Oh well. Not my concern.

Stepmother wears dove grey silk with a black lace shawl. I can see she approves of her daughters but won't voice her admiration so long as I'm present. I don't deserve even an indirect compliment.

The hired coach arrives. My stupid steps rustle out of the house, Stepmother murmuring a reminder about the pumpkins. I slump against the doorframe and watch the coach drive out to the gate. Night is spilling into the sky, staining the clouds purple.

Six-thirty. The ball will start at seven. And my dress is not made.

I climb the stairs to the attic with bones like iron. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. If I use the white magic, I won't have enough for the ball. But I guess I'm not going to the ball.

I move the bolt of black cloth off my bed and onto the chair. The thought of sewing one more stitch makes me want to hurl myself out the window. I can't. Could the white magic make a dress for me? I'm not sure. And I still need shoes, a coach and horses, a driver, and the other enhancements I planned. Two inches of liquid. No, it's not enough.

I lie on the bed and shut my eyes. It's no use. I'll never be anything but an unwanted orphan. I just wanted to be special. Admired and honored and loved. It doesn't matter. If I don't sleep now I will die.

Mmm.... How wonderful that sounds.