“I’m no prince,” said the Fool to Cinderella.
“I’ve had it with princes. Land’s not the only thing they have a habit of grabbing, you know.”
But the prince and his men-at-arms came out of the castle, and saw the Fool pursing his lips to kiss Cinderella. While there are many ills that can be cured by a kiss from one’s true love, a crossbow bolt through the lungs is not one of them. The Fool died in Cinderella’s arms, coughing blood on the front of her silver gown.
“Your dress!” cried the prince.
Cinderella knew what to do—what had always been done by generations of fair maidens before her. She knew…and didn’t do it. She slipped off the dainty glass slippers, tossed them in the air, and raced away.
“Try to find me now,” she called. The glass slippers broke into a thousand pieces at the bottom.