Cinderella’s father refused to come downstairs. Even Esme was subdued as she and Rose waited in the sitting room, with Cinderella loitering in the background pretending to stoke up the fire. Rose, in her best dress, was sitting in an armchair. Her face was pale, no doubt she was in agony with her injured foot. Cinderella caught her eye and the two girls shared a wan smile. Esme didn’t look at either of them. Cinderella wasn’t sure she could bring herself to. The shouting had stopped when she’d seen what Rose had done, and there were dark circles around her eyes that no longer held fevered madness. As the footmen swept in, the familiar diamond slipper glittering on a red cushion, for a brief moment Cinderella wished it would fit Rose so they could be done with it. Or better still, for it to fit neither of them and to pass them by. ‘His royal highness has decreed that whomever this shoe fits, he shall take as his betrothed. Every young woman in the land is required to try it on.’ The man looked tired and spoke the words wearily.
