• “Blood, so sweet…” A voice whispers tauntingly. “Come my Princess, enjoy the feast.” A tall shadow separates from the mass of darkness gathered round the screaming, dying humans. It holds out a slender, long-fingered hand, beckoning. Slowly, the little brown-haired girl steps off her pedestal, and taking her courage with both hands…
    I woke with a start. I blinked sleep from my eyes, sweating as I recalled my dream-or was it a nightmare? Hurriedly dressing, I searched frantically for the jewelled clasp that usually held my gold hair in place. My room was a mess, books lying open with their spines facing sky-wards and empty trays littered with the remains of stale food. I upended a basket of clean-smelling clothes on the rumpled bed, and located my emerald clasp buried deep within the pile.
    “Aha!” I cried triumphantly, pinning my hair up. “Hmmm…” I stroked my chin thoughtfully as I stared at my blue jacket and dark trousers in the mirror. Stepmother would say that my outfit was not one suitable for young women, but… I hesitated as I made to go downstairs; then, hearing a shrill shriek of “Alexis Potter!” inhaled deeply and carried on.
    The kitchen door was wide open, and a grey cloud of smoke wafted out. A short woman, stout and wearing a dress with puffed sleeves stood by the door, arms folded and a frown fixed on her pinched face.
    I groaned, shaking my head. “Now what?”
    Gruella de Recesis grabbed my arm. “Get in here this minute!” she growled, dragging me through. A murky haze hung over the wood-fuelled stove as something foul-smelling bubbled on it. “Clean,” she ordered.
    I sighed, biting back a retort of, “You decided to cook something then?” I cleaned the stove, threw away the rotten something, and then turned out the cupboards, filling them with the new food supplies. The brush was heavy as I swept the flag-stones on the kitchen floor, and mopped up, the frothy water leaving snail-like trails behind me. I used a large cloth to wipe these away, until the kitchen was spotless, and my stomach rumbled so much I could no longer bear to pay it no attention.
    Hot bread, soft butter and jam made a wonderful breakfast after hours of work, and I was glad for the respite. Changing my clothes in my room, I stared out of the window. An elaborately decorated chaise came round the corner, and I recognised it as my uncle’s.
    I ran downstairs in great excitement, my earlier resentment towards my stepmother forgotten. A young man with dancing silver eyes and gold hair like my own climbed out, talking animatedly to the coachman who tipped hi hat at him and flick his reins. The horses set off at a fast pace, wind rushing round Count Mythrand Connives, who held his hat tightly to his head to avoid it being blown off and watched the coach leave, a little wistfully I thought.
    A silence descended on the mansion, as Uncle Myth was announced and led to the drawing-room, although I dare say he could find his own way around the house judging from the amount of times he had visited.
    Racing down the stairs, I threw my arms round his neck, and he embraced me tightly, his tense body relaxing.
    “Myth, oh Myth, I missed you so!” I cried, unsure of whether to laugh or to weep.
    Mythrand, my mother’s younger brother, smiled. “Well, Alex, sixteen now, ne? Six more years and you’ll have caught up to me!”
    “You’ll be twenty-eight then, silly,” I said, snuffling a little. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I sat beside him, and he told me about my brother and how he was getting on at school.
    “Are we going to-” I began, when a sudden squeal broke through the air. My three older stepsisters burst through the doors to the luxurious living-room, their high-pitched screeches echoing in my ears. They closed in on Uncle Myth, bombarding him with their childish questions and giggling all the while. Myth bravely fended them off, but I saw his wince and a feeling of guilt crept up on me. I placed a hand on his arm, turning to my stepsisters.
    “Harrietta, Sandra, Louisa,” I said sharply, “Leave him be. He needs to rest.”
    They pouted, their faces becoming long and mulish, when there came a timid knock at the door. I went to open it, glad of the escape. It was Honey, our young assistant cook and maidservant. She carried a loaded tray in her shaking hands, and placed it on the oak table in front of Myth. Steam rose from the spout of the teapot, and a small platter bearing crumbly choc-chip cookies and slices of rich chocolate cake lay appetizingly before us.
    I reached for one, but Stepmother’s cane appeared from nowhere and she rapped me on the back of my hand. “Yours is in the kitchen as you very well know, dear,” she said harshly. Sarcasm was layered on the word dear, a term my father, Mortimer, had used. He disappeared two years ago, my mother having passed away three years prior.