Pumpkin Pie

by Peter Miller

“It should fit,” she said. The oldest of the sisters pouted and tried for the third time to stuff her foot into the small shoe. The Prince’s footman shuffled, embarrassed. The red velvet cushion was starting to sag in the heat of the stuffy little cottage.

“It’s obviously not your size” said sister number two snatching the delicate glass slipper.

The footman grimaced and rolled his eyes. Of all the Prince’s loony ideas this one had to take the cake. A few too many glasses of champagne punch at the palace Christmas bash, a quick snog with some new girl who’s not even allowed to stay up past midnight and suddenly he’s in lurv.

Again!

“No really, this time she’s the one.” the Prince had insisted.

The footman raised his hands in surrender. “OK, OK give me her name and number and we’ll throw a banquet or something. That usually impresses them.”

The Prince had looked sheepish. “It was such a whirlwind! Her perfume! The lights! The music! Er ... I forgot to ask her name ...”

“What?”

“And I didn't get her number ...”

Oh boy.

“I got her shoe ...”

“Ladies, ladies, please be careful I implore you! If it does not fit either of you I must be on my way.” He plucked the fragile shoe from the fuming women, placed it once more atop the cushion and with a flourish left the house.

Outside it was snowing. The sudden coldness on his fingers might’ve explained it, or the iciness of the stone steps, whatever, the plush cushion made a sudden lunge from his grip. The slipper arced high, glinted briefly in the light from the window and plunged streetwards to the the cobbles, exploding into a million bits. A dog barked.

“Is everything alright?” said a voice. He turned and saw that a young woman had poked her head around the door. “Uh oh. I’ll get a broom,” she said, slipping back inside.

The footman sat on the step. “There goes the job,” he said to himself.

He watched her sweep up the slivers of glass. Pretty smile.

“Do you work here?”

“I suppose. I live here actually. With my mother and sisters.”

(“Just has to be adopted,” he thought.)

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.” she said.

They set off into the night, Christmas carollers singing somewhere in the distance. He took her hand. “What’s your name?”