The palace loomed ahead, a towering structure made of polished stone, its windows gleaming like eyes in the dark. Gold-lined gates swung open as our carriage approached, the wheels crunching against the gravel with a soft, deliberate sound. My cloak fluttered behind me as I stepped down, the ground cool beneath my boots, and for a moment, I almost forgot I wasn't in my grandmother's quiet cottage anymore.
I glanced at Cinderella. The transformation from the girl in the forest to the one standing beside me now was unsettling. She looked every bit the princess—her dress glittering like the night sky, her hair woven into an intricate braid with strands of silver and sapphire. The only thing that didn't fit was the nervousness that clung to her like a second skin.
I'd never seen someone so eager to be something they weren't. Or maybe it was just that she thought she could be.
As we walked up the steps, Cinderella slowed, her hand reaching for the heavy doors.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked softly.
She didn't look at me. "I have no choice."
The doors swung open with a creak, and the first blast of noise hit us—a wave of laughter, music, chatter, and clinking glasses. The room inside was bathed in golden light, every corner polished, shining, and perfect. A thousand people were dancing—waltzing, twirling, gliding like they had no weight at all, their laughter blending into the music.
And yet, beneath it all, I felt something—like a chill hidden beneath the warmth, a subtle undercurrent of tension that no one seemed to notice.
"Wow," Cinderella whispered, her eyes wide. "I've never seen anything like this."
"You won't," I muttered under my breath. "Not again."
But she didn't hear me. She was already moving toward the grand staircase, the one that led to the prince. His royal figure stood at the top, watching over the crowd like he owned every last one of them.
I stayed back, leaning against a marble pillar, watching as Cinderella made her way through the room. Her every step seemed to cause a ripple—eyes turning toward her, whispers threading through the air. She looked like she belonged, but I knew it was all just a veil. A lie.
I scanned the crowd. The nobility here were all draped in jewels and smiles, their masks hiding whatever secrets they carried. There were eyes everywhere—eyes that watched, eyes that calculated. Every word, every gesture, measured.
I spotted Tekla, the witch from the woods, standing by the punch bowl, talking to an older woman draped in black velvet. Tekla's face was unreadable, as usual, but there was a faint flicker of something behind her eyes. Something dangerous. I couldn't place it, but I had the sudden feeling that the witches were far more involved in this than they let on.
And then, of course, there was the prince.
He wasn't what I expected. Not at all. The stories always made him out to be handsome, kind, perfect. But this man… there was something off. Maybe it was the way he smiled too much—like he was practicing. Or maybe it was the way he never seemed to really look at anyone. His eyes were always searching, moving—never staying still.
I didn't like him.
I felt it in my gut.
"Red, are you coming?" Cinderella called from the center of the room, holding out her hand toward me.
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the prince for far too long. I straightened up, forcing myself to smile. "Coming."
I joined her in the middle of the ballroom, where the floor was polished so clean that I could see the reflection of chandeliers hanging overhead. The music shifted, becoming a slow waltz, and Cinderella was immediately swept into the dance by a tall nobleman whose name I didn't care to learn.
But something in me tightened—watching her spin and twirl so effortlessly while I stood at the sidelines.
Maybe it was jealousy. Or maybe it was just that I knew—deep down—that this fairy tale wouldn't end the way she thought it would.
I stepped back, looking for a quieter corner, when something caught my eye.
A figure in the shadows—someone watching me.
I turned toward them. A man, standing just inside a narrow alcove. He wore a mask, his face half-hidden, but I could see the glint of recognition in his eyes as he looked at me.
I knew him.
He had the same tools as the shoemaker.
Before I could approach, he disappeared into the crowd.
I swallowed. There was no doubt now.
The murder was tied to this ball, to this place. To the prince, maybe. Or one of the nobles. Or her—Isabella. The name I'd seen scrawled on that paper. It meant something. It had to.
But I couldn't figure out how to connect the dots just yet.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned.
Cinderella was standing there, flushed from the dance, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright with excitement. "Red," she said softly, "the prince wants to speak with us."
My heart skipped a beat. I felt the familiar pressure of something—of fate, of destiny, or whatever you wanted to call it—pressing down on me.
But I followed her, my instincts on high alert, trying to piece together the puzzle. The prince. The shoes. The murder. It was all connected, I was sure of it.
But I still couldn't see the whole picture.