Specifically he hummed the first bar of the waltz that had been playing when they had begun to dance.

Cinderella stopped, half turned away from the prince and half towards the door. Upon her right was poverty and shame, rejection and dismissal; upon her left was acceptance, desire, love, happiness. She closed her eyes, and hummed the next bar.

"So this is what makes life divine," the Prince whispered.

Cinderella turned her face towards him, at last looking him in those beautiful brown eyes. "I'm all aglow." She hummed a little more. "And now I know."

"And now I know," the Prince whispered. "It is you." He crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and took her hands gently in his own. "My lady." He raised her right hand, and kissed it as he had the night before.

Cinderella smiled, even as she looked away in embarrassment. "I fear I have a confession to make, Your Highness. As you can see from my dress, I am no lady. I am only a poor maid named Cinderella, and I no more have a title to adorn my name then I have diamonds to adorn my neck or pearls to deck my hair."

The Prince smiled. "Your hair needs no peals to shine bright. Your neck needs no diamonds to be fair. And your name needs no titles to be lovely, and lovelier than the word itself."

"Your Highness is too kind," Cinderella murmured.

"Though I have titles to adorn my name, in multitude," the Prince said. "Still they are only adornments, and not the name itself. My name is Eugene, and I would be honoured for you to use it, my lady."

Cinderella's eyebrow rose. "You would be Eugene to me, but you would have me be your lady?"

"If you will," Eugene said, with amusement in his voice. "Will you walk with me, my...Cinderella?"

"I will," Cinderella said, allowing Eugene to take her arm in his, and lead her out into the palace and into the spacious gardens.

"I hope you will not think it untoward," Eugene said nervously. "If I ask you-"

"How I can look like this today, when I looked as I did last night?" Cinderella said.

Eugene nodded. "You must admit that it may seem confusing."

Cinderella looked away. "I am afraid that it must remain confusing for a little. I'm afraid..." I'm afraid you would think me mad if I told you it was all the work of magic. "Do you trust me, Eugene?"

He looked into her eyes. "I do."

"Then trust me, and remain confused for a little while, if you will," Cinderella said. "Can you?"

Eugene bowed. "I can."

Cinderella smiled. "I think, that when you learn the truth, it will also answer the other question I think you want to ask."

"Will it?" Eugene said with a laugh. "And what is my second question?"

"Why did I leave?" Cinderella said.

Eugene snorted. "Am I so obvious or are you so astute?"

"The question is obvious, I think," Cinderella said.

"I was afraid the answer would be that I had driven you away," Eugene confessed.

"Driven me away?" Cinderella said, chuckling. "With what, pray? Your hideous looks?"

"My poor manners?" Eugene said.

"You were a perfect gentleman," Cinderella said.

"A perfect gentleman would not have grabbed you by the arm to prevent you going," Eugene said.

"Very well then," Cinderella said. "An almost perfect gentleman."

Eugene laughed. "You have a clever tongue, Cinderella."

"You are too kind," Cinderella said. "Eugene, I know I have not answered your questions, but nevertheless, may I ask one in turn?"

"Of course." Eugene smiled. "Though I may give as cryptic a response as you have given me."

Cinderella snorted. "That would be only fair, and I can hardly complain. Why me? Out of all the girls at the ball, why did you ask me to dance with you?"

"Why did you say yes?" Eugene replied. "You did not know who I was, but you took a stranger's arm and spent all night with him. I could as easily turn your question upon you."

"You could, if I had not asked first," Cinderella said.

Eugene was very still, as still as any of the statues that decorated the gardens. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and quiet, as if he feared that what he spoke might be heard. "Because you did not know me. Because something about you drew my eye. Because you are beautiful. Because...who can know what fate intends? Because you are you. It sounds absurd but there it is; there is no one thing about you that I can point to and say that that is what I love, because I love you all entire."

He dropped to one knee. "And I will love you, if you will allow it, for all the days that we shall live from this day forth. Cinderella, will you let me care for you when you are sick, protect you when you are in danger, lift you up when you are sunk in misery? Will you live with me and be mine as I am yours?" He reached into his pocket, and produced a band of gold, topped with a diamond of brilliant cut, flanked by a pair of sapphires. "Will you be my queen, my princess, my bride?"

Cinderella's smile was dazzling as a tear of joy pricked at the corner of her eye. "With all my heart, I will."