Very, very wrong,” Cinderella says.Ĭonstance ventures closer.
Gabrielle’s name from Cinderella’s lips sounds as if nothing but love remains in her memory, faded as it must be. “My Gabrielle.”Ī knot forms in my throat. “You-you look like her.” Cinderella’s breath rattles out of her. It’s been generations since Gabrielle was alive. “Who are you?” Cinderella asks, studying Constance carefully. “No,” Constance says, stepping close to the coffin. “Gabrielle?”Ī literal ghost is speaking to us, and it takes everything I have not to give in to the little voice in my head that is screaming at me to run. A shower of dust shakes free from her as she cocks her head to the side. “I would not have done so if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”Ĭinderella’s snow-white hair hangs down her back, and she looks from me to Amina and then to Constance. “I’m not meant to be here,” Cinderella whispers. It withers and crumples into a ball of dust before my eyes. “Who’s there?” Cinderella asks, her voice hoarse and crackling like the sound of burning paper.Ĭonstance stands in an unblinking haze at the side of the coffin. In the flickering light, her eyelids flutter open, revealing the milky-white orbs beneath. I rise slowly and level my gaze with the coffin, where a figure is sitting upright. I open my eyes, looking not ahead but straight down at the floor, my heart still thudding. There is a noise like the rustling of leaves and then a long, slow exhale.
My heart leaps into a furious rhythm, as does the one that Amina holds in her hand. She takes a deep breath.Ī muffled noise comes from inside the coffin. My skin pricks up as I look at Constance. The air grows heavy, and a low, resonant hum rises from the ground. Another pulse of energy and a chorus of whispers, like people are having a discussion somewhere nearby. The hair on my arms and at the back of my neck stands straight up.
“Cinderella.”Ī shock of energy pulses through me, and I look around wildly, my heart racing. Clearly and with the intent that she should rejoin the living.” Amina pauses and closes her eyes. “Quickly, each of us must speak her name once. When I open them again, Amina holds the small, still-pulsing heart in the palm of her hand. I close my eyes and hear Constance groan. All I can think of is the seamstress’s head rolling into the dirt. Its blade glints in the light of the glass slippers. Amina reaches in and takes it by the scruff of its neck. In the little wooden cage, the rabbit runs around in circles. Amina’s hands tremble at the edge of the page.
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