“Hello?” I call out.

The sobbing stops, and I hear a rustling noise. I press my ear harder against the door. “Hello?” I call again. There’s a small shift at the door, as if someone is leaning against it from the inside.

“Hello?” a voice says just above a whisper. “Is someone there?”

I look down the corridor, afraid of losing my opportunity to escape. “Yes. I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

What an odd question coming from someone behind a locked door.

“There is a ball,” I say. The crying resumes. “Who are you? Why are you locked up?”

“Run away. Don’t ever come back. Save yourself.”

“Where has she gone?” A man’s voice cuts through the darkness and echoes down the corridor, and a shriek escapes my throat.

I bolt out the door in the exterior wall, across the manicured grounds, until I find cover in the wooded tree line. Crouching low, I peer out to see lamps moving around like fireflies in the distance. I want to find Luke, Liv, and Erin, but I can’t go back. If the king’s men apprehend me, they will execute me. I turn and run straight into the woods.

Stumbling over the thick underbrush and exposed tree roots, I’m sure I’m heading away from the palace because the trees become thicker and the darkness more complete. But I have no idea if I’m on a course to the main road or just walking in a circle. The canopy blots out what little moonlight is still visible in the night sky.

The voice from behind the door sticks in my mind. I’m ashamed for leaving whoever she was there, but I need to focus on escaping.

I push forward for what feels like hours. The cold is biting, and the sting of it on my arms and on my stocking feet leaves me numb. I haven’t come across a road or trail or any of the fencing that runs along the outer edge of the palace grounds. The estate is vast, and I fear that I may be too lost to find my way out. What have I gotten myself into?

My teeth chatter together, and I shake uncontrollably. Struggling to see in the dark, I notice that the trees are beginning to thin. I hope it’s the forest’s edge, but it is only a clearing. On the other side are more trees and more darkness.

I step into the open space where a large rectangular structure stands. As tall as my own house and nearly as wide, the structure shimmers in the slivers of silver moonlight. Charcoal-gray veins run through the white marble walls. As my eyes adjust, I realize that it is a mausoleum, and the name carved in flowing script on its edifice is as familiar to me as my own.

12

Ivy creeps up the entire façade, covering the structure in a tangle of tendrils. The surrounding grass stands as tall as my knees, and all of it is dead and brown. The tomb looms in the dark, and as I stand before it, in the dead of night, breaking the king’s rules for the umpteenth time, I feel like I’m seeing something not meant for anyone to see. This place isn’t supposed to exist.

I wade through the brush and come to three wide marble steps leading up to the doors of the mausoleum. Bushels of faded, crumbling flowers clutter the stairs. Small toys and hundreds of folded pieces of paper in varying stages of decay litter the monument. Some of them are only yellowed a bit at the edges, while others are nothing more than little piles of dust. I pick one up that looks sturdy enough to handle. Unfolding it, I read the words scribbled inside.

Picking up one note after the other, I read as many as I can find that are still legible.

They are all essentially the same. Pleas for help or good fortune, for luck, or for protection. The last one sounds like someone was trying to plan an escape. Clearly whoever it was meant for never got it, because it is rotting here in the shadow of Cinderella’s tomb.

They were more than trinkets, as my mother’s helpers had said. They were petitions, prayers. Looking up at the tomb, I wonder if Cinderella has heard their cries. Or if she even cares at all. More likely, she is laughing at how miserably we’ve failed to live up to her expectations.

I climb the stairs to the pair of double doors guarding the entrance. Etched into the stained glass of the door panels is a depiction of Cinderella’s carriage drawn by four white horses.

A flicker of light shines through the glass doors, and I freeze. A white-blue flash illuminates the inner sanctum of the mausoleum and lingers a moment before dying out again. I try to see through the colored glass, but only a faint glow toward the rear of the chamber remains.

I should be running home. I need to get away from here before the guards find me and drag me back to the palace.

A branch breaks in the distance. Someone is out there. Taking my chances with the flickering light, I push the doors open and go inside, closing them behind me. I don’t hear anything, but I stay still, holding my breath.

Directly in front of me, Cinderella lies on a slab in the middle of the crypt.

I jump back, my heart thudding in my chest. Two hundred years in a crypt should have rendered her body dust and bones. I squint in the shadows and see that the figure on the slab is only a marble rendering of Cinderella. Sighing heavily, I lean against the inner wall of the tomb.

At the end of Cinderella’s story, she and Prince Charming embrace, they kiss, and she goes off to live a life of luxury in the palace. It doesn’t say anything about how she hid in the castle while her people suffered, the prolonged illness that took her life, or why she now lies in an abandoned tomb in the middle of the woods.

The walls of the tomb extend high above my head. Frigid, musty air fills the space, and I rub my arms, trying to warm my freezing limbs. I walk along the inside wall, studying the lifelike carving of Cinderella. The sculpture looks a lot like the portraits I’ve seen of her. She lies on her back, her hands clasped over her chest holding a bouquet of marble flowers. The rectangular box that extends down to the floor is also made of gleaming white marble.

That strange light flickers again in the rear of the crypt, lighting up the darkness in short bursts. In an alcove, a small, square glass housing sits atop a pedestal with metal trim wrapped around it like a cage. The panes of the glass box are foggy, and broken leaves clutter the space. I clear away the debris and clean a spot on the glass with my fingers so I can see inside. The white-blue glow lights up the box. A pair of shoes, small and almost completely translucent, rest inside. These are the fabled glass slippers.

“I guess the legends were true,” I say aloud.

“Not entirely.”

I spin around, knocking my knee against the pedestal’s base. A figure appears in the crypt. The person wears a long cloak with a hood covering their face.

“I didn’t mean any harm, I swear,” I say, clutching my knee.

The figure is silent. Have they come to take me back to the palace? I scramble to think of what to do.

“Cinderella is dead,” says the figure, the voice light, airy. “I doubt she’ll mind you lurking around her tomb.”

“I’m not lurking,” I say, searching for something within arm’s length that I can use as a weapon. “And if you lay a hand on me—”

“Lay a hand on you? I wouldn’t dare.” The person reaches up and pulls their hood back. A shock of lush reddish curls frames their face. It’s a young woman. She tilts her head to the side, looking me over. “Not unless you wanted me to.”