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Four.
Five.
Six.
She fled the ball, knowing it was too late, but hoping against all reason that there was still a chance.
Seven.
Eight.
The coach still stood there, fine white horses prancing nervously, Major, the horse-turned-coachman staring at her in mute terror.
Nine.
Ten.
She freed the horses from the hitching post and climbed on.
Eleven.
She’d made it out of the ball in time, barely, but before the clock struck midnight, so she’d made it.
Twelve.
Even if it was midnight now, she was out of the ball and on her way home.
She’d followed the rules, so nothing bad would happen.
Bruno crouched in the seat across from her, looking more and more like his usual self by the moment, silvery white hair shortening to dense brown fur as his nose and mouth began to lengthen back into a canine muzzle.
She had to turn away from her faithful friend as the flesh of his face softened and sagged into the bloodhound’s distinctive jowls, the half state he was in too distressing for her to watch.
Instead she stared out the window as the countryside flew by.
It was a lovely night, but the beauty of it was lost on her.
All she could think of was making it home before her sisters. They couldn’t see her like this, even if the seams of the dress she wore were opening, tears appearing as it returned to rags.
If they saw the coach they would know something had happened, but the magic was fading there as well.
It was changing back to what it had been. The buttons holding the soft upholstery in place had made her smile on the ride to the palace with how much they looked like pumpkin seeds and now the resemblance was stronger, silver fading to dull yellow, slick with moisture.
Bruno let out a garbled whimper, clawing his way out of his clothing with gnarled hands.
The spell was fading, slower than if she’d not made it in time, but too quickly for comfort.
“Let me help!” She pleaded, only realizing that the cushion she’d been sitting on had grown wet and spongy as the innards of a pumpkin when she stood up.
The floor was slick, causing her to stumble, her outstretched hand pulling strings off the wall of the coach.
With a noise halfway between a shout and a bark Bruno fell to the floor, fingers and claws raking deep gouges in what had once been wood.
Dog’s eyes set in a shifting, still too-human face stared at her as she struggled to help him out of the coat and pants that he had become tangled in.
Though the magic was wearing thin it wasn’t doing so evenly, thankfully. The horses pulling it were still horses and not yet mice, a small mercy, but something to be thankful for none the less.
The lurching advance of the coach and Bruno’s struggles made it difficult, but eventually she was able to grab on to the fabric, and, twisting and turning, managed to free him.
His response was to nearly head butt her as he struggled to right himself and when she tried to help him to his feet the thanks she got was for him to grab with gnarled fingers, short claws leaving deep scratches in her arm.
He fled, leaping out the window with a shrill whine, and when she leaned out to see if he was alright she found herself thankful for the darkness.
That way she couldn’t make out any details of the thing struggling to keep up with the coach, stumbling as it was no longer able to walk upright, but still couldn’t run on all fours.
He made a sound, it could have been the bay of a hound, it could have been a plea for her to follow as he fell farther and farther behind, but it didn’t matter.
The coach was moving too fast for her to jump out the window as he had. Instead she leaned out, wind whipping her hair, tearing it free from the pins holding the bun in place and throwing it across her eyes.
She couldn’t see the horses or Major, but she could hear the shrill cries of the frightened animals pulling the coach, panicked whinnies rising in pitch to the sharp chittering of rodents and deep panting and groans of frustration as Major struggled to keep control. The horse had never driven a coach until this night and had never pulled one prior to that, but he’d been a good, sturdy plow horse. He knew what he was doing, through magic or innate understanding, but it was a struggle for him to keep the coach on the road as it bounced on.
“Please, stop!” She cried out, her words lost to the wind and animal sounds of terror.
The coach was shrinking, the walls melting to the clinging strings of the inside of a squash, seeds and slime dripping down around her, but even the weight of a pumpkin, albeit an impossibly large one, was too much for things that were more mouse than horse with every passing second.
She could feel the sides of the window pressing in on her as it shrank and she was forced to pull herself back into the ever shrinking interior of the coach.
Something snapped and she felt the coach lurch, bouncing her against the ceiling and floor as the seats dissolved into the walls of the pumpkin.
The coach moved differently now, slower and swerving drunkenly from side to side, either the reins were gone or Major was and the coach was truly out of control.
The meandering path brought it in and out of ruts on the road, bouncing her off the walls and floor as she struggled to find the door. Tossed and tumbled by the motion of the coach, with no seats to use to position herself and the windows barely large enough to let in the faint light of the moon there was no way for her to gain her bearings.
She could guess at front and back from the movement of the coach and between that and the location of the windows, no longer even in their shape or position, she should have at least had an idea of where to look, but there was nothing.
No handhold, no hinges, just a faint indentation in the dripping, sagging wall to mark where the door should have been.
“Help!” She pounded her fists against the wall of the pumpkin, hoping that someone might be out at such a strange hour and hear her cries, “Let me out!”
Pressing her face against the window she looked out into the night. There were no houses, no lights, just neatly planted fields waiting for harvest time to come.
No one was out there to see the strange sight of the pumpkin coach weaving its way down the road or hear her frantic cries.
They were moving slowly enough now that if there had been a way for her to get out she easily could have leapt to safety, but the one remaining window was barely large enough for her to fit a hand through.
She dug her fingers into the sides of the opening and though she might be able to hold it open longer or pull it wider, but it was no use.
A shadow passed by, blotting out the view of the fields and her heart leapt with hope.
Deep, animal panting and an almost familiar whinny. Major had caught up. His gait was lurching and uneven as he struggled to keep up on legs that weren’t yet all the same length. He turned and stumbled, managing to catch himself before hitting the ground.
He looked over his shoulder, giving her a glimpse of a frightened eye sliding its way into a new position on his face, then a flash of three-toed hooves lashing out before the window closed, sealing her in airless darkness.
The kick connected, sending what remained of the coach tumbling off the road.
By now the pumpkin was small enough that there was no place for her to fall as it rolled, the thick rind cushioning her as all sense of up and down were lost.
When it finally came to a stop her head was spinning, the pounding of her heart drowning out the impact of repeated kicks against the sides of the pumpkin as Major struggled to free her in the only way he could. She silently thanked him, aware of his efforts by the way the pumpkin rocked with each kick.
It was hard to breathe, hard to think and when there was a pause in the kicks she could no longer tell if her eyes were open or closed. It was so dark, so small, like being in an egg. She curled up tighter, holding her knees to her chest as the walls of the pumpkin pressed against her back.
The thuds and kicks stopped and the pumpkin fell still. In their place was a faint scraping noise, one she was familiar with – the soft gnawing of mice. Her little friends had returned to save her, she just had to hope that they would be able to do so in time.
Some faint magic must have lingered, for she remained aware, albeit in a slow, dreamlike way, of the efforts of the mice, growing louder and increasingly violent. Though that might have been her imagination, as she was also certain that she heard the laughter and conversation that had filled the ball coming from somewhere outside, a whole crowd of people watching, talking and wondering at the strange sight in the middle of a field.
Watching, but doing nothing to help.
As always, she had to rely on her friends and hope.
The sounds of the mice trying to gnaw through the pumpkin faded in and out, mixing with her dreams of the ball and what could have been. Though perhaps even the mice were part of the dream as there were so very many of them, far more than the four that had accompanied her as horses to pull the carriage that she was now trapped in. Were they so close to home that the others had been able to come as well?
How horrible a thought that was, to have made it so close to safety only to end up trapped and helpless. If she’d left the ball even a few minutes earlier she would have been fine.
Mice scattered from the imagined dancers, complete with the rustling of dresses across polished marble floors.
A sharp tap followed, like the ticking of a clock, then another. She couldn’t hear her heartbeat over the sound, or even feel in in the confines of her prison, but she was sure that it was in time with the taping of that morbid clock. It ticked away and she imagined herself wincing, bracing for it to strike the hour that would mark her doom. Trapped as she was she wouldn’t be able to flee and the magic would vanish right there in front of all the lovely dancers, the prince and, worst of all, her stepsisters.
They would laugh and jeer, in fact they already were, as though the hem of her dress had already started to unravel, seams slipping and falling away.
The clock struck, sharp and crystalline, sending a stab of pain through her, laughter filled the ballroom, as the dancers around her recoiled and faded into darkness with the rustle of cloth and the tapping of shoes.
There was only darkness and harsh, cold pain.
She could hear them laughing, her stepsisters loudest of all, though she couldn’t pick them out from the rest of the crowd.
Shadows danced before her eyes and she realized that she could see, not just the phantasmal ball in her mind, but a single star shining above. A winged shadow blocked it from view for a moment, then it returned, framed by soft, moving shapes.
Was she supposed to wish on that star?
If so, what for?
She tried to ask, but she couldn’t move her mouth to form the words, her tongue stuck firmly in place.
Her whole world was stillness, waiting and that single star.
The mice gnawed at the opening and it grew. Bits of pumpkin rained down on her, but she couldn’t move or even blink.
All she could do was wait.
More tapping followed, birds pecking away at the top of the pumpkin, opening holes for the mice to chew through to her. Their harsh calls weren’t mocking, but encouragement.
As each new hole was made mice took their places, enlarging them to let in more light and air.
The night air was so cold it burned.
The pumpkin rocked, scattering the birds, when she shied away from the cold, and a mouse fell in through one of the larger holes.
She could tell by its heavy stumbling that it was Gus. He tried to be careful, she was sure of it, but his sharp little claws pricked and scratched as he tried to pull the pumpkin away to help free her.
The little mouse squeaked and cried out to the others as he ran up and down her arm.
The star she had been watching vanished again as a chittering, furry form forced its way through the hole. It landed heavily, even more so than Gus, and walked with authority, its hairless, scaly tail dragging behind it.
The new arrival and Gus squeaked back and forth at each other, larger, less careful claws pulling the innards of the pumpkin away from her arm, digging towards her hand.
Sharp teeth nipped at her fingers, but she was unable to move enough to flinch away as they grazed skin as often as the pumpkin trapping her.
She must have made some small sound, so quiet that only a mouse could hear, because Gus let out a stuttering squeak and ran in excited circles.
More dark furred bodies forced their way in the holes, gnawing at the pumpkin inside and out, racing to-and-fro as they worked to free her.
Once there was enough room she curled her fingers away from gnawing teeth.
As the mice continued their work the cold air grew painful against raw skin. She was sure that if she’d been able to move her mouth or even feel her face her teeth would have been chattering. As it was, her whole body shook from the cold.
She cried out as soon as the pumpkin was gone from around her mouth. Everything hurt and as more of her was exposed the pain only grew until even the paws of her rescuers was too much to bear.
Squirming and thrashing within the pumpkin, not yet able to escape, she sent the mice tumbling as she tried to get away from the cold and pain.
Again her rescuers found a way, the birds and mice above passing down rough cloth to wrap around her. It was uncomfortable, but not as much as the night air. Working the fabric around all exposed skin and even under her clothing to help keep her warm, the birds and mice worked diligently to protect and free her.
She could feel warm, furred bodies between her skin and the fabric, stuffing it with straw to help keep her warm, even wrapping it around her face until she was finally able to sit up and push the lid of the pumpkin away, giving her the first good look at all her rescuers.
Gus and the mice had enlisted the help of enormous field rats that tumbled away from the pumpkin and fought over seeds, as well as a flock of carrion crows, their dark, ragged shapes filling the sky.
Never had she imagined that so many friends would come to help her, that there were so many of them in the first place was astounding.
“Thank you, oh thank you all,” she muttered wetly through the burlap wrapped around her face.
In the predawn gloom she could see the scattered frame of a scarecrow laying on the ground, the source of the material the mice and rats had used to protect her. Crows danced triumphantly over it with less grace, but far more enthusiasm than the lovely people of the ball and, if she were to be honest with herself, she was far more at ease with their raucous celebration than the stiff formality of the ball.
With the coming dawn the last of the magic faded, even as it tried to work its purpose, to repair and provide her with fitting attire for what waited for her. Discomfort from her makeshift attire faded, the burlap fitting like a second skin, or perhaps even closer.
All sense of cold and pain vanished to a distant memory, her strength returning enough for her to step free of the pumpkin.
Its innards dripped from her, clinging to her tattered dress as the glass slippers, cracked from her flight from the ball, slipped from her feet.
Gus nudged them, but she shook her head, “No, there’s no more time for dancing. Not when I have so much work to do at home.”
She had hoped that something wonderful would happen at the ball and that she’d be whisked away from her stepmother and stepsisters and into a beautiful new life, but there was only so much that magic could do and, as she’d learned that night, magic had its shortcomings. The time for waiting and hoping that her wildest dreams could come true was over. She had her friends and she had her own determination, things that she could rely on without question.
Major stood nearby, the horse’s eyes rimmed white with fear. He flinched when she reached out to him, but allowed her to scratch his ears and then grab his mane to pull herself onto his back.
“We need to get home before my stepmother and sisters wake up,” she said softly and he broke into an uneasy trot.
Good, reliable horse that he was, he understood the importance of hurrying.
The time of magic and beautiful dreams was over, and as tired as her stepmother and sisters may have been from the ball, the work she had to do was of the sort best done in darkness while others slept.