A Little Touch of Magic

The public waited with baited breath. A crowd had gathered at the palace gates, waiting for news of the birth. Would it be princes? Would it be princesses? Would it be one of each? Who would become the heir to the heir to the throne of Armorique?

The news that Princess Cinderella had entered into labour dominated every newspaper. Speculation ran rampant over the names (amongst the favourites were Louis and Charles for boys, Eleanor and Eugenie for girls), the godmother (would it be Princess Frederica of Normandie, perhaps the aunt-by-marriage Duchess Anne, or would the princess bestow the honour on someone in her inner circle?) the godfather (speculation was somewhat muted here by the fact that Prince Eugene didn't have many friends, but some columnists made valiant to spin out 'it's going to be Etienne Gerard, obviously' into the requisite number of column inches); every little detail or issue, no matter how minor, was poured over and turned into a sensational story: what would the children's relationship with their half-brother be like, how many nurses would they have, what colour was their nursery, where would they get their toys? No detail was too insignificant, no question too small, no matter unworthy of comment.

The stock market was predicted to rise by five percent if Cinderella gave birth to a prince. If she delivered only girls it was still thought likely to rise by three percent. In the harbour, three mighty ships of the line – the Immortal, Achilles and Princess - waited to fire their guns in salute to the new royal children: one hundred and fifty guns for a boy, one hundred and twenty-one guns for a girl.

The city, the realm itself buzzed with excitement. The day had come! The princess would soon be delivered of her children, and the precious heir would come to stabilise the frayed succession to the throne of Armorique.

Only in the palace itself was there neither excitement nor celebration. In the palace itself, a grim pallor had descended like a shroud.

For Princess Cinderella had entered into labour some hours ago.

And she was dying.

The aged King sat in his study all alone, head bowed, cursing the unhappy fate that had fallen upon his house and line. It had seemed, not so very long ago, that fortune was smiling brightly as the sun upon him and his royal family: his son, after what had seemed to his father to be an aggravatingly long bachelorhood, had wed a girl who, if she was of no grand or noble lineage, was lovely to behold, sweet and gentle in her nature, intelligent if sometimes naïve and hard-working to a degree that had astonished the nation; Eugene had revealed a grandson of which he had previously been unaware; Cinderella had gotten pregnant with not one but two more grandchildren. The King's glance strayed towards the most recent picture on the study wall: the family portrait, of himself, Eugene, Cinderella and Philippe. They had been so happy then, when it had seemed that there would be nought that fragrant roses in their garden. His only regret in that time had been that his beloved Isabelle had not been there to know her grandson, or see her son grown to a fine young man and wedded to an excellent young lady.

But now it felt as though the sunshine of happiness was permanently obscured by clouds of sorrow, that all joy was doomed to turn to ash, and that any taste of sweetness would sour upon his tongue. His illness had been followed hard upon by his ensorcelment at the hands of the witch Grace and the estrangement with Cinderella that it had brought about, his own nephew had sought to supplant his line in the succession to the throne and then, after some months of peace in which Cinderella's pregnancy had seemed to proceed smoothly and they had, gradually, tentatively, repaired the damage that had been inflicted on their bond now, now it seemed that she was like to die, and the doctors could not even guarantee that the children would live.

From preparing to welcome the future hope and expectation of his line now he was faced with its extinction. Henry should have simply had patience; if he had not taken his own life he would be looking at the throne for his eldest son now. Eugene would not take another wife, as his father the King was certain of that. He could plead and argue and demand but he would not prevail. His love for Cinderella burned too hot and too fiercely, in her absence all heat and light within his heart would die. No considerations of state or throne or royal lineage would compel him to place a ring upon another finger, nor put an heir into another belly. And honestly, the King was uncertain that he would have the will even to make the futile demand that his son marry again. He loved Cinderella too, almost as a daughter; could he bring himself to replace her in his heart, even for the survival of his line?

His family would wither, leaving only a bastard son behind, and throne and state and royal majesty would pass to Charles of Cornouaille in time. Eugene would dwell in mourning all his days and so would he. What had he done, what had they all done, to earn such enmity from God and all the powers of fate?

Was there no force would spare Cinderella from this suffering?

And so he sat liked aged Priam of old, sunk in his grief, lost in thoughts blacker than the night, and in the closeted privacy of his room, all servants banished from the sight of him he began to sob into his hands.

Angelique sat in the palace chapel, perched on a pew in the front row before the altar, with candles burning all around her. So many candles. In the days leading up to her due date Cinderella had lit two candles here every day: a candle for each child. Prince Eugene had added a third candle for Cinderella herself. And today, as the princess' labour began, so many people, the maids and the servants and Duchamp and all the ladies-in-waiting had come in here and lit the candles for Cinderella and her children. So many candles. They illuminated the cloth-of-gold that lay upon the altar, their firelight glimmered in reflection on the silver cross and set its jewels to gleaming. They burned beneath the dying Christ upon the wall and chased away the shadows from his sorrowful suffering face.

So many candles and not one of them was doing a blind bit of good.

Angelique stared up at the crucifixion on the wall, and on His face she saw the mirror of her own torment.

"Take my hand, Jean," she whispered, holding out one hand to him where he sat beside her.

"Angelique?"

"Please," Angelique said, her voice as soft as sighing. "Please, Jean, take my hand."

She did not look at him, but she felt his fingers close around her palm and she squeezed his hand as hard as she could, as though she were afraid that if she let him go he would leave her like her mother had left her, like Cinderella was leaving her.

Like everyone leaves in the end.

"So many candles," she said. "You'd think...you'd think that at least one of them would do something. I mean...they're supposed to carry our hopes and prayers to heaven, right? You'd think at least one of them would reach...someone!" Cinderella wanted two healthy children to love and raise; Prince Eugene wanted Cinderella to come through this alright; everyone wanted Cinderella to give Armorique and princely heir and come through it all unscathed. Do none of our wishes count? Is someone setting out to spite us? It sometimes felt that way. Cinderella suffered so much, endured so much, sometime it felt as though the moments of peace and happiness she managed to snatch were the rarity and anguished emotional torment was the norm. And now the wicked puppet master who so abused her would take her life, and the lives of her children too. Was that justice? Was that fair? Was that Cinderella's reward for being kind and loving?

Jean said nothing in reply. What could he have said? What were the words that would make this better?

They did not exist.

"She came here for you," Angelique murmured.

"Huh?"

"When you were injured, after...you know," Angelique said. "Cinderella came here every day, to pray for you to get better."

Jean was silent a moment. "It...it worked. If only-"

"Don't," Angelique said, fiercely for all the quietness of her speech. She looked at him, glaring at him with eyes that were moist with tears. "Don't, just...don't say that. Don't ever say that."

Jean's face was a picture of misery. He bowed his head. "I am her highness protector and yet I am helpless."

"Even the King himself is helpless now," Angelique replied. "There's no shame in it."

"No," Jean acknowledged. "But it doesn't mean that I don't hate it." His whole body trembled. "Why would I be saved and her highness not? Why would her prayers for me be answered when all our prayers for hear receive nothing but a deaf ear? She's so much more virtuous than any of us."

"Maybe that's why her prayers were answered."

"For me, perhaps, but what of her children?"

Angelique closed her eyes for a moment. The children. That...that was the final insult, really. Not only would Cinderella be taken from them far too soon but she would be denied even leaving a child behind her. Why is the world so cruel?

"I don't know," she replied. "I just...I don't know." She fell silent, still holding Jean's hand tightly. "I just...I wish that we'd never come here."

"You don't mean that."

"I know, but..." Angelique hesitated. "I didn't care about her at all when we first came here. I was only worried about her because I thought...because I thought that if anything happened to her, if Serena got her or if Prince Eugene got tired of her, then we'd be done for. Because I knew she was the only person who cared about us, even if I didn't really care about her.

"But then...but then...I don't know what changed. Maybe it was how nice she was, how kind and considerate; maybe it the way that everyone was so down on her all the time, always laughing at her behind her back, making light of her...maybe I sympathised with her; maybe...I don't know but now...now I love her, Jean. As sure as I love you, I love her. And the thing about loving someone is that they hurt you when they go." Her body was wracked by a sob, her eyes were obscured with tears, and the next thing Angelique knew Jean had enfolded her in his free arm and pressed her head against his chest.

"I'm here, Angelique," he said. "I won't ever leave you."

Angelique nodded. Her voice, when it came, was high pitched with grief. "I don't want to lose her. I hate not being able to help her."

"I know," Jean said. "I don't...I hate...I...I haven't felt this helpless since my mother died. I haven't felt...so much of a coward since my mother died."

"Coward?"

"Why are we here?" he asked. "If not...to hide from what's really going on. To hide from saying goodbye?"

Angelique cringed. "What are we going to do, Jean?"

"I...I don't know," he said. "I just...I don't know."

What harm is it, just when you are kissing your little child, to say: tomorrow you will die?

Christine shut her book. Philosophy could bring her no peace at this hour. It was all very well for some old Greek or long-dead Roman Emperor to tell her that death was as natural as birth, and that for that reason she should not be ashamed of it, but welcome it in a cheerful spirit but now...now, faced with what should have been a moment of birth transformed into what seemed likely to be a time of death, the comforts of stoic philosophy seemed cold to her.

It was easy to rationalise away all fear and resentment of death when it wasn't someone close to you dying. Someone who should, if all things were just, have enjoyed many happy years of life with her husband, children and good friends.

Marinette sat on the other side of the drawing room, sobbing faintly into her hands. Augustina was trying, without much success to comfort her. Angelique had gone off somewhere, to grieve with her friend Lord Taurillion in greater privacy.

Christine should probably have joined Marinette and Augustina. But she could not. She sat apart from them, trying to read an drawing no comfort from it, feeling such an emptiness in her soul that she could not have comforted Marinette even had she wished to.

She had no comfort to give. What comfort had anyone, in the circumstances? Philosophy? Faith? A mother was dying in the act of giving life, and her children might not even survive as dubious fruits of her sacrifice. What greater display was there of the meaninglessness of human affairs. Dust to dust, a tale told by an idiot.

Christine was filled with emptiness. It had all been for nothing. All of it. Cinderella's hopes and dreams, the ambitions that she had shared with them, the assistance that they had given her; all her efforts to woo and win the support of the movers and shakers in society with Christine's help - Augustina had been of some limited assistance - her determination to withstand the Duke's assault upon her marriage, and the Duke's decision to contest with her. All, all futile. The Duke might as well have let Cinderella enjoy her crown in peace and waited for her to die in childbirth and drop the succession into his hand like a ripe plum. All that they had done, all that they had planned, all that they had argued for all...men planned and the gods laughed, and made it all for nothing. Would Cinderella keep her crown or be forced into a morganatic marriage? Who cares, she's going to die. Will Prince Eugene marry, and do his duty to the realm by fathering an heir? Yes, but the child will die and the mother too so there was never anything to get worked up about.

She would have been a great queen, had she been put on. Christine was convinced of that. Cinderella had virtues enough as could have changed Armorique, vision, charm, the ability to inspire undying loyalty from those who served her. But now...now they would never know.

Everything that they had done rendered so, so pointless. What had been the point of it all?

What was the point of any of it, really?

Christine found that she was crying, and she couldn't have stopped herself even if she wanted to.

Eugene paced up and down on the little landing outside of Cinderella's bedroom. He had been here before, eight months ago, when he had urgently summoned the doctor after Cinderella fainted and in doing so put the cap on a string of evidence that something was not right. That was when he had found out - when they had both found out - that she was pregnant. He had not been enthused to learn it then, Cinderella had been unhappy at his lack of joy at the discovery.

Now he was here again, pacing up and down outside her room as it seemed that all his worst fears had come to pass.

He had tried, for Cinderella's sake, to put them aside. He had tried not to think too carefully about the risks to her, even when the risks were doubled by the discovery that he had gotten her with twins. He had tried not to think about how the strain of these past months might affect her when the time came. He had tried to tell himself that the months of peace and quiet that had followed his cousin's suicide meant that all would be well on the day. He had shown nothing but the hope and expectation that Cinderella wanted to see from him, and busied himself with her in setting up the nursery downstairs and hiring nurses and wetnurses and talking about names and godparents and all of an attempt to distract him from his fear, the fear that had been gnawing away at him for eight months no matter how he tried to banish it. It had stalked him like a wolf stalking a deer through the night, it hovered above him like a ghost as he embraced Cinderella in their bed, it lurked in the corner of the room as they worked together on the business of governing the country.

The fear that he would lose Cinderella to the birthing bed as he had lost Katherine.

And now, as he waited helpless while the doctors and midwives within battled to save his wife and children, it seemed as though all his worst fears were about to come to pass.

Though he stood on the landing, Eugene felt as though he were falling. He felt as though he had been standing on a floor of glass that had shattered beneath him, plunging him into a pit of darkness with no visible bottom. Etienne stood on the landing beside him, a still contrast to Eugene's frustrated energy, head bowed but watching Eugene pace. Eugene hadn't been there when Katherine died; Katherine hadn't wanted him there, she hadn't wanted the attention that his presence would draw - she always insisted upon discretion in their affair. Eugene hadn't been there, but Etienne had, at least at the end, and he had always attributed her fate to the incompetence of Katherine's doctor, some cheap local quack from her neighbourhood. Had Katherine taken Eugene up on the royal physician, so Etienne averred, she would be with them still.

But now Cinderella was being attended by the best doctors and the best midwives and none of it seemed to be helping. She was still...he was still going to lose her in spite of everything they did.

A scream of pain issued from the other side of the door. Cinderella's scream.

Etienne grabbed Eugene as he started for the door.

"Let me go!" Eugene snarled into his face.

"You can't go in there, you'll just get in the way," Etienne said as he held him fast.

"I need to see her, I need to-"

"To what? Do you want to remember her like that?" Etienne demanded. "Do you think that's what she'll want?"

"I need to say goodbye," Eugene replied, pleading, desperate.

Etienne's expression softened. "Let them work. There's...it isn't hopeless yet."

"How do you know?"

"Because she's still alive," Etienne said.

For how long? Eugene thought. He ought to have been in there. Even if he was only going to get in the way he ought to have been in there. He hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye to Katherine, he couldn't let Cinderella slip away from him without a farewell.

Cinderella had been in labour for nearly eight hours when Eugene became aware something was seriously wrong. People rushed in and out of her room, and he caught enough snatches of disquieting conversation amongst the medical professionals to get some idea of what was going on: one of the babies was stuck, Cinderella was unable to expel the child; by the sounds of it, the doctors were considering using forceps to yank the babies out of her. The thought of what that would do to Cinderella...Eugene shuddered in Etienne's grasp, his whole body going limp for a moment so that his friend was as much supporting him as restraining.

He ought to have been in there. Even if he was only getting in the way at least he would know what was happening. But no, no if he was getting in the way he might...he had to let them work, it was the only way they might be able to save her. And the children, of course.

Within the bedchamber, Cinderella screamed again. There were a few moments of silence, an indistinct sound that was too soft for Eugene to make it out from the other side of the door, and the sound of a baby crying.

From the landing below him, Eugene could hear the lords and councillors stir at the infant sound. It was tradition that a royal birth, at least one in direct line of the throne, be attended on by lords and members of the privy council who would attest that a stillborn child had not been switched at birth with a common child. But as far as Eugene was concerned they could wait; he wasn't going to let them anywhere near Cinderella until he knew what was going on in there.

The door opened. The midwife, a slightly dumpy middle-aged woman, stepped halfway out of the bedroom. "Your highness, the princess is asking for you."

Etienne released Eugene from his grip, freeing him to take a step forward. His voice was hoarse and low. "How...how is she?"

The midwife's expression was downcast, almost fearful. "You have one healthy girl, your highness. But the other...the cord was round her neck, though we're trying to-"

"Yes, yes, how is Cinderella?" Eugene demanded.

The midwife recoiled slightly. She hesitated a moment before she spoke. "Her highness...she's bleeding heavily."

"Oh God," Eugene murmured. "Will she...can it be stopped?"

The midwife stepped back. "Best you go inside and see her now, your highness. While there's time."

No. No, God, no. Eugene wanted to scream, he wanted to shout, he wanted to curse God and fate and world, he wanted to demand why it should be so. But most of all he wanted to see Cinderella and...and say goodbye.

He glanced at Etienne. "Don't let them up. Not until..."

Etienne nodded. "You have my word."

Eugene closed his eyes for a moment, screwing them up tight as though by shutting his eyes he could make all this go away. And then he pushed past the midwife and walked into the bedroom.

Cinderella's bedchamber was as bright and airy as ever, but now it seemed to lack that charm with which its occupant had imbued it by her presence; it was oppressed by a pallor that no amount of sunlight could dispel. The chamber was crowded, doctors and midwives standing around looking helpless, bloody towels and bowls of water and medical equipment lying everywhere. Only one man was doing something, trying to revive a motionless, noiseless child swathed in a blanket.

The bed was soaked through with blood. So much blood. His wife's blood, Cinderella's blood leeching away and taking her life with it.

Cinderella was half sitting up in bed. She was pale, so pale; he wouldn't have believed that someone who was already so fair could become so much paler still. A midwife was holding a squalling, screaming, struggling child for her inspection and in spite of everything, in spite of the struggle and the screams and the fact that she...in spite of the fact that she was fading away and there was nothing that anyone could do about it, in spite of all that Cinderella was smiling.

Cinderella looked up at him. She was still smiling, it amazed him that she could smile at such a time but she did. "Eugene, look," she said, and though her voice was quiet and weak it yet held her joy in it. "Our girl," said. "Our baby girl."

Eugene stood beside her, one hand upon her trembling shoulder, and looked down upon the pink and screaming child before him. Her eyes were blue, and what little hair she had was golden.

"She has your eyes," Eugene said, forcing himself to sound happy for Cinderella's sake. I will call her Cinderella, after the mother she will never know.

Cinderella's smile broadened just a little more. "And my hair as well. When I was young, I had golden hair just like that." She leaned back on the pillows, and closed her eyes a moment. "My father used to tell me I had sunshine in my hair. When it started to darken I cried, because I thought that my stepfamily had stolen even my lovely hair away from me."

Eugene almost choked. "Your hair is beautiful just the way it is."

Cinderella gave a little soft chuckle. "You're so sweet. You always know just what to say to me." She reached out with one shaking hand, and stroked the hair of their girl. "You have sunshine in your hair, my darling. My little angel." Her smile faded, as if at a painful memory. "I'm so sorry, Eugene, I tried, but they say that the other-"

"Shhh, hush now, none of that," Eugene said. The midwife retreated as he Eugene sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arm around Cinderella. "You mustn't blame yourself. Just...just rest now and-"

"Eugene," Cinderella said, the word coming out as a sigh, as though she were about to fall asleep at any moment.

"Yes?" Eugene asked softly, quietly.

"Promise me," Cinderella murmured. "Promise me you won't blame her, either of them. Promise me...promise me you'll them and cherish them enough for both of us."

Eugene winced inwardly. She knew him too well, clearly. After Katherine died...he had blamed Philippe for her passing, and cut his son completely out of his life in consequence. Cinderella sought to prevent a repeat of that and honestly...honestly she was right to fear it. He could feel the resentment, unfair and unfounded as it was, beginning to build in him towards the squalling child who had condemned his wife, the woman he loved.

"I...I promise," he said, and he meant it. For Cinderella's sake he would never show what he felt. He would be as good and loving a father as his own father had been to him, better. He would love the girl, perhaps even now the girls, as much as Cinderella would have had she lived.

Cinderella's smile returned, but more wan now and much wearier. "I'm glad. Now...now, I can-"

"No," Eugene begged. "Please don't go."

"Kiss me," Cinderella said.

"What?"

"Please," Cinderella said. "Kiss me, one last time."

Eugene stared at her a moment, pale and wan and fading. And then he bent down, pressed his lips to hers, and with his tongue caressed her.

And when he pulled away Cinderella's eyes were closed, and her head slumped to one side, and only the slightest expulsion from between her lips showed that the fateful moment had yet to come, yet it could not be long now.

Eugene's eyes were filled with tears as he began to blub like a boy barely more than a babe himself.

Unseen by the prince, unseen by the princess, unseen by any of those worthies who crowded the bedroom and held one babe or struggled to revive the other, a little trail of sparkles drifted down from the ceiling to light upon the fading princess. And another stream of those sparkling silver motes descended on the noiseless babe.

Cinderella's eyes snapped open as she gasped for breath as though she had been drowning in the ocean or in some deep and rapidly flowing river, only to now be pulled out of the water to gasp at air and life itself. Instantly, a little colour returned to her cheeks, and the astonished physicians observed in disbelief that the bleeding had stopped.

And in the exact same moment, the second child began to cry.

Cannon fire echoed through the darkening sky as the warships fired their guns in salute of the infant princesses. When the news had been announced - Princess Cinderella was delivered of two girls, the mother and the children were doing well - a great cheer had erupted from the crowd outside, and even now the sounds of revelry and street parties could be heard in the city below. The church bells were ringing, and the late editions of the evening papers were spreading the news throughout the town and beyond.

Cinderella sat up in, and tried not to show her tiredness. If they knew, if even Eugene knew, how exhausted she felt then they might take her children away and give them to the nurses, and she wasn't quite willing to let them go just yet.

So she stifled her sigh, and held her babies in her arms as they both slumbered in her gentle embrace.

Her babies. Her children. She still couldn't believe it. Life out of her. These beautiful angels in her arms had come from her. Her children, her daughters.

They both had her eyes - closed in slumber now - but while one had the golden locks she had had when she was younger, while the other had Eugene's dark hair. They were both so beautiful. Just looking at them she felt...not even Eugene could make her feel this way, when she looked at them her heart felt as though it would...she loved them so much.

I don't know if I can be a good mother to you both, Cinderella thought. But I'm going to try my very best. And I promise that I will never stop loving you.

Eugene sat beside her, perched on the side of the bed with one arm around Cinderella's shoulders as she looked down upon her and their children both. This was the first real moment of peace that either of them had enjoyed since Cinderella's miraculous recovery, and the equally miraculous revival of their dark-haired daughter. Cinderella had her own ideas about that, but it wasn't something she could confirm until she was alone. After that, after she had woken up, it had been one thing after another: first the lords and councillors had come in to confirm that the children were indeed hers, and hadn't been swapped for anyone else's babies; then the King had come to coo over his granddaughters, and all of thier friends had wanted to see and offer their congratulations too. Cinderella didn't mean to sound ungrateful, and she loved them all and it was so very sweet of them to have been so concerned for her, but it had all gotten a little much after awhile, especially since she'd been feeling a little tired already.

But now, she and Eugene were alone. Alone with their daughters.

"Can you believe it, Eugene?" Cinderella whispered. "Our children."

"Our children," Eugene agreed, and kissed her on top of the head.

Cinderella smiled beatifically down upon the sleeping babes. She was glad, so very glad, that she would be able to be a mother to them both, but she would have liked to hope that Eugene would have kept his promise, for her sake.

"We still need to name them," Eugene added.

Cinderella nodded. "I've thought about that. I...I thought about Isabelle," she slightly lifted up the golden-haired girl in her left arm to indicate it was she for whom she had considered Isabelle. "And Annabelle." Again, Cinderella slightly lifted the dark-haired child in her right hand.

Eugene was silent for a moment. "Isabelle," he said. "After my mother."

"And Annabelle, after mine," said Cinderella.

She looked up into Eugene's face. He looked pleased, but at the same time touched by a certain melancholy, like a light dusting of frost over a rose. "Isabelle and Annabelle," he murmured. "Yes, yes, I think those are fine and lovely names. Isabelle and Annabelle, welcome to the world."

"Yes," Cinderella whispered. "I'm your mother, and this is your father, and we're going to take good care of you."

"The very best care," Eugene said. "For you are our daughters and our princesses; and one day, our little Isabelle, you will be Queen of Armorique."

Cinderella chuckled, and a sigh of weariness escaped her lips.

It didn't escape the notice of Eugene. "I think you need to get some rest," he said. "I'll take the girls and see them to put to bed in the nursery."

"Must you?" Cinderella said. "I just want...just a little longer."

Eugene smiled. "You're very lucky to still be with us, Cinderella. So fortunate I can't explain, and neither can anyone else." He hugged her tight, and kissed her on the forehead. "But you are still here, and you're not going anywhere, and we have many wonderful years ahead of us with the girls. But for now, you need to rest and recover your strength."

Cinderella sighed again, which sigh very nearly turned into a full-blown yawn. "Alright," she conceded. "But be gentle with them, and don't wake them."

"I won't," Eugene promised, as he took the girls - their Isabelle and Annabelle. Isabelle and Annabelle, the names sounded so lovely to Cinderella now that she wanted to whisper them lovingly over and over again - out of her arms and, with a whispered goodnight to Cinderella, carried them from the room.

Now she was alone. All alone in her room.

All alone unless she was right about the truth behind her miraculous and inexplicable recovery.

"Godmother," Cinderella called out softly, her voice trembling just a little. "Godmother, are you there?"

"You're very perceptive, my child," said the fairy godmother as she appeared in front of Cinderella, looking down upon her from just beyond the foot of the bed.

Cinderella smiled. "It wasn't hard to guess where a miracle might have come from." Her smile faded. "It was you, wasn't it? You...you saved my life, and Annabelle's life as well." She had never been more terrified than she had been then. She had tried to hide it from Eugene, but it had honestly been worse than anything that Grace had done or tried to do to her. She had been going to die and no one, not her prince or her friends or anyone, could rescue her. She was going to die and leave her daughters motherless. She was going to die...and she couldn't be certain that Eugene wouldn't turn his back on the girls as he had turned his back on Philippe before. She had been terrified and dying and now...now she was alive with two beautiful girls and it was all thanks to her fairy godmother.

The fairy godmother beamed. "Well, I couldn't let your story end so quickly, could I dear? Remember what I told you: I can only act to help you when there is no hope, and I'm afraid that...well, best not think about it. It's all averted, and behind you now. No need to consider what might have been."

"But I do need to thank you, so much, for everything," Cinderella said. "You've changed my life, saved my life, again. Before, and now this...I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Nonsense, child, you do very well without me. Most of the time," said the fairy godmother. "And besides, I can't claim all the credit. I only saved your life today."

Cinderella blinked, and her brow furrowed just a little. "I don't understand."
"I told you, my dear, that your fairy godmother can only act on your behalf," she said. "I did nothing for little Annabelle."

"Then...does that mean...?"

The fairy godmother nodded. "Your little dears have fairy godmothers all their own. You will never see them, or meet them, or know their names but they will be there, watching over them always."

Cinderella found that there were tears in her ears. She delicately wiped them away. "I don't know whether I'm more blessed or my girls are."

"You are an extraordinary young woman, my dear," her fairy godmother said. "Is it any wonder that fairies attended on the birth of your children to see if they, too, will be extraordinary?"

"Thank you," Cinderella said. "Thank you...thank you all."

For she was alive, and she was a princess still, and she was the mother to two adorable daughters who had fairies watching over them.

In this moment, nothing at all could detract from her joy.