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I turn my head towards the house as the horse gallops towards the castle.
I see Cinderella's face at her bedroom window. She is howling at the unfairness that I should get to marry the prince. I fleetingly wonder whether she'll hate me, always; whether she'll ever understand what we have done.
It doesn't matter.
I share a look with my other sister at the open door.
I see the promise in her eyes as tears roll down her cheeks; the promise she will look after our sister.
Then I turn my head towards my fate.
The castle looms ahead.
The prince waits within its walls for his new bride.
There will be many horrors to come.
He may kill me.
I will try to kill him first.
Either way, Cinderella is safe.
We ride through the castle gates and I find myself wondering if anyone will ever tell our story. Or whether it will be twisted into something it's not; mangled – like my feet – to slip into a more fitting narrative.
I suppose it depends on what happens next.
I suppose it depends on who wins the right to tell the story.
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