Sinful Cinderella

I guess I should tell you about the white magic.

It’s in my room (or my half of the attic). I keep it in a cupboard near my bed, locked. I wear the key on a string around my neck. It’s as precious to me as my eyeballs.

Three bolts of cloth lie on my bed. My gorgeous black, garish purple for Loony, and a gentle blue for Moody, my other stepsister. Her real name is Melodie but trust me, there’s nothing harmonious about her. Her personality is one flat note, the lowest groan on a pipe organ.

I’m checking my eyes in the small, square mirror that hangs on my wall. They’re good. Naturally a nice, pale blue. But this ball, this prince will call for the exceptional. I need eyes like jewels. Like sapphires.

My stupid steps are all out, having their big, knobby feet fitted for new shoes. Lots of luck. Now’s a good time to use the white magic.

I lift the string over my head. I click the key into the lock and turn. Behind the wooden door, alone in the cupboard, sits a crystal decanter, much like what my father once used to keep brandy. It’s round and beautiful with tiny flashing facets. The decanter holds two inches of white liquid, thick as cream, but giving off a rainbow sheen. I don’t know what substance the white magic is made of, but I think of it as melted pearls.

Slowly, reverently, I lower the decanter to my dressing table. I open the top drawer and dig out the silver spoon I use only for white magic. It probably wouldn’t make a difference what kind of spoon I use. But to me, details count.

Two inches of liquid. Nineteen months since I last used some magic and the bottle wasn’t empty then. That’s how hard it is to earn. Washing every window in the house yields, maybe, half a teaspoon. But it’s worth it, every bit.

I remove the crystal stopper. Drip by drip, I fill the spoon. I stand before the small mirror to admire the girl within, her immaculate skin, sensuous lips, petal-pink cheeks, delicate chin. All the work of white magic. But thus far I’ve never touched my eyes.

“Beautiful eyes,” I say to the spoon. “Brighter. Bluer. And long lashes.”

I swallow the spoonful. It’s smooth and sweet, like almond milk and honey cake and a hint of something tropical, like coconut. I close my eyes as the magic becomes sparkles of light that swarm into my irises. It doesn’t hurt. Just feels a bit warm and tickly.

I open my eyes. Hmm. A bit bluer, a bit brighter. But not enough. I sigh and tip out another spoonful. I always want to use as little as possible.

“Brighter, bluer, long lashes.” And swallow.

I wait for the sparkles to stop their dance beneath my eyelids. Amazing! My eyes are blue as peacock feathers. Bright as stained glass windows with a late sun behind them. But then I notice my lashes, still short.

I curse savagely. Another spoonful. Each one has cost me weeks of chores and cheerfulness. Hundreds of mended stockings. Scrubbing the floor and smiling when Loony steps on my fingers on purpose. Apologizing when Stepmother wonders aloud why the illness took my father and not me - him she needed. And I don’t know how much magic I’ll need to get myself to this ball. Probably all of it.

I swallow. And it’s worth it. My lashes are lush, dark brown, curling beautifully around my new eyes. Goddess eyes. Temptress eyes. Eyes that no man can resist.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” I whisper. “Who is the fairest one of all?”

The beauty in the mirror grins. Her teeth are white and perfect.