Crowns & Chaos

Let me paint you a picture: I’m crouched on the floor, scrubbing soot out of a fireplace for the third time this week because apparently, this is my life now. Behind me, Anastasia and Drizella are arguing about something completely unimportant—like whose reflection looks better in the mirror. (Spoiler: neither, because the mirror cracked last week. Coincidence? Doubtful.)

“Cinderella!” Drizella screeches from the dining room. “Why isn’t there more sugar in my tea? Are you trying to poison me?”

“I wouldn’t waste perfectly good sugar on you,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?” she snaps, poking her head around the doorframe, her hair in those ridiculous tight curls that make her look like a sheep.

“Nothing!” I sing, beaming my best “I’m totally not plotting your downfall” smile. And back to scrubbing I go.

Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t choose this life of forced manual labor and endless chores. No one ever says, “Oh, you know what would be fun? Being treated like a royal servant by two sisters who eat croissants like they’re preparing for battle.” My fairy tale began and ended the moment my dad remarried and decided, “Hey, you know who’d make a great addition to this family? A woman with the personality of a damp rag and two daughters who have the combined IQ of a turnip.”

You’re probably wondering, “Why don’t you just leave?” Great question. Wish I knew the answer. Turns out, the job market for soot-covered girls with zero practical skills isn’t great. And while my mice friends are great for emotional support, they’re pretty useless in terms of, well, everything else.

Speaking of mice, let’s talk about Jacques and Gus. Great guys, really. Loyal to a fault. But when I say I need help, I don’t mean, “Create chaotic distractions that make my life harder.” Just this morning, they decided it would be funny to unravel an entire spool of thread while I was sewing. Have you ever tried explaining to a mouse that this is not helpful? Spoiler: They squeak and run off like you’ve insulted their entire rodent family.

Anyway, life was its usual disaster until last night. I was halfway through scrubbing the kitchen floor (because apparently, one wipe isn’t enough—it needs to sparkle like it’s auditioning for a commercial), when BAM. My fairy godmother popped out of thin air like some kind of wand-wielding magician.

“Why are you still scrubbing floors?” she demanded, hands on her hips like she was personally offended by the sight of me.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, gesturing dramatically to my rags. “Because this is my life now? Care to offer some insight, sparkly stranger?”

“Enough sarcasm,” she said, waving her wand so aggressively that it knocked over a candlestick. “You’re going to the royal ball.”

I laughed. Out loud. “With what dress? What shoes? What will to live?”

She ignored me, of course, and went full makeover mode. In seconds, my rags turned into a gown. A gown with way too many layers, if we’re being honest. And the shoes? Glass. Actual glass. “This feels impractical,” I told her, staring at my feet. “Do you know how fragile glass is? I could die in these.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, not even looking up from whatever spell she was mumbling.

The weirdest part? She turned a pumpkin into a carriage. Which, like, cool trick, but did she not have literally any other option? The whole thing smelled like the inside of a pie, and I had to spend the entire ride hoping the wheels didn’t revert to vines mid-journey.

When I arrived at the ball, you’d think the prince would notice my entrance (which, by the way, was flawless), but no. The first thing he asked was, “Did you know you’re missing a glove?” Like, wow, great observation, Sherlock. Shall we discuss my shoes next?

To be fair, the prince was cute. A little too into his own reflection, but I can work with that. The real problem was dancing in glass heels. Every twirl felt like a death sentence. Do you know what it’s like to silently pray that your footwear doesn’t shatter into a million pieces while maintaining a gracious smile? It’s exhausting.

And then came the clock. Midnight. I don’t know who decided to slap a curfew on magic, but let me just say: rude. One second, I’m living my best life; the next, I’m sprinting down the palace stairs like someone’s chasing me. Spoiler: No one was chasing me, except gravity. I slipped, lost a shoe, and somehow, it didn’t break. Truly a miracle.

So now the prince is running around the kingdom with my shoe, trying to find me. Which is flattering, but also—did he not think to ask for my name? Like, sir, I understand you’re mesmerized by my stunning presence, but basic communication skills would’ve saved us both some trouble.

Anyway, I’m currently back at the fireplace, scrubbing soot and waiting to see how this shoe business pans out. Fingers crossed it works, because if I have to hear Anastasia brag about her new ribbon collection one more time, I might lose it completely.