No one mentioned this part of the spell.
You must be back before the stroke of midnight, or the spell will be broken.
Cinderella had been obedient her entire life. Every command was followed to the letter, every whim catered to; no request of her step - relatives was denied. And then her dreams had been handed to her on a silver platter with but one condition; a time limit. A curfew. A single command. And she had broken it as surely as if she'd dropped the glass slipper.
The night had slipped away in a blur of colors and the rustle of ballgowns swishing past. She noted the jealous glares from the corner of her eye but paid them no mind. Her eyes only had room for him - her prince. What was his name again?
The gardens glowed in the moonlight coating everything with a silvery blue sheen. The water was smooth as glass, like a black mirror, the clocktower reflected the wrong way round, time was all twisted and then the first strike tolled.
The bell tone rolled through the courtyard, louder and louder, the vibrations rippling the still waters and hitting her like a wave; she felt her glass slippers shake around here feet and a second strike landed its mark, this time ringing with a note of dread.
She had to leave. Now.
She grabbed at her gown, lifting it enough so that she could run. She darted between dancers and suitors and made for the hall just as the third bell tolled. Past the guards. There was the carriage, her driver beckoning to her urgently. She faltered slightly on the stairs and lost a slipper. Strike four. No time to go back. He was behind her, calling to her, reaching for her. She looked back from the carriage window at his heartbroken face - then they were off. Strike five - or was it six?
The horses galloped over bumpy roads and knotted roots, faster with every chime. She would have bruises in the morning. The carriage took a sharp curve - she grabbed for something, anything. The horses screamed as the carriage tumbled, taking the party with it as the bells struck nine.
She crawled from the wreckage, dizzy and lightheaded. Something red stained her dress. The house was just in view. She took a step.
Strike ten.
She clutched at the ears. The bells were in her head, clanging in her head. Each one expounded upon the other and the racket echoed within. She fell back on her knees. She felt the texture of burlap against her legs. The broken carriage was becoming overgrown with vines creeping over like an exceptionally fast ivy.
Strike eleven.
Home. Right there. Just out of reach. She forced her legs to work, feeling as though she were moving through water, through a strong current in her heavy ballgown. Her skin - what was wrong with her skin? There were stitches weaving over her face, criss - crossing through her mouth. She took another step forward.
Strike twelve.
The remaining glass slipper shattered under her weight. She tried to scream, but the stitches held her mouth in place. Her spine felt stiff as though someone had shoved a pole up her back. Her feet were bleeding, cut by glass shards, her feet were bleeding all over the grass. Her straw yellow hair was now actually made of straw, prickling her face and sticking out over her black button eyes. The drone of the bells faded away over the silent night landscape as Cinderella and her pumpkin carriage were overtaken completely by the vines.
In a distant cornfield, a scarecrow stood at attention. It was a strangely effeminate scarecrow, dressed in a blue ballgown with puffy sleeves and elbow length gloves. The farmers youngest son swore up and down that the thing was alive, but few listened, least of all his father. No matter - it did a wonderful job of keeping the crows away.
