Cinderella II PART I

Rhea slumped into what she grandly referred to as ‘her throne’—a saggy sofa that was less furniture and more a collection of grudges held together by stuffing. It had already lost two cushions to scorch marks and one to Gorbaclaventichun’s increasingly dramatic scratching habits. The cat sprawled beside her, a stripy blob of insolence, tail flicking with the calm menace of one who knew his person was about to get in trouble again.

            ‘I think they’re going to take you away,’ Rhea announced mournfully, prodding his flank. ‘Which is deeply unfair. Technically, it was corporate greed that crashed Red Riding Hood’s textile empire, not me. I only detonated some collateral shrubbery and improvised a cloak out of tortured roots. Details…’

Gorbaclaventichun groomed a single, perfect whisker, the feline equivalent of a long, weary sigh.

She buried her face in the dilapidated armrest. ‘It was magnificent, though. That geyser? Those vines strangling Hunter McHunterson’s calves? I was good. Great, even. For the first time, I wasn’t a background witch-in-training. I was… well—me. In charge.’

Her hat, crammed full of potion crumbs and regret, slid off the back of the sofa. Rhea caught it mid-fall. ‘Ah, Hat. You might be next. What if altering bedtime canon counts as ‘literary misconduct with magical aggravation’? What’s next, confiscating my happiness? That would be witchicide.’

Gorbaclaventichun flexed his claws into the cushion. Serves you right.

            ‘You should have seen me. Magic that actually worked. Not tea-kettle bubbles or accidental turnip therapy. That was real, terrifying, brilliant, world-bending power. If only I had the wand.’ She sat up straighter, glowing from the memory for all of three seconds, then deflated back into the sofa. ‘Which means they’ll probably triple the list of charges. Fantastic.’

Outside, the full moon gawked at her through the window. Rhea squinted back. ‘Yes, yes. I know. Full moon means ritual braiding with Grandma Iris. The magical bonding ceremony where she tugs the snark out of me one strand at a time while fabricating bedtime propaganda. Can’t wait.’

She toyed with the end of her braid, tugging at the already loosening strands. The cat licked a paw. ‘If I skip it, I’ll be accused of magical negligence, identity crisis, and possible cat-smuggling.’ She flopped onto her side, her voice turning mock-grandiose. ‘Imagine the headline: Sixteen-Year-Old Witch Refuses Braid; Kingdom Collapses from Disappointment. Broom Union on Strike. Familiar Reassigned to Someone Responsible Who Actually Dusts.’

The thought made her pulse ache with annoyance. Grandma definitely knew the folktale had changed. Of course, she knew—her glasses practically radiated smug foresight when it came to bedtime tampering.

            ‘This is it, Cat,’ Rhea muttered, rising and cramming her hat onto her hair with unnecessary aggression. ‘The showdown of braids and bedtime. She sees everything, hears less but knows everything, spins folktales to trap me—but this time, she’ll know I fought the script. I’ll have to face her, and saying ‘I miss you immensely’ will not save me.’ She paused, straightened, and smirked. ‘Except, possibly, telling the truth: that the book ate me and I found myself within Red Riding Hood.’

She pointed at Gorbaclaventichun. ‘You stay here. If they come to take you, claw their paperwork before they get your name right. The ‘book ate me’ defence stands strong.’

Rhea glanced around the unnervingly tidy hut. After last month’s cauldron fiasco, she’d scrubbed it under emotional duress, but the cleanliness felt wrong, like a library that had banned books. The lack of spoon stains and bubbling disasters made the whole place feel suspiciously innocent. In the corner, a lifeless plastic broom leaned against the wall, a monument to her grounded magical one. Even the broom-shaped hole in the wall had been plastered over. Lifting her chin, Rhea pushed the door open. ‘Time to get my hair pulled. Happy full moon to me.’

The forest greeted her with that silver wash of magic again, the same promise that had once spilt through her until vines danced and wolves laughed. She should have been afraid of losing more—wand, broom, cat, hat—but secretly, thrillingly, she was only afraid of wanting that power back. And so, armed with nothing more than the smell of trouble and residual moonlight, Rhea headed for Grandma’s Midnight Moon’s Library.

The ravine glowed silver. Rhea perched on her log, legs swinging into the open air.

            ‘Hold still,’ Grandma Iris muttered, tugging a comb through Rhea’s hair. ‘If you wriggle this much, the magic leaks out sideways, and we’ll have frogs croaking algebra in your soup again.’

            ‘I don’t mind algebraic frogs,’ Rhea said sourly. Their grasp of free speech was exceptional. Regarding my wand, any news?’

            ‘Shoes?’ Iris leaned closer, squinting. ‘I have a lovely tale about a shoe.’

Rhea turned her whole head around. ‘Excuse me. Did you downgrade my existential crisis to footwear?’

Grandma brightened, patting Rhea’s braid tight as if tying off the subject. ‘Perfect. Tonight’s tale is about shoes. But no pumpkins.’

            ‘Our little Cindy,’ Rhea growled as a book flew into view, hovering before her eyes.

Grandma Iris leaned close, her voice spell-thick. ‘Once, there lived a girl named Cinderella. A servant who wore gold shoes, danced with royalty, and—’

            ‘Married the prince, happily ever after,’ Rhea cut in. ‘Everyone knows this one. Ugly stepsisters, worse stepmother, pumpkin-Uber, bada-bing, wedding bells. The stepsisters get blinded by doves, I think.’

Iris tightened the braid with gentle violence. ‘Cinderella never married the prince. It was just a rumour spread by pillow-stuffers in the Kingdom of Chronic Exaggeration.’

            ‘Of course she did! That’s the point! Dresses, balls, footwear—it’s a social mobility story disguised as a shoe advertisement!’

            ‘Rhea, Rhea.’ Grandma tied off the braid with a knot that shimmered like spun moonlight. ‘What parent trusts a prince who chooses his bride based on shoe size? Honestly. Cinderella danced three nights, and then she vanished. No one ever heard from her again.’

            ‘What? Seriously?’ Rhea’s frustration melted into intrigue. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the book’s glowing clasp. A faint heat tickled her skin. She remembered the Last Wolf, her magic alive in her bones. Yes, whispered the thrill in her stomach. I could do it again.

She pulled her hand back. ‘Grandma, since I can’t access the library, may I take this home? I want to read it without becoming an Idiotic Witch Suffocated by Slippers.’

Grandma nodded.

Rhea looked back at the book, then at the ravine, then at the moon. Her heart thumped. ‘It would be an interesting read.’

Rhea was back in her hut, pacing around the throne-sofa. On it, Gorbaclaventichun sprawled, watching her under half-lidded eyes. The Cinderella storybook lay open on the floor.

            ‘Right. Last time, I fell in it,’ Rhea muttered, climbing onto the sofa’s armrest. She took a deep breath and launched herself at the book, aiming for a graceful dive. She landed with a whump on the open pages. The book didn’t even flicker.

Gorbaclaventichun yawned, a silent, devastating critique.

            ‘Fine! Not the direct approach.’ Rhea scrambled up, grabbing a regrettable vial from her hat. ‘Maybe it needs a magical lubricant.’ She dripped a single, fizzing purple drop onto the book’s spine. The spine promptly grew a small, offended-looking mushroom, which sighed audibly, then went still again.

            ‘Okay, verbal commands!’ she announced, pointing a finger with theatrical authority. ‘Fabula Revelare! By Turnip and by Tea, let me in, you leather-bound lump!’

The book lay there. Gorbaclaventichun began meticulously cleaning a paw, utterly unimpressed.

            ‘Argh!’ Rhea grabbed the book, shook it, and held it to her ear as if listening for a secret password. Nothing. She tried tapping the golden shoe clasp in a coded rhythm she made up on the spot. Still nothing. She even tried reading a passage out loud in a dramatically sad voice, hoping to blackmail it into opening emotionally.

Defeated, she slumped onto the floor, chin in her hands. The cat blinked once. The ritual wasn’t just about power; it was about connection. Grandma had let her take the book.

A slow smile spread across her face. ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t break in. You get invited.’

She sat up, her frantic energy replaced by a quiet focus. She placed one hand gently on the glowing shoe clasp, not to force it, but to touch it. She closed her eyes, ignoring the cat, the hut, and her own frustration. She didn’t think about spells or potions. She thought about a girl who danced at a ball and then vanished. She thought about a story that had lost its hero. She leaned close to the page and whispered a single word.

            ‘Cinderella.’

The ink on the page stirred, lifting from the parchment like a murmuration of dark birds. The air grew thick with the scent of ballroom dust and midnight magic. The floor beneath her dissolved.

And for the second time in as many moons, Rhea felt herself being pulled, gently but irresistibly, right through the story.