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Eleanor tried not to think about everything. But Everything was having none of it. It refused to go away.
She tried to enter that bewitching sleep state where there was nothing but a void.
But she couldn’t seem to get there. It was on the edges of her mind, trying to break through the uncomfortable nature of her dreams.
They were worse than dreams. They were memories.
And memories were much harder to break.
She rolled over, her face drawn and tired, still cycling through what she might have done differently to avoid ending up here in this cell. With her.
She couldn’t help feeling that part of her had broken. Broken completely away from the rest of her.
It was almost like—
She stopped the thought. Impossible. It was impossible.
For a minute there, she’d almost felt like there was another person in the cell with her.
But she was alone.
“Cindereeeella,” a sing-song voice called out. “Why are you so sad, Cinderella?”
Eleanor’s head shot up. She looked about. There was no one else there. She stood and wandered to the sink in the corner. She ran cold water over her hands and face, then patted dry with the thin towel hanging for her use.
She looked up and pale blue eyes met the Baker’s cold blue ones.
“My name is not Cinderella,” she said.
“And my name’s not the Baker, but can we help it they call us after what we do, not who we are?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You like to clean. Your hands are rough and calloused, but your face is free from worry. You’ve scrubbed it clean.”
“I—”
“Don’t fight it, Cinderella. I could be your fairy godmother.”
“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked slowly.
“I can help you.”
“I doubt that very much,” Eleanor said, seeing the insanity reflecting in her own eyes.
The Baker straightened up to her full height and set her face in a way that made her appear almost cheerful. Her eyes cleared and suddenly there was no more madness there, only demure acquiescence.
“What can I do for you, miss? Right you are, miss. Anything else, miss?” she asked the air beside her, curtsying slightly.
In one swift stroke, the Baker had become Mrs. Sigmund once again, the poor, abused housewife and housemaid who only ever wanted to be loved.
The Baker joined eyes with Eleanor and grinned.
“You see, my dear? Every wolf needs to know how to play dear granny...”