Philip Anderson walked into the hall of the grand house, shaking slightly with excitement as the footman instructed him to wait outside the door. He was here! He was actually going to meet the benefactor of his published works of stories, his life's work and passion, keeping the old fairytales alive from the earliest known origins up to this moment, December 2nd, 1846.
'Sir,' the guard said, motioning to the door. Anderson straightened his tie and strode through the doors into the parlour. An old woman was sitting in a chair, her white hair and elaborate gown shining slightly from the sunlight coming through the window. 'Ah, young man,' she said quietly. 'Mr Anderson.
'Lady Smallwood.'
'You're probably wondering why I brought you here,' she said quietly.
Anderson straightened up. 'Yes, well, you took an unusual interest in my stories… after all, they'r children's stories...'
'Yes,' she mused, 'I enjoyed them. Although I must say, the tale of the cinder girl... it was disappointing.'
Anderson swallowed. 'Well, yes, nobody really knows the origins of the story... the fairy godmother and such,'
'Yes,' Lady Smallwood agreed, 'some people say the slipper was glass, some say fur...' She gestured to a servant, and they brought over a small box. She opened it, and took out a single shoe. 'I wish to set the record straight, if you will allow me.'
Anderson gazed in awe at the shoe, its glass shining in the light. He couldn't believe it... could she be saying... 'So the story...'
'It's true,' Lady Smallwood said. 'Cinderella was real, and this was her glass slipper. And this is her story. Now what is that phrase you use...?
Once upon a time...'