Chewing her bottom lip, she glanced about for any sign of life. What if Fairy Godmother came searching for her and couldn't find her? Cinderella had left so suddenly. Non, non. She was a fairy godmother, she had powers. How else could she have turned a drab servant girl into a magnificent, mysterious princess?
Cinderella cleared her throat with a delicate cough. "Fairy Godmother?" she called, softly. "Please. S'il vous plait. I am in desperate need of your assistance, Ma'am." Cinderella paused. Only the ominous silence loomed in the airy corridor.
Fairy Godmother must truly be angry. If Cinderella could find a way to reimburse her for the lost shoe… How much would a glass slipper cost? Cinderella frowned. More than she had, which was nothing.
Oh, how she wished she were a strong heroine-a heroine who prevailed in the face of defeat. Rise above the ashes to…to smile as a saint. Be of a giving nature. Be one to offer an evil sister her blessed union with the prince. Show him-them-she was, above all, a true princess.
Cinderella's shoulders slumped. How could she when she loved Prince? She did not wish to be a saint. Her timid nature fell more in favor of survival tactics rather than heroic efforts. Too many years of Stepmama's methods of discipline in harsh words and heavy hands.
More tears blurred her sight. It seemed to be a recurring fault of late.
"Peep." Cinderella looked down. Marcel was perched on the toe of her shoe. She leaned down and offered him an open palm, smiling through a watery vision.
"Prince deserves someone strong and beautiful, you know," she told him. "A real princess." Marcel let out an annoyed squeak.
"Of course." She agreed. A quick surge of anger fused through the tears. "He especially does not deserve someone as mean and spiteful as Esmeralda."
Pushing away the useless tears, Cinderella focused on the grounds outside the large glass. Bright moonlight provided a crystal clear view of perfect gardens as immaculate as the hallway baseboards, leastways from the moonlit sky. Dirt would not be allowed out there either, she sniffed.
A small grin escaped as the last of her anger faded. It was a lovely palace. "Look," she told Marcel, pointing. They peered through the night over the manicured gardens. Waves rippled across a small pond glittering in the streaming moon's light. She squinted trying to make out what she thought might be a statue in its center. "It looks like one of the Greek gods," she said, drawing another sense of melancholy over her. "If I am not mistaken, it's Eros, the god of love in that small pond. See the stringed bow and arrow?" It had to be, she thought. The sinewy arms set him distinctly apart from other ancient myth figures.