Dancing on Glass

The Candlelight Gown

Some nights later, when Cinderella went up to her room just after midnight, she lit the candles and opened the shutters to allow in the moon's rays so there was as much light as possible before she knelt by her bed and reached under, feeling around before finding the handle and pulled a large trunk out.

She sat back on her heels and looked at it for a moment.

It was about thirty years old. It looked ancient. The corners were beaten up, the colour was faded, the straps were fraying and the buckles had started to rust. But it was still secure in with damaged state.

It had been her mother's, given to her as a young girl and the family crest was still smartly pressed into the leather, the unicorn standing proudly in the centre of the shield, a sword stood upright behind it – a sign of pure, honourable warriors of the crown.

She let out a soft breath then unbuckled the case and lifted the lid.

Fabric was folded up inside and she scooped it up into her arms and got to her feet. It was heavy and she carefully manoeuvred it to the bed before untying the strings that held the cotton in place.

The weight under the cotton instantly released as soon as the knots were loose and the package fell open, the cotton giving way to reveal the satins and lace below.

Cinderella stepped back and looked down at the gown that lay across the bed, the huge skirts draping across the floor, like it was waiting for its maiden to finish her hair and makeup before she slid into the gown to dance the night away.

It was completely white, the candlelight casting it was warm red and oranges, making it shine. The bodice was tight, off the shoulders with long sleeves that reached down to a point on the back of the hands. The skirts were massive.

She smiled as she smoothed the folds in the skirt, remembering her mother laughing about the skirts whenever she put the dress on, forever purposely barging her hip into her husband and knocking him over, exclaiming loudly that she just never knew where her hips were in such a creation.

It had been a gift from her husband and she had adored the dress, it had been her favourite, however much of a fuss she had enjoyed making – before her dragging illness wore her out and she had to sit and rest so she would have as much energy as possible to attend whatever event they were due at.

Cinderella's smile faltered for just a moment before she shrugged out of her work clothes and slowly processed to put the dress on. She sadly had no hoop skirt to place under the dress to give it its proper shape but the mass of skirts meant she could almost get away with it.

After ten minutes and painstaking fiddling to get all the hooks done up at the back, she turned to the cracked mirror and looked at herself.

Her smile returned.

She almost looked like her mother.

True, she was thinner then her mother had been – but then on the diet she was stuck on thanks to her stepmother, she was bound to be thinner than desirable, but it wasn't by much – she was in change of the kitchens after all and her stepmother couldn't keep track of everything they had in there, however she tried.

Also her mother would never have had those dirty smudges across her forehead that Cinderella hadn't noticed before.

Wiping the soot away with the corner of her apron, she leant towards the mirror, looking at herself, holding her hair up to the top of her head.

She didn't have a mask. She didn't have a wig. She didn't have beautiful new dancing shoes or accessories. All she had was the dress that was out-dated by ten years and her own face.