When I turned seven, Grandmother made us a pair of unusual dollies, with pronounced eyes and red lips. For hair, she used brown yarn, but as she was always one for being different, she chose black felt for its skin.

The combination was rather off-putting. When presented with the gift, Bella and I had two different reactions. She flat out refused it—that is to say, she took it and a slow frown spread across her pretty face. It didn't look like her. It didn't look like any of us. Grandmother's reaction was of amusement until Arabella dropped the doll and sought refuge behind Mother. By then, Grandmother realized she was the only one enjoying something uncommon.

I embraced mine. And I hadn't done so because it was an adorable toy, but because of Grandmother's shock and disappointment. I picked up the strange dolls, mine and Bella's, and waited for my reward—an embrace.

Mother never gave them, but Grandmother was especially good at it. Her arms felt warm and safe. Her gown was not stiff, but rather, soft and enveloping. The smell of old medicine and ointments drowned out the fragrance of the roasting chestnuts and the sweet cookies on the table, but I didn't care. Such genuine affection was rare outside the holidays when we'd visit.

Grandmother was strong and robust but sometimes I looked forward to her aging. Then she'd perhaps come to live with us, and I could receive her hugs more often.

By the next visit to Grandmother, nearly three months later, I'd made clothes for the dollies. A rather fetching red suit for the boy, who I named Edmond and the second, which I declared was a girl named Fiona, had a pretty red dress.

The pleased smile on Grandmother's face was my reward. Never mind that I did not play with the dolls, only used them to get my treasure—praises.

Another visit came and went and this time I was the one pleased. For while I'd brought my two dolls with fancy new hats, Grandmother had a surprise of her own.

An ornate new red dress, nearly identical to the little one I'd made but far more sophisticated. But that wasn't all. She presented me with a matching pair of shoes and bonnet.

Those were all lovely. I got my hug as well. So many wonderful gifts in one single day. It was a treat.

"That is rather unfair, isn't it, Nana?" Mother admonished.

Her mother, still stationed in her big chair by the fire, me on her lap, regarded her daughter with a steely-eyed expression. "What complaints do you have now, child?"

My mother was a force. A childhood illness left her with a limp and an occasional cane, but no one would think it from her radiant confidence. Rarely had I seen her hesitate. But as I looked between them, I noticed the tension.

Arabella at her side, hidden behind her dress, Mother stood bold. "To get one child all these gifts and deny the other."

"She never wants anything I make." Grandmother leaned to the right, trying to get Bella's acknowledgement. "Do you, child?"

Bella buried her face in Mother's side and didn't answer.

So mother turned and took time lowering herself as she knelt to meet eyes with her. "You can be honest, darling. Would you like a set as well?"

Head hung, hands before her, Bella fidgeted.

Grandmother made an exaggerated sound when she dragged herself to stand and lurched out the door. "Well, supper is soon, isn't it?" She paused in the hall and held out a hand to me. "Come along, love. And bring your dollies."

I blinked up at her then gathered my small doll family and hurried off.

The next day when we returned home, I wore my little red dress, with my little red shoes, and my little red bonnet, quite chuffed.

All the praises from others only made me want to wear them more. But on day three, mother leaned down and begged me, "Won't you share with your sister?"

I recoiled. Why must I? They were mine.

The warm hand on my cheek confused me—it was unlike Mother to be this gentle with either of us.

It wasn't a hug, but it would do. I wanted more.

And so, I shared the dolls with Bella, for the dresses, shoes, and hat were mine and I was sure to care for them. The doll was originally hers, however. So that one I gave back.

Bella didn't mind. It was enough and we made bold adventures with our uncommon dollies nobody else understood. We ran outside and in, Bella declaring the dollies to be magic, or at the very least good luck.

"Why do you say so?" I asked. What I excelled at was the real, rivaled by Bella's fantastical outlook on life. A story woven by Arabella could captivate anyone.

She jumped down from her bed one morning and said, "Well, look. We hadn't many toys before them, had we?"

Toys upon toys filled the corners of our room. Father'd done all but bought us a pony while begging we throw those hideous dolls away.

We giggled in reply each time. Yes, they looked different, but could that be what made them magic?

"Perhaps he will buy us a set of new dresses if we agree," I said.

Bella gasped. "Don't you know how magic goes? You cannot give away your magical things." Fiona in hand, she muttered into her chest, "And look, we're playing so nice together now."

This was true.

I decided to play along. "All right. Then let us wish for something. No sense in having magic and wasting it." Edmond dangled before me and I pronounced, "Let's wish for them to be real!"

Instead of the usual echo of agreement, which was common of late, Bella stepped back. "No. That is not a good wish. We cannot wish for that."

"And why not?" I asked.

"Well," Bella admitted, "they've heard what I'd said about them. If they became real, they wouldn't like me, I bet."

Her words stole my drive to repeat my wish.

"And Grandmother doesn't like me, you know. She wouldn't give us another set of dolls to make a new wish on."

Whenever Bella's nerves took her, she'd fidget. Fiona suffered the price as Bella twisted her, not for malice, but habit.

"I'll tell you a secret," I said, "I'll tell you how to get Nana to like you. She likes sewing. So long as you try, she'll forgive anything. Remember the vase I broke?"

Bella's eyes widen but the deep breath she took with it stopped. Again, she exhaled. "You're better at it."

I hadn't thought she noticed.

And there we stood, unsure how to proceed. I'd teach her. That was the promise I'd made.

Within a week, I offered the bonnet so that we could match better as a family, all four of us. It was a lark playing dress up and tea party until the day Bella came back from an outing with mother...but no bonnet.

The shoes she sullied in the mud. And the dress? By the dress's rotation I, having noticed this pattern, lied and said I'd lost it instead. Without the dress and the rest in the set, she gave me back the doll as well. Little Fiona had one less eye and a torn arm.

She hadn't cared for any of them.

Perhaps that was because they hadn't been hers to begin with.

Eons from age seven, upon Bella's death, I returned to my grandmother's estate. Everything looked so small now. I dared not venture in. Outside was enough for me, but then I saw her.

Cinderella.

She sat alone in the garden, a patch work doll of all different colors in her lap.

She didn't play with it, instead, she sat staring out at the flowers. Her black dress—I blamed the black dress for making the child look so pale. She was skinny.

And I couldn't see her face, though I watched her from the side, but I knew her.

Whoever did her hair could have stood to make yet another pass.

The child looked frail for fifteen. And alone.

My gloves in hand, I scanned the busy adults, waiting for someone to come and look after her.

As time ticked by, I no longer saw my child. I saw a doll, and some shoes, and a bonnet.

None cared for.

I hadn't come to marry her father—I'd refused Arabella. But I'd come now, and this might be my only chance to see her in the flesh.

The few steps needed to reach that stone bench took everything I had. Once I lowered myself, she startled and peered up at me.

Her face was gaunt.

Without knowing what to do or say, I made the bold move of touching her shoulder.

She stiffened at first, then calmed.

"Hello, Cinderella." My voice cracked and I had to stifle the rest of my introduction less my resolve fail.

Two blue eyes blinked at me. "Hello."

She waited. It was customary for someone—any normal person to continue. But I couldn't. She was so beautiful. Despite her mess of blond hair and old dress, I was in love.

"Are you one of Father's lady friends?" she asked.

Such a beautiful voice to utter such a terrible thing.

"You're pretty at least."

My face warmed. I nodded, acknowledging her compliment. The doll in her hands drew my attention.

"How sweet. That is a rather lovely doll you have."

A dot formed on Cinderella's black glove. I barely saw it. Then another as one more tear fell.

Oh no. Why? What had I said?

Perhaps it wasn't my fault. I reminded myself that this was a funeral after all.

Everything in me screamed to jump up and flee the scene. Every nerve, every beat of my heart.

But it was cowardly to run.

I summoned up my courage and rubbed her shoulder. "What is wrong, darling?"

A stream of tears fell from her nose due to the angle she hung her head. "Mother said it was magic. That if I wished in earnest, it'd come true."

She tilted her head up, directing those agonized eyes to gaze at me, cutting me in two. "I wished with everything I had," she said.

Her body trembled, I'd assumed so, but it slowly dawned on me that I was the one shaking.

Leave, I said to myself. Leave and let someone else care for her. Don't make a promise I could not keep. Because I'd promised Arabella Grandmother's favor and not once did she get it.

What could I promise this child now?

"If it's something I can buy—"

She cried harder, interrupting me. And what was I to do with her?

Foolish. I was foolish sitting here. With any stranger's child, I'd retrieve their family to have them see to them at once. But she had none and she was my child, so I held her.

I dragged her close, wrapping her up as Grandmother'd always done for me. It did not matter if my perfume was too strong or the lace on my dress was coarse, I held her.

Each sob had her shaking. "I wished for my mother. But she's never coming back!"

"Shhh."

"She lied! She said there was magic. If I just believed it. She lied!"

I held on. Even when she tried to pull away, even when she struck at me in her anger, and even when she clung to me eventually, ruining my frock with what came from her nose, I dared not let go.

My shaking stopped when I looked out at that garden with renewed eyes. I could not do this. I could not do this to Bella.

I'd come here hating her, loathing her. But now as I sat here, I made some admissions to myself, and I made them because I'd recognized the poor stitching of Cinderella's dress. They were the same stitching I'd taught my sister. Grandmother never favored her because Grandmother wasn't a kind person. She liked those who were obedient and tried to please her. And Arabella could never please her because I didn't teach her well. If my sister were just as skillful as I, then I wouldn't be special anymore.

I'd cheated Bella then.

And it was a bonnet lost on an outing as she tried to find berries for me as a surprise. And it was shoes dirtied in the mud as she tried to hurry to see me. And it was a dolly returned tattered, because she couldn't fix hers as often and efficient as I.

You'd tried, Bella. Oh, how you'd tried. And I couldn't, wouldn't take her motherhood from her now. I couldn't.

She hadn't given them all back because she no longer wanted them, but because she could do no better. Perhaps there was magic in those dolls, because here Cinderella was, her mother returned.

But what of Cinderella?

"Are you one of father's lady friends?" Cinderella asked again, muffled against me. She leaned back and I let her.

"No," I cooed, "I...I am your new governess. I am considering it at least." From where did this lie reach me?

I thought to take the words back, but she scrutinized me and I feared my discovery as a fraud.

"But I haven't had a governess in ages."

That was obvious. And she wouldn't with the state of things. I'd paid for the funeral.

"So you say a governess. Do you mean to help him—?"

"No. Not for him," I said. "For you." Because it was important to be remembered at a time like this. There was no one to comfort her here. And should I never see her again, perhaps a moment of recognition could rival utter despair. "Just for you," I assured her.

Until she smiles, I thought, so I could remember it. I'd stay with her here on this bench and assure her until she smiled.

And then I would leave.

But that smile never came. We sat there for some time, and I held her close to me. This embrace was hard to let go of. Now I could see that perhaps Grandmother had enjoyed them for the very reason I did. Her unforgiving nature meant she could not offer this to her own daughter for pride's sake, but granddaughters who didn't know her well enough, gave and took them without suspicion or question.

When the light of day threatened to fade, I helped Cinderella stand. Not once. Not even once had someone found her here with me.

I did not like that.

Cinderella held on. "Governess, will you come and stay with us?"

She looked hopeful but I had yet to see a big grin.

So I nodded. I'd send word to my own girls and stay here for a day or so.

After I led her back to the manor, I let her hurry inside for supper, leaving her doll in my grip. It was a patchwork of colors, which surprised me. After a time, Arabella insisted we only make dolls of that black felt and nothing more. To see this mixed one now was unexpected.

My eyes eventually drifted to the manor. I stared up at graying walls and the vines there. They'd been trimmed well, even now.

But this was where I'd given birth to Cinderella.

Not once. Not once had I stepped foot in it in all these years. I'd resolved to leave it at that. Arabella was buried beside Grandmother.

Once again, the irony.

But I could walk away now.

In my hand, Cinderella's discarded doll looked back up at me. It wasn't Edmond or Fiona but Bella had made a good effort. The fact that she had to, and hadn't asked a maid to do the honors, was telling. It was telling for a lot of reasons.

"Wishes and magic," I muttered to it. "What nonsense."

But I was nearly a believer. With a steely resolve, I marched into that manor, heading for the kitchen.

I hesitated to enter that room. As I stared at the wood, it stared back at me, perhaps no longer recognizing this weary face. It had been years. I opened the door and entered. The man dressed in white, bent over the stove, stoked the fire.

"Hello, Edmond," I said.

He stiffened, stood up to his full height, dark skin nearly black with the fading daylight, turned his dark eyes on me and answered, "Hello, little miss. You don't have much time."