Dancing on Glass

House of Cards

Dinner came and went.

She heard Giselle shouting for Cinderella to come down and cook.

Bedtime came and went.

She heard Jezabelle half way up the stairs to her room when her stepmother told her Cinderella hadn't arrived back yet from seeing off the other servants.

Had Lady Constantia told them she had left after she'd learnt about their dismissal?

Already she was starting to make Cinderella vanish.

Gozer came in to check on her once and give her a tiny dinner.

"A present from the mistress," he said once he'd dumped the food on her bed, the bowl almost spilling its content on the sheets.

Cinderella looked up – schooling her expression to remain reserved after she'd just hurled the makeshift pole over the side of the bed and out of sight.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small bottle.

"Found it tucked away in that trunk of yours. In case you decide you need an escape in the coming weeks."

He handed the bottle to her.

She looked at it and recoiled, dropping the bottle which shattered on the wooden floor, the strychnine poison spilling out and staining the wood.

Gozer started laughing as he walked out, leaving Cinderella curled on her bed, feet off the floor like the poison would burn her, staring after him.

Soon after the house settled into silence.

The moon rose and drifted across the sky, unconcerned as she admired the stars that glittered for her entertainment. They didn't notice the city below fall asleep; the lights of the distant palace go out.

They didn't notice Cinderella strain desperately to make the make-shift pole reach the key, a foot too short no matter how she stretched.

They didn't notice her curse the fact that the mattress was stuffed with straw and lacked springs that could be ripped out and used.

They didn't notice her eventually sink onto the bed, curling in on her side to sleep, to rest and rethink her options come the dawn.

They didn't notice the first flickers of red and orange and gold in the kitchens far below, glimmering from a candle fallen in the laundry that awaited ironing, the large wicker basket beside a leaking batch of oil.

Cinderella woke in the deep depths of the night to the smell of smoke.

At first she thought she had left her candle burning and it had finally burnt itself out and the wisp of smoke was carried on the breeze.

Moments later, that same breeze blew away her sleep and she realised that the smell was too thick to be from a candle. Too acrid. Too nauseating.

She sat up, spinning around and stared in horror at the sight of a smoke filled room.

Black, rolling clouds were drifting up from beyond her window, creeping drifting threads were crawling under her door and through the floorboards.

The house was on fire.

Now she was fully away she could feel sweat sticking her clothes to her, the heat poured in from all sides, the smoke was clawing its way down her throat and making her gasp, her hand clamping to her mouth and nose.

She threw herself from her bed, running for the door when the band around her ankle wrenched her back and she hit the ground, a plume of smoke billowing out around her making her cough violently.