A chime punctuated the end of her words, and she instinctively looked up the clock tower. It was midnight.
She lurched, giving in to a momentary flare of panic before remembering that the time didn’t matter. She didn’t have a magical curfew—no coach that would turn into a pumpkin, no horses that would turn back into mice, and no glittering ball gown that would turn into rags at the stroke of twelve. She could stay out all night if she wished.
Finally, they arrived at the end of the garden, and not far from the entrance of the palace, a glittering glass box atop a marble pedestal awaited.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” Charles said, unlocking the box and lifting her lost glass slipper. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Cinderella held the shoe close, treasuring it. “I wanted to bring the other slipper to the duke when he was searching for me, but it shattered, and I worried... I worried I’d lost the only keepsake I had of the most wonderful night of my life in years. I thought I’d never see it again. I thought I’d never seeyouagain.”
“You’ll never have to worry about finding me ever again. I promise.” Charles gestured at the slipper, then at a nearby bench. “May I?”
With a shy nod, Cinderella returned the slipper to him. A soft breeze swept past her mask, and she lifted it, letting the cool wind temper the heat in her cheeks.
Neither of them had made a move toward the bench, and Cinderella, ignoring the sudden swoop in her stomach as she realized Charles was staring tenderly at her, sprang onto her toes and kissed his cheek.
When she let him go, the prince rocked back on his heels dazedly, clutching the glass slipper against him as if he feared he’d drop it. “What was that for?”
“A thank-you,” replied Cinderella, smiling at the confused but happy-looking prince. “For reminding me that not all miracles have to end at midnight. I’ll explain—”
Charles drew her close, and her voice drifted.
“I’ll explain... later...”
As he bent forward to kiss her, trees rustled, and the click-clack of heeled shoes stomped nearby. Cinderella lifted her head, distracted by the sound. Voices—in the near distance—rose above the ripple of fountain water in strident tones. “There she is! Anastasia, Drizella—follow me.”
Cinderella immediately lurched, untangling herself from Charles’s embrace. Her vision reeled; the moon became watery, the hedges a haze of green.
Panicking, she twisted away from the prince, but his fingers were laced with hers, so gently she could have pulled hers away... but she didn’t just yet.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
What’s the matter?The familiar words echoed inside her. It was the question he had asked before she’d fled from the last ball.
She faltered, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to explain.
Charles bent to retrieve her mask, which she must have dropped when he kissed her. He held it out to her in both hands, but when still she wavered, confusion knit itself in the prince’s brows. Confusion—and hurt.
“Hurry, girls!” Lady Tremaine’s voice cut through the garden.
Remorse burned in her throat. The thought of hurting him again tore at her. But she couldn’t risk an encounter with her stepmother. She wanted to tell him who she was—she’d meant to, but she’d thought they would have more time. Now she recognized her error, and it was too late.
“I’m sorry, but I—I... I have to go.”
“Wait, please.” Charles held out the mask to her. “I... I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Cin—”
“Your Highness!”
At the sound of her stepsister’s shrill call, Cinderella panicked and drew away her hand from the prince. The mask slid from her fingers, falling into the pond beneath the bridge.
And, for the second time, before he could stop her, she rushed down the stairs.
Her heart thundering in her ears, Cinderella dashed across the royal gardens, making for the servants’ quarters. Even when Drizella’s and Anastasia’s shouts had faded, she didn’t stop.
Follow the clock tower north,Louisa had instructed her,then make a left at the purple tulips.
Cinderella trained her eyes up at the clock, its iron hands ticking minutes past midnight. By the time she reached the purple tulips, she was out of breath, her lungs tight with exhaustion. The entrance to Blooms and Looms was just ahead, the sentries she’d encountered when she first arrived still standing guard.
