Cinderella stood with her back to the wall in the backstage area and waited. The room was filled with dozens of young people, all holding wands at the ready and some studying spells in huge books. Her stomach stirred with excitement as Ty approached the wizard in charge, and she hoped he didn’t get kicked out of the arena for trying to help her—or worse, lose his job as a palace servant.
The wizard frowned for a moment, and a perplexed look formed on her round face, but then she smiled and nodded. It almost looked as if the wizard was about to curtsy, but then Ty reached out his hand and she stopped.
Odd—but the ways of the world outside her home were all strange and new.
Ty turned and motioned for Cinderella to approach. “You’re in, but you’ve got to hurry.” He handed her a piece of white cloth with the number 43 painted on it in bright red. “The tightrope event for the no-wand group is almost over.”
“Oh.” Cinderella held up her wand. “I’ve got a wand.”
“I see that.” Ty took her arm, bent down, and spoke softly. “How much experience do you have with that?”
“Not much, but it belonged to my mother. My real mother. And she was a very powerful wizard.”
“I’m sure she was.” Ty nodded. “You are full of surprises, Cinderella. I’ll get you a number for the other group, if you’re sure.”
“I am.” There was no sense in going back on her decision now.
Ty turned back to the wizard in charge and she handed over another number, this time with 98 painted on it. He helped her pin the number on the back of her shirt. “It’s not too late to change to the other group, you know. Are you sure you don’t want to?”
As she turned, his fingers grazed her waist and he blushed.
Her entire body tingled. “No, I’m sure.”
She wasn’t sure. Not of even one thing, and nerves buzzed inside her like bees in a hive. But having the wand in her hand felt like having her mother’s support. Besides, she told herself, using the wand, she’d turned Max from a cat into a man, and that was huge. Even if he’d helped, and it had been a bit of an accident.
Uncomfortable with her choice, she looked into Ty’s blue eyes and instantly felt calmer.
She might not be sure of her potential or talent as a wizard, she might not be sure about using the wand, she might not be sure she had any chance of winning this competition and finally gaining the skills to break free of her stepmother’s spell, but she was sure about Ty. She was sure he was a boy who believed in her, who cared about her in a way no one else did—or ever had—who made her feel like she belonged. Looking into his eyes, feeling the warmth of his reassuring smile, and standing next to his tall, strong body, she felt as if she could accomplish anything she wanted.
“Hurry,” said another wizard, robed in emerald green and not much older than her from the looks of him. He motioned to Cinderella. “You need to join the others.”
“Good luck,” Ty said. He smiled and bent down to gently place his lips against hers.
A spark of warmth and happiness shot straight from Cinderella’s lips to her heart.
When he pulled back, she raised her fingers to touch her mouth, expecting it to be changed, or on fire.
The wizard in the green robe took her arm and pulled. “Come now,” he urged her.
“Where will I find you?” Cinderella called to Ty, but he only touched the tattered cap he wore over his curls.
Now she was even more determined to win. The chance to see Ty more often—and maybe get another kiss—was an extra incentive for gaining her freedom.
The pumpkins were huge and Cinderella wondered if her stepsisters had possessed inside information, since they had been practicing all day on melons.
Another rush of relief that her stepsisters had decided to go for the beauty competition flowed through her. They, and her stepmother, were in the theater across the courtyard from the arena, no doubt primping and preening to pretty themselves for the pageant. Thank goodness they weren’t in the stands—that was one less thing to stress over. And she wasn’t short on stress, not by a long shot.
She leaned forward to peek down the row of competitors. A mixture of males and females, most looked to be in their late teens, but their ages appeared to range from as young as ten to about twenty.
A wizard in a shimmering black-and-purple-striped robe stood between the lines of contestants and pumpkins and raised his hands to silence everyone. “For their first event, the wand group must raise a pumpkin at least three inches off the surface of this bench. Each competitor must focus only on his or her own pumpkin. Interference will not be tolerated.”
Cinderella rubbed the wand between her fingers. This task would be easy. She’d lifted objects without a wand. Lifting them with a wand should be a snap. Yet her belly kept doing backflips as she watched each contestant attempt to raise a pumpkin up to the level of the red bar painted on the board behind the bench.
After thirty-one attempts, only fourteen contestants had lifted their pumpkins high enough to pass, and there were no second chances. As soon as the pumpkin touched back down to the bench, that was it, game over, and it was on to the next contestant’s turn. Each event in the competition yielded points from the judges, but if someone scored zero on any three tasks, he or she was out.
Watching the girl next to her raise her pumpkin, anxiety overtook Cinderella, stirring her insides and making her knees tremble. To combat the trembles, she thought about Ty, about the reassurance in his eyes. She thought about Max and how he’d been watching over her all these years, even though he’d been trapped inside the body of a cat. She thought about her father and how gentle and kind he’d been. How much he’d loved her. And she thought about how she’d suffered so many indignities and injuries at her stepmother’s hand, and yet had survived.
Most of all, she thought about the mother she’d never met. Based on her father’s stories, she’d been very talented, honest, and principled—known for never using magic for her own personal gain or to hurt others—and might one day have become the royal wizard, had she lived. Pride flooded through Cinderella, expanding her chest, as she thought about being the daughter of such a woman.
The girl beside her cheered her own success, pulling Cinderella out of her memories.
Her number was called and Cinderella pointed her wand toward the bright orange gourd. Lift, she thought. Lift. This shouldn’t be that different than just using her mind. The wand was meant to enhance those abilities—provided she could control its power.
Her focus was intense, and all the sounds and smells and sights of the arena melted away until it was just her and the pumpkin, as if she were back in her garden.
She slowly raised the wand and the pumpkin rose, quickly reaching the required height. Not taking any chances, she gently set it back down. Why be a show-off? The judges hadn’t awarded any extra points to the boy who’d lifted his six feet and made it spin.
The crowd applauded her success and she soon learned that those who’d been successful—fewer than half—were moving on to a bonus round, also involving the pumpkins. This time, it wasn’t enough to simply lift the pumpkins. Each contestant had to lift his or her pumpkin from the bench, move it up and forward, and then set it down on the top of a six-foot pole with an impossibly small disk at its top. The pumpkins would barely fit on the disks, leaving no room for error.
There was no way she could she pull this off without the wand. She’d never moved anything so far, or placed it onto such a small target. She watched as the other contestants worked on their pumpkins. A tall girl, number 87 and dressed in a bright blue, loose-fitting jumpsuit, got hers right on the edge of the disk before it dropped.
Cinderella sucked in a sharp breath, her heart breaking for her competitor, but the girl thrust her wand forward, and the pumpkin stopped to hover a foot above the ground, intact.
The crowd roared its approval. Number 87 widened her stance, lifted her wand, and the pumpkin rose higher, until it was once again above the pedestal. She let it hover a few moments, sweat rising on her brow beneath her dark, tightly tied-back hair. Then 87 slowly lowered her wand, and the pumpkin came to rest on the disk.
The crowd went wild. Cinderella jumped up and down, clapping, and then realized she was the only other contestant doing so. Yes, she wanted to win, but she couldn’t help but feel thrilled for this contestant. If Cinderella didn’t win, she hoped that this girl did. If the prince was as tall and handsome as he was purported to be, they’d look fabulous dancing together.
A spark hit the ground at 87’s feet and they both jumped.
Cinderella spun around, fearful that her stepmother had come into the arena and had been aiming for her. Hearing a commotion down the line of competitors, she looked toward it, and within seconds a rope appeared out of thin air in front of a tall boy with silver hair. The rope ensnared him, binding his arms to his body, then it led him off the arena floor, without any evidence of someone pulling. It must have been that boy who’d shot the spark at the girl who’d done well.
Number 87 fell back into the line of contestants as her score was updated on the huge sparkling board. Forty-eight points.
Cinderella had trouble keeping still as she awaited her turn. If she missed the first time as 87 had, there was no way she’d have the skill and concentration to catch such a huge, heavy object in midair and guide it back up. That seemed far beyond her capabilities.
“Number ninety-eight,” the announcer called.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
Her attempt at meditation wasn’t helping and anxiety sent little spikes of fear up and down her arms, over her neck, and into her brain.
She gripped the wand and reminded herself how easily she’d lifted the pumpkin in the first round. Surely lifting it a little higher and moving it forward wouldn’t be that different. Especially with help from her mother’s wand. She could do this.
After bowing to the judges, she turned to the bright orange gourd and studied its off-kilter shape. It was a huge pumpkin, nearly three feet in diameter and likely so heavy she’d struggle to budge it with her body, let alone her mind. But the wand would give her a chance. If she hadn’t found it, she wouldn’t even be here and Max would still be a cat. She’d been meant to find it. Meant to use it, she was sure.
Using her ninja training, she drew five deep, long breaths, trying to force what felt like bouncing beans in her belly to obey. They slowed to hopping and, given the circumstances, she figured that was probably as calm as she’d get.
Aiming the wand, she reminded herself whose daughter she was and tried to mimic what 87 had done, but until 87 missed the disk the first time, she’d made it look easy. Several competitors had raised their pumpkins high enough to make the attempt, but only two had managed to land their gourd on the pedestal.
Energy from the wand coursed through her and she slowly raised it. The pumpkin rose, too.
Joy rushed through her and the pumpkin wavered. She sucked in a sharp breath, but let it out slowly, refusing to let panic creep in and ruin everything she had worked so hard for.
Focused on the pumpkin, she raised the wand again, and the instrument tingled in her fingers, almost as if it wanted to jump out and do this on its own, which made her hold on more tightly. Power surged along her arm, making it difficult to keep still as the pumpkin lifted higher and higher.
But she was doing it. With the wand’s help—and her real mother’s spirit—she was lifting the largest and heaviest object she’d ever tried to lift, doing as well as many of her competitors, and all of them had trained with wizards who’d guided them with more than meows and the occasional paw to the head.
About two feet away from the height of the pedestal, the pumpkin stalled. Just a bit more and she could slide it into place. Gripping the wand even more tightly, a powerful surge of energy flowed through her and she felt weightless.
The crowd roared, and yet the pumpkin was lowering, getting closer to the ground.
Wait—there was a reason she felt weightless. The pumpkin hadn’t dropped lower; she’d actually lifted off the ground. Frowning, but concentrating, she focused back on the pumpkin and flicked her wand slightly, hoping to tame it to her will.
Her feet landed back on the ground.
The pumpkin exploded.
Everyone within twenty feet ducked as pumpkin flesh and seeds and chunks of rind flew everywhere. The crown of the pumpkin landed right on Cinderella’s head. Standing with her mouth open, she picked a seed out before closing it.
“Thank you, competitor number ninety-eight,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. Then he turned and addressed the crowd. “Let’s look to see what she scored for that very dynamic and creative attempt.”
Cinderella lifted her head toward the scoreboard. Maybe she’d get some credit for lifting the pumpkin so high, for taking flight herself before it exploded? She twirled the wand in her fingers nervously.
The crowd gasped. So did she. Zero points. The judges had given her zero.
Even the contestants who’d barely lifted the pumpkin had scored a few points.
The announcer raised his hands to quiet the protesting crowd. “The judges tell me that destruction of the pumpkin means a default. That is too bad, as it was rather entertaining.” The crowd shouted more dissent.
Cinderella’s legs gave out and she slumped to the ground, burying her head in her hands. With zero points on this round, how would she ever win?
Before long, it was down to only twenty-three contestants in both the wand and no-wand groups combined. No one had a perfect record; each of the remaining wanna-be wizards would be out with even one more failure.
“Remaining wand contestants, step forward, please,” the announcer’s voice boomed, and the group of nine stepped onto the floor.
Ten wizards stood opposite them, arms crossed over their chests and all wearing different-colored robes. The crowd murmured as if they guessed what was coming, and Cinderella looked over to the faces of her fellow contestants to see if any of them could offer any clues. All she saw was abject fear.
She scanned the crowd for Ty. Seeing him right now might make her feel better, more confident, but he was nowhere to be found in the lower sections where she could make out some faces.
Higher in the stands, she saw that the prince was seated and had moved forward on his chair in anticipation. His purple velvet cape was lined with snow-white fur and his crown, sitting on tightly tied-back hair, glistened in the afternoon light.
Although she couldn’t make out his features from this distance, she couldn’t really understand why girls thought he was so special. Sitting on that fancy chair, his hair all tied back, his clothing so ornate, he really did look stiff and stuffy, despite what Ty had said about him.
The announcer waved his wand in a huge, sweeping gesture, and a second later, Cinderella saw her reflection. The announcer had used magic to build a clear wall a foot in front of the line of contestants. She and a few of the others tentatively reached forward to touch the barrier. Hard as rock but pulsating, it sent vibrations through her body, and she pulled her hand back.
From what did they need protection?
The first contestant, number 63, was called out from behind the screen. The largest of the entire group, he was close to six and a half feet tall, towering over the rest of them.
The announcer said something she couldn’t hear from behind the clear barrier and 63 braced himself, raising his wand in front of his face in a defensive mode. He took a step forward, and that was when Cinderella noticed a red line about twenty feet ahead of the boy. It appeared all he had to do was cross that line. But it couldn’t be that simple, could it?
He took another step, and a huge flame shot toward him.
Cinderella’s head snapped toward the group of wizards across the arena floor, and she tried to guess from whose direction it had come, but was distracted as another wizard flicked her wand to send a huge swarm of bees toward the boy.
He ducked under the flame—it barely singed the cloth of his shirt—but he didn’t move fast enough to avoid the bees. He waved his wand frantically, but it only seemed to increase the number of bees. Number 63 had barely regained his balance when a fireball hit him square in the chest. The boy was engulfed in flames and Cinderella gasped. Surely the wizards wouldn’t let a competitor die!
The boy tossed his wand in the air—the signal of surrender and defeat. Immediately, the announcer flicked his wrist, and the flames disappeared. The crowd clapped politely, but it was clear from the expressions on the few faces Cinderella could make out in the crowd that they’d been shocked and disappointed by how badly 63, so far the favorite in the wand group, had fared.
Patiently yet eagerly waiting for her turn, Cinderella watched the other contestants, hoping to figure out some kind of strategy, but every new contestant was given different challenges. Where ducking the flame had worked for the first boy, the next flame shot had angled directly toward the contestant’s feet, and jumping aside had been the only way to avoid being burnt to a crisp.
Cinderella kept thinking about the clear wall in front of them—built from thin air—and the swirling tornado she had recently created to fend off the wolves. Instead of dealing with each challenge one by one, she wondered if she could build a shield to protect herself from all of the magical weapons?
Two contestants had tried sprinting, only to be frozen in place or pushed back by winds, and the tall girl in the bright blue suit was the only one to have made it across the line so far. She’d done a dizzying display of acrobatics, leaping and flipping and twisting through the air, diving over fire, ducking under swarms of bats, and leaping over a river of molten lava.
Cinderella’s acrobatic skills were good, but not that good, and she realized that her ninja warrior aspirations were still many years beyond her grasp.
Her number was called and, fighting to control her sudden shaking, she strode out from behind the shield to the starting line.
“You’ve seen the other competitors perform,” the announcer said. “Any questions?”
She shook her head, unable to think of any except How do I stop the horrible things they’re going to throw at me? And she knew he wouldn’t answer that one.
“Are you ready?” the announcer asked, and she nodded in reply.
“Go!” he shouted.
Although a very big part of her wanted to sprint for the red line as fast as she could, she held up her wand, focused on a pole just past the finish line, and started to spin her body in circles. She kept her eyes focused on the pole, snapping her head around with each turn as a funnel of air formed around her. The air built and swirled, and she barely saw a flash of light when what must have been a fireball glinted off the side of her personal tornado and then shot toward the stands.
A roar rose, but she blocked it out. Concentration was crucial.
Still spinning, she moved forward, bringing her air funnel with her and continuing to spot like a dancer, keeping her eyes on the pole behind the finish line to avoid dizziness. Through the wall of swirling air, she now caught sight of a wall of water, a wave that had to be twelve feet high. It rushed toward her and she braced herself, concentrating as she pressed forward. The wave knocked both her and her tornado back a few steps and water drenched her from the funnel’s top, but it held.
She could do this. She was almost there.
The pressure changed in her ears and the ground trembled. The line was right there. It was so close, but her limbs felt like lead, and pushing her tunnel of air forward became akin to pushing against a mountain.
Looking up, she saw what looked like a storm headed her way. Just a few steps to go, but no longer spotting the pole, she lost her balance and the wand wavered, moving erratically in her hand.
Her tornado forced her sideways. She was almost at the line. Enough with the funnel. Time to break it and run.
She raised her wand and flicked it, but must have done something wrong, because instead of disappearing, her wind tunnel turned to smoke. She choked as the acrid air filled her lungs and stung her eyes.
The next moment, she was slammed backward, her arms and legs flailing in all directions. A windstorm picked her up and she flew down the field to land on her back—the starting line was beneath her head. Refusing to give up, she rolled onto her belly and crawled backward toward the red line, but the force of the wind was too strong. Every muscle in her body strained; she turned and lifted her wand, hoping she could cast a spell to stop the wind.
Then a bolt of lightning struck her wand, and it flew from her hand.
The time horn sounded and the storm ended. She’d finished the event lying facedown on the dirt. Her wand, miraculously unharmed, was about four feet from her hand.
The announcer came over to offer her help, but she jumped to her feet and willed the wand to rise up from the ground and drift back into her hand.
The crowd roared its approval, but it didn’t matter. She’d failed at the task. She hadn’t been able to cross the line. This was her third failed event. For Cinderella, the competition was over, and her chance to win lessons with the royal wizard had died.
Her throat closed and she dragged herself over to the bench of eliminated competitors. Now she’d be trapped forever.