He can’t see her in rags and wrinkled lace. Never.
She feels the arch, the iciness of the shoe against her skin—the stabs that shoot from heel to thigh each time her foot punches the ground.
It is five seconds till midnight.
She collapses in a pile of dirty leaves just as donggggg echoes through the courtyard.
“Will she ever be… normal?” Lady Tremaine feels her voice tremble like a fork striking crystal.
The psychiatrist shrugs. “She believes in fairies and talking mice, freaks out every midnight, and sleeps in heels. The asylum’s your best bet at this point.”