More than Magic
The clock chimed twelve times. "Wait!" the Prince yelled, but she ran. She ran as fast as her feet could fly and she escaped from the ball before her enchantment wore off. Alone again in the musty kitchen, she saw her reflection in the blackened windowpane. She watched as the pink ribbons in her hair vanished, leaving dirty unkempt hair; the beautiful gown graced by sequins and lace, faded into tattered rags. All that remained of this magical night was a memory and a pair of shining glass slippers on delicate, yet dirty feet. Hiding the slippers among her things, Cinderella fell by the fireplace and cried.
Cinderella held her breath and clutched the dish she had been drying tightly to her breast. She could hear it, the voice of her prince from the ball. A smile found its way on her soot-covered face. That one magical evening would be enshrined forever within her heart. Almost she lost herself in those beautiful memories when she heard them call to her, her stepmother and stepsisters; call for her to bring out the tray of tarts she had baked that afternoon.
A chance to see him again.
For a moment she stood still as a statue, not moving not thinking. Then frantically, she wiped her face with a dampened corner of her apron and discarding that, she nervously arranged the tarts on the tray. Taking the tray out, she hesitated a moment before the dusty windowpane next to the fireplace and brushed her hair back out of her face.
Heart trembling beneath her breast, he held out the tray of tarts to her Prince, she filled her mind with sweet memories of that night and smiled, wishing deeply that the love in her heart would shine in her eyes. He glanced at her, barely noticing her at first, but then their eyes met, and a lifetime passed in a moment.
Certainly he recognized her. How could he not? Were not her eyes the same? Was not her smile the same? Was not the love in her heart the same?
And then the Prince blinked and his eyes ran over her dirty face and torn dress. He looked disgusted.
Cinderella watched the reflection of the firelight on the glass slippers. It was strange how the orange plumes dancing this way and that reminded her of the golden tapestries swaying in the great hall where she had danced with the Prince. That night had filled her heart with enough joy for her entire lifetime, but what did it mean to a Prince who saw only the ribbons and sequins, but not the girl behind the glitter.
She tossed the glass slippers into the fire. Her heart skipped a beat when they shattered upon the firewood, but she recovered herself. That fireplace in the kitchen was her home; she knew who she was there. Cinders. Maid. Servant. She would always be Cinderella.
Save for the disapproving gazes of pots and pans, Cinderella danced alone to the crackle of the fire.