Ella Tremaine knelt on the kitchen floor she once owned. This house was her father's before he died. Now her stepmother held it, and Ella scrubbed its stone on her knees each morning. Tonight the palace held a royal ball. Ella had no invitation. Still, she meant to go, to walk through those doors and, for once, be seen. A gray mouse sat on the hearth stone, watching her work. "She keeps the whole house on my back," Ella whispered. "But I finished the dress. My mother's dress. Tonight I wear it." The mouse twitched its nose. Two sparrows landed on the windowsill. Ella almost smiled. They were the only ones who listened. She swept the ash from the fireplace with her worn straw broom. Its frayed head scattered cinders across the clean floor. She swept them back. The work never ended, but her hands moved fast now. Finish the chores. Finish, and the night was hers. A cane tapped the stone behind her. Ella's shoulders locked. She knew the sound. She turned. Lady Tremaine stood in the doorway, dressed in black, both hands resting on her cane. Her stepmother did not sweep or scrub. She only watched others do it. Her eyes moved to the broom, then to Ella's face. "You have hopes for tonight," Lady Tremaine said. "I can see them on you." Ella stood and gripped the broom handle. "The chores are nearly done. When they're finished, my time is my own." "Your time." Lady Tremaine stepped closer. The mouse fled into a crack in the wall. "This house is mine. The hours in it are mine. You have none of your own." "My father—" "Is dead." The words landed flat. "He left me an estate and a burden. You are the burden. You will not stand among lords and ladies. You will not shame my daughters at that ball." Ella's grip tightened. "I only want one night." Behind her stepmother, Drizella leaned in the doorway. She held a green silk gown against her body and studied her own reflection in the dark window. "Mother, the seams pull at the waist," Drizella said, not looking at Ella. "She'll fix them before we leave. Won't you, cinder-girl?" Lady Tremaine did not turn to her daughter. She kept her eyes on Ella. "You heard her. Three gowns need altering. Hems, waists, sleeves. All before we depart tonight." Ella's breath caught. "That's hours of work. I can't finish and still—" "Then you have chosen how to spend your evening." Lady Tremaine set a stack of silk in Ella's arms. It buried the broom against her chest. "Sit at your table. Sew. If one stitch is loose when we return, you sleep in the ash." She turned and left. Drizella dropped her gown on the pile and followed. Ella stood alone with the silk crushed to her chest. The ball began at sundown. Now three gowns stood between her and the door.

The door shut behind her stepmother. Ella stood alone with three gowns crushed to her chest. The ball began at sundown. She carried the silk to her sewing table and set it down. Her needle and scissors waited among the thread spools. She lifted the green gown first. Drizella's dress. Deep velvet, heavy lace, seams pulled tight at the waist. Ella threaded her needle and bent to work. Her hands were fast. Years of chores had made them fast. She let out the waist, tightened a sleeve, pinned a hem. One gown done. She reached for the second. The candle burned lower. She did not stop. The second gown fought her. A torn seam ran the length of the skirt. She stitched it closed, stitch after stitch, until her fingers ached. Outside, the light turned gold, then gray. She finished. Two down. One left. A voice cut across the room. "Are they done yet, cinder-girl?" Drizella stood in the doorway. She snapped a purple fan open and fanned herself, though the room was cold. Her eyes swept the finished gowns, then the last one still in Ella's lap. "You're slow tonight. We leave soon." "They'll be ready," Ella said. She did not look up. Her needle moved faster. Drizella crossed the room and lifted the green gown from the pile. She held it against her body and turned. "The waist," she said. "Show me." Ella rose and pointed to the new seam. Drizella pinched the fabric, searching for a flaw. She found none. Her mouth tightened. "Fine. But if the hem drops while I dance, you'll pay for it." She dropped the gown across Ella's arms and left. Ella heard her call down the stairs for their carriage. Ella returned to the last gown. Her eyes stung. Her back throbbed. She drove the needle through the final hem as hooves and wheels sounded below. The front door opened. Her stepmother's cane tapped once on the stone. Then the carriage pulled away. The house went silent. Ella pushed the needle through the last stitch and cut the thread. Three gowns lay folded and finished on the table. She had done it. She stood. Her legs shook. Through the window, the last gray light was fading. The ball had already begun. Her stepfamily rode toward it in their fine dresses, and she stood alone in an empty house. Ella climbed the narrow stairs to her attic room. Her mother's dress hung on the wall where she had left it. She had won her freedom. Every task was done. No one could send her to the ash now. But she had no carriage. No horses. The palace stood far across the countryside, and night had come. The chores were finished. The road was not.

The road might be closed, but the night was not over. Ella stood in her attic room and looked at her mother's dress on the wall. If she could not leave yet, she could still make herself ready. She took the dress down and carried it to the little sewing table by the window. The faded pink silk had waited years on that wall. Antique lace edged the collar. Fuchsia flowers ran across the skirt in her mother's old stitching. But the fabric had worn thin in places, and small holes gaped along the seams. Ella lit a candle and threaded her needle. She would mend every flaw and make the dress beautiful again. She worked fast. She patched a hole at the elbow with a scrap she saved. She tightened a loose ribbon at the waist and pressed the lace flat with her fingers. The dress began to look whole. For the first time, she let herself picture the palace doors, and herself walking through them. Then wheels sounded on the stone below. Ella froze. The carriage had left hours ago. It should not be back. She set the dress down and crept to the stairs. The front door opened. A cane tapped once on the floor. "The clasp on my necklace broke," Lady Tremaine said. Her voice climbed the stairwell, flat and cold. "We turned back. Drizella, wait in the carriage." But Drizella did not wait. Her steps came up the stairs first, quick and sharp. She pushed into the attic room before Ella could block the door. Her eyes went straight to the pink dress on the table. "What is this?" Drizella lifted it by the shoulder. The lace caught the candlelight. "You've been sewing something for yourself." "It was my mother's," Ella said. She reached for it. "Please." Lady Tremaine appeared in the doorway. She did not raise her voice. She looked at the dress, then at Ella's face, and understood everything at once. "So this is where your hands went," she said. "You mean to follow us to the palace." "My work is done," Ella said. "Every task. I earned the night." "You earned nothing." Lady Tremaine held out one gloved hand. "Give it to Drizella." Drizella did not wait to be told twice. She gripped the bodice in both hands and pulled. The old silk tore down the front. Lace ripped loose. Fuchsia flowers split apart in her fists. She dropped the ruined halves on the floor and stepped over them. "There," Lady Tremaine said. "Now nothing keeps you from the floors." The cane tapped away down the stairs. The door shut. The carriage rolled off a second time. Ella knelt on the boards and gathered the torn pieces. Her mother's dress lay in shreds across her knees. She had mended every flaw, and it was gone in ten seconds. She had her freedom and her skill, and now she had nothing to wear.

Ella left the shreds on the attic floor and ran downstairs. She did not stop at the door. She crossed the yard and pushed through the garden gate. The manicured hedges rose around her. Roses bloomed in the formal beds, red and pink and white, all planted by hands that had never planted anything for her. She dropped onto the stone path and cried into her knees. Her mother's dress was gone. The palace doors would never open for a servant in rags. "Crying will not sew silk." Ella's head snapped up. A woman stood between the flower beds. She had dark hair and pointed ears, and she wore a white gown stitched with gold. She held a slender wand tipped with a shining star. She had not come through the gate. Ella would have heard the gate. "Who are you?" Ella climbed to her feet. "This is private ground." "I am Agathe." The woman looked at Ella's wet face without softening. "Your godmother. Your mother named me before she died. I have watched a long time." Ella wiped her eyes. "I have no godmother." "You have one now." Agathe stepped closer. Her gaze moved over Ella's stained apron. "They tore the dress. I saw. You mended it stitch by stitch, and they ruined it in seconds." Heat rose in Ella's chest. "Then you know it is hopeless. I have nothing to wear. The road is closed. There is no way in." "You are wrong twice." Agathe raised the wand. "Kneel by the roses." Ella hesitated, then knelt where a white rose leaned over the bed. Agathe touched the star to it. Light gathered along the vine. The thorns and blooms twisted loose from the soil and rose into the air. They spun around Ella, briars and petals braiding together into a path of light that curled up past the hedges. "That road will carry you to the palace," Agathe said. "Thorns and pearls. It runs only tonight." Then she turned the wand on Ella herself. The star touched her shoulder. Ella felt the fabric change against her skin. Her torn apron thinned and spread and turned to silver. The stains vanished. A gown poured down to her feet, pale and shining, finer than anything her stepfamily owned. Ella stared at her own hands. "How long does it last?" "Until midnight. Not one breath past." Agathe lowered the wand. "When the last bell strikes, the gown is rags again. The road closes. You will stand wherever you stand, as you truly are." "Then I must be back before it strikes." "You must." Agathe did not repeat it. She stepped back into the shadow of the hedge and was gone. Ella looked at the glowing path of thorns and pearls. It climbed into the dark toward the palace. She had a gown. She had a road. She had until midnight, and no minute more. She lifted her skirts and set her foot on the light.

Ella took two steps down the glowing path. Then her foot caught on the hem of her gown. She stumbled and dropped to one knee on the pearls. The silver dress had turned back to something plain and thin at the shoulders. She looked down and saw her bare feet on the cold light. She wore no shoes at all. "Wait." Ella turned back toward the garden. "Godmother. I have nothing on my feet. And this gown—it is not enough." Agathe stepped out from the hedge again. She had not gone far. Her eyes moved to Ella's bare feet, then to the thin silver cloth. "You are right," Agathe said. "The palace floor is marble. Bare feet will not do." "Then help me. Please." Agathe lifted the wand. The star at its tip caught the moonlight. "Stand still." Ella rose and held her breath. Agathe touched the star to the silver cloth at Ella's waist. The fabric bloomed outward. The thin gown thickened and layered. A corseted bodice laced itself tight around her ribs. The neckline slid off her shoulders. The skirt spread wide, blue and white, sheer layers falling over one another to the ground. Silver thread ran through the cloth like frost on a window. Ella pressed a hand to the stiff bodice. It held her upright. "It fits like it was cut for me." "It was." Agathe lowered the wand toward Ella's feet. "Now the shoes." Light gathered on the pearls beneath Ella's toes. It hardened and cleared. Two slippers formed on her feet, made of glass. They caught the road's glow and threw it back in tiny sparks. Ella wiggled her toes inside them. They felt warm, not cold. They fit like skin. She lifted one foot and stared. "Glass. They should break." "They will not break tonight," Agathe said. "They are yours until midnight, like the rest." Agathe raised the wand one last time and swept it past Ella's head. Ella felt her hair lift and twist. It coiled up off her neck and settled high, smooth and full. A few curls fell loose at her cheeks. Ella touched the shining coils. She looked down at the wide skirt, the laced bodice, the glass on her feet. For the first time she did not look like a servant. She looked like someone the palace doors would open for. "You are ready," Agathe said. "Do not forget the hour." "I will not." "Say it back." Ella met her eyes. "At midnight the gown is rags. The road closes. The glass will be gone." "Good." Agathe stepped back into the shadow of the hedge. "Go. Be seen." Ella turned to the road of thorns and pearls. It climbed away toward the palace, steady and bright. She gathered the wide skirt in both hands. This time her feet did not slip. The glass held firm on the light. She began to climb.

Ella climbed the road of thorns and pearls until it flattened before her. The path ended at a low garden wall. She stopped, breathing hard, and looked out. The palace stood far off, its windows bright. Between her and those windows lay a long stretch of dark. The glowing road had brought her this far. It would carry her no farther on foot. "You will not walk it," a voice said behind her. Agathe stood among the hedges of the garden. She held her wand loose at her side. "The distance is too great. Midnight comes fast." Ella turned. "Then how do I reach the doors?" Agathe walked past her to a flower bed. A pumpkin sat there, rotting in the dirt. Its skin had softened and split. Green mold crept along the cracks. Agathe looked at it the way she looked at everything, without warmth. "That," Ella said. "It is ruined." "It will do." Agathe raised the wand. The star at its tip flared white. She swept it once toward the pumpkin. The rot fell away. The skin firmed and swelled and rose off the ground. Gold trim curled along its ribs. Windows opened in its sides, hung with soft curtains. Four wheels spun into shape beneath it. A tiny crown formed at its peak. The thing stood taller than Ella, a carriage grown from a dying gourd. Ella pressed a hand to her mouth. "That was a pumpkin." "It was." Agathe lowered the wand. "Now it carries you. Get in." Ella stepped toward the carriage. The glass slippers clicked on the stone. She reached for the small gold handle and pulled the door open. Inside, the seat was pale and soft. She gathered her wide blue skirt in both arms and climbed up. The layers of the gown spread across the seat and filled the space. She leaned out the open window. "You are not coming." "No." Agathe stepped back from the wheels. "This is your night, not mine." "Say it back to me," Ella said. "So I do not forget." Something moved in Agathe's face. Not quite a smile. "At midnight the gown is rags. The carriage is a pumpkin again. You will be as you were." "I know." Ella sat back against the cushion. "I will not stay past the hour." Agathe touched the wand to the front of the carriage. The wheels turned on their own. The whole thing lurched forward and rolled toward the palace, smooth and silent. Ella gripped the window frame and watched the garden shrink behind her. Agathe did not wave. She stood still and watched until the hedges hid her. The carriage carried Ella across the dark. Ahead, the palace grew larger. Light spilled from every window. She could see figures moving inside, a whole crowd of them. Music reached her faintly. The wheels slowed. The doors stood open, and no one had told her to leave.

The carriage stopped at the palace steps. Ella climbed down and looked up at the spires. Light poured from the tall doors. Inside, she knew, her stepmother and stepsisters already stood among the crowd. One look from Drizella could name her. Then the guards would throw her out, and the whole night would end in shame. She could not walk in as herself. So she made a plan. She would keep to the edges of the room. She would keep her back to her family and her face turned away. Ella stepped through the doors. The great hall opened before her, wide and bright. Hundreds of dancers turned across the floor. Her wide skirt shimmered blue and white in the candlelight. Heads turned toward her. She lowered her eyes and moved along the wall. Then she saw them. Drizella stood near the center, her green gown loud in the crowd. Lady Tremaine watched the room with a cold, hunting look. Ella's chest went tight. She slipped behind a marble column and pressed her back to the stone. Drizella's head began to turn her way. Ella held her breath and could not move. "You are hiding," a man said. Ella spun. A young man stood close, dark hair swept back, his white coat crossed by a blue sash. She had seen his face on the coins her father once kept. It was the Prince. Prince William. "Forgive me," she said. "I only wanted a moment out of the crowd." "Then dance with me," he said. "No one hides while dancing." He held out his gloved hand and smiled, easy and warm. Ella looked past him. Drizella was still turning, searching. If Ella stayed by the column, her stepsister would find her. If she took the Prince's hand, she would stand in the open, the most watched woman in the room. She chose. She placed her hand in his. Prince William led her onto the floor. The music swelled. He set one hand at her waist and turned her into the dance. Ella moved with him, her glass slippers gliding on the polished stone. The crowd parted around them. Every face followed the Prince and the girl in blue. At the edge of the floor, Drizella stopped searching. She stared at Ella, spinning in the Prince's arms. Her mouth opened. But she did not shout. Confusion crossed her face. She did not know this glowing stranger. The altered gown, the enchanted hair, the slippers had hidden Ella completely. Lady Tremaine turned to see what her daughter watched. Her cold eyes fixed on Ella too. She did not know her either. But something in her gaze sharpened, like a hunter marking prey. The song ended. Prince William would not let her go. "Stay," he said. "Tell me your name." Ella's heart raced. She had escaped Drizella's glance. But now the Prince held her in the open, and Lady Tremaine was watching them both, curious and hungry to know who this girl was.

Prince William held Ella's hand and waited for her name. She opened her mouth to answer. Then a deep bell rang out across the hall. The clocktower struck midnight. Twelve slow chimes rolled through the great room. Ella's stomach dropped. Her godmother's warning came back to her at once. All the magic would end when the clock finished. The gown, the slippers, the carriage, everything. "I have to go," Ella said. She pulled her hand free. "Wait," the Prince said. "You have told me nothing." She did not stop. She turned and ran through the parting crowd. Dancers stepped back in surprise. Her wide blue skirt swept past them. Behind her, Prince William called out and started after her. At the edge of the floor, Lady Tremaine watched. Her cold eyes tracked the fleeing girl. She took one step forward, still hunting the answer she wanted. Ella reached the tall doors and rushed outside. The second chime rang. The third. She flew down the wide steps into the night air. Her heart pounded against the corseted bodice. Halfway down, her glass slipper slid loose. Her heel came free of it. The slipper stayed behind on the cold stone step. Ella felt the chill of bare skin. She looked back for one breath. The slipper glittered on the step, catching the palace light. The fourth chime rang. She had no time. She left it and ran on, one foot bare. The Prince burst through the doors above her. "Stop!" he called. "Please!" He could not reach her in time. The crowd spilled out behind him, filling the doorway. Ella ran to the carriage. Its golden trim gleamed in the dark. She climbed inside and the horses pulled away. The chimes kept ringing. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. As the carriage rolled from the palace, Ella felt the magic begin to fade. The fine seat grew soft and damp beneath her. A vegetable smell filled the air. The gown lost its shine and thinned back to gray rags against her skin. By the last chime, the carriage was a pumpkin again. Ella sat in the wet grass beside it, her mother's altered dress torn back to servant's cloth. One glass slipper still fit her left foot. It had not changed. It stayed clear and bright, the last piece of the night that survived. Above her, the road of thorns and roses faded from the ground. The pearls winked out one by one. Ella looked toward the far palace lights. On the steps, Prince William bent and picked up the slipper she had lost. He held it in both hands and studied it. The girl was gone. He did not know her name or her home. But he held proof she had been real. Ella pressed her one slipper to her chest and started the long walk home. She had been seen. Now the Prince would search, and her stepmother had watched her run.

Ella walked the last stretch home in the dark. Her bare foot ached on the cold ground. One glass slipper stayed pressed to her chest. She had to reach the manor before her stepmother's carriage. If Lady Tremaine found her outside, in these rags, the questions would start. She slipped through the garden gate and up to the manor's worn stone steps. The house stood quiet. No carriage yet. She let out a slow breath and went in. She climbed to her attic room and hid the slipper under a loose floorboard. Then she pulled her hair loose and rubbed ash on her hands, so she looked like she had worked all night. She went down to the kitchen and set the tea things ready on the little wheeled cart. When the front door finally opened, she was pouring water, plain and dull, the servant they expected. Drizella came in first, still in her green ball gown. She dropped into a chair and snapped her fan shut. Anastasia followed, her pink skirts crushed from the long ride. "How was the ball?" Ella asked. She kept her voice light. She rolled the tea cart forward. "A waste," Drizella said. "The Prince danced with no one who mattered." "Some girl," Anastasia said. She took a cup. "No one knew her. She ran out at midnight. Left a slipper on the steps." Ella's hand stayed steady on the pot. "A slipper?" "Glass," Drizella said. "The Prince kept it. He means to find her." Ella poured. She did not look up. "Find her how?" "He'll try the slipper on every girl in the kingdom," Anastasia said. "Whoever it fits, he marries." Drizella tapped her fan against her palm. "It will fit me." Anastasia watched Ella over the rim of her cup. She said nothing, but her eyes stayed too long. Ella felt the look and turned to wipe the cart. Then the door opened again. Lady Tremaine stepped in from the cold. She did not sit. Her gaze moved across the room and stopped on Ella. "You are awake late," she said. "The tea, ma'am," Ella said. "For when you returned." Lady Tremaine came closer. She studied Ella's face the way she had studied the girl at the palace. "You have ash on your hands." "I was cleaning the grate." Her stepmother said nothing for a long moment. Then she looked down. Ella's left foot was bare. The right wore a worn cloth shoe. "Where is your other shoe?" Lady Tremaine asked. Ella's throat went tight. "It tore. I threw it out." Lady Tremaine held her eyes. She did not believe it. Ella saw the doubt harden into something worse. Her stepmother now knew a slipper waited at the palace, and a girl had run from the Prince. And here stood Ella, one foot bare, hiding something. "Finish your work," Lady Tremaine said, and left the room slowly. Ella gripped the cart. The Prince was hunting her. And now her stepmother had begun to hunt her too.