jbrt

II Sometimes I love my mother, like when she's properly dressing down Cindermaid; I wish I could imitate that cold look and those dire threats veiled in velvet.  But sometimes I hate her. Like this morning.  Anyone could see that her plan to put one of us in the Prince's palace as a bride--I hate to admit it, but I really don't think she cared whether it was me or Annette--would never have worked.  But she just said, "I expect obedience," turned on her heel, and left us, closing the door with that decisive snap I really hate when it's turned on me. When her footsteps had died away down the corridor, I said, "Well, are you going to do it?"

I One warm fall evening long ago and far away, a young woman in rags lay weeping under a hazel tree that stood over a clear pond.  As the stars came out, her tears dried slowly, and she sighed.  "Ah, if I could only see the castle from here!"  And she set her hand on a low branch of the hazel tree. "Is that all thy wish, my dear?" said a strange, soft voice behind her. She froze, then turned.  There stood a tiny, naked, white-haired woman, knee-high to the girl. "Who are you?" whispered the young woman, kneeling the better to see the tiny creature. "Thou mayst call me thy godmother," replied the little woman.  Despite her white hair, all