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She wasn't supposed to be at the ball.
Mother, my other sister, and I, had done everything to try and stop it. She was exactly his type – long locks of blonde hair that flowed around a plump, baby face. Crystal blue eyes that sparkled. And a laugh that could melt the coldest of hearts. She radiated naivety. She was only fifteen. And God knows he likes them young.
We should have known she would try something. We should have done more to stop her.
She always had this wild streak, you see; this intolerable reluctance to follow the rules. It made her a pain, a liability. She was always sneaking around where she wasn't wanted.
Mother would give her tasks to do to keep her out of the way. She was always so dramatic about it.
One time, when she was ten, mother sent her to clean the cinders from the grates. She got covered in ash and an hour later stormed into our secret meeting. She angrily proclaimed that we should call her Cinderella from now on.
We'd found that hilarious. And so, we'd called her that ever since.
