Far from the Enchanted Kingdom's latest dance-a-thon tribute, and through a dense forest that stretched on for miles, a clearing gave way to a dirt-road path. On the corner was a wooden sign that was written in the finest calligraphy. It was difficult to make out the actual words with the amount of crusted pigeon poop splattered across the letters, but it read:

WELCOME TO THE ENRAPTURED KINGDOM

Home of the finest lemon cakes; bet you can't eat just seven!

Beyond the sign was the kingdom's main square, or more accurately, the place where dreams and potentially starving peasants went to die.

The former hub of commerce was ramshackle chic, with boarded up shops, litter, and scraggly beat-down citizens in every size and color. It was hard to remember a more prosperous time, when spirits had been high and 'rat rump' not considered as a primary protein option; surely it hadn't been a hazy dream? Maybe it had and maybe it hadn't, but in times like these the people were distrustful, and in search of whatever would get them through the day.

A muddy-faced wandering 'Tiny Tim' lit up when he spotted something shiny on the pavement up ahead.

"A coin! A coin!" He leapt for the treasure but was immediately targeted by a trio of older ruffians. As soon as he was in their clutches, the vintage wedgie began.

An audience of observers soon formed around the boy, but no one intervened to dislodge the bunching culottes from his crack. It was simply too harsh a world out there, even for a helpless child.

Things were tough at the bakery too, as a sign out front said that lemon cakes were out of stock until further notice.

A young woman named Myrielle wandered towards the sign and groaned. "Why don't you take away the breath from our lungs while you're at it?!" Myrielle had once been an inspired young woman, with the rare distinction of a full education and ambitious goals to match. But now? All she could think about was who she had to screw to get a lemon cake.

If screwing was Myrielle's primary currency she would need a little help, because despite having the goods to aspire to 'post-medieval hot,' it would take a team of stylists and a rib-crushing corset to get 'er done. The current reality was a tattered dress, greasy dark hair, and a nose that could use a little chiseling.

Her disenchanted gaze landed on two young lovers enjoying the art of seduction. The citizens may have been gloomy and generally distrustful, but it was all the more reason to snuggle up to someone special. The man wooed his 'bae' with a bundle of dead flowers he'd likely ripped from the gardens that the kingdom had long abandoned.

As soon as the girl took the flowers in her hands, half of the bundle crumbled to the ground; she pretended not to notice. "That is so sweet!" She lifted her skirt to reward him with a view of her provocative lower calf.

Myrielle shook her head in bitter disgust, pretending she was somehow above these cheesy displays. Deep down inside though she felt something different; loneliness.

She left them behind and carried on, drawn to the kingdom's bookshop where a fantasy-inducing title was on display:

"CINDERELLA: From Filthy Rags to Glass Slippers"

For a moment the title convinced Myrielle she could truly have a better life. And why not? She'd heard rumors about this book, and everything Cinderella had endured was far less trouble than Myrielle had ever dealt with; so why couldn't she achieve the same? Then again she was almost twenty years old and therefore practically middle-aged. And how had Cinderella even done it? There must have been something special about her to garner the assistance of a fairy. Perhaps there was some wisdom in those pages she could use to her advantage.

She opened the velvet pouch she'd been holding and dumped the contents into her hand. The cascade of riches amounted to four coins; enough to either buy this book, or bring some food to her parents and siblings.

Myrielle struggled with the moral math, but before she could solve the equation she was summoned.

"Come join us Myrielle!"

She turned and spotted her ten-year-old brother Thomas and six-year-old sister Emilia jostling by the lone produce stall.

She'd promised her mother not to let them out of her sight, but these malnourished little rascals were surprisingly fast. She rushed over and froze them with a glare. "What did I say about staying close?"

They straightened their postures and responded in sync: "If we don't stay close we'll be robbed or kidnapped, or enslaved or dismembered or all of the above."

She nodded in satisfaction; at least they'd memorized the threatening slogan. "It's all just fun and games until you end up on the chopping block," she said casually. "Now let's go buy some dinner."

Her temporary vigor melted away by the time she approached the sad excuse for a food stall. The day's produce offerings were scarce, misshapen and bruised. If the food wasn't bad enough, the vendor was a gruff old man who was better equipped for binge-drinking than food-stall customer service.

She pointed to a tomato that belonged in the land of misfit produce. "How much?"

"Four coppers be the goin' rate," he said coldly.

She gasped. "That sounds like the going rate for a brothel!"

He leered. "It could be if you're interested..."

Myrielle's self-image was fragile enough to almost feel flattered. Almost. Instead she shook her head in low-key disgust. "If the clientele looks anything like you, I'd rather poison myself with that rotten turd of an onion; now why aren't you offering a discount?"

He flashed a gap-toothed smile. "'Cause no matter the price...folks need food to survive."

She nodded in faux understanding. "That makes so much sense! Except...at these prices you'll kill them anyway. Imagine...all of us dead because we couldn't afford your sub-par vegetables, and then all you'll be left with is the stench of dead bodies. From all the people you killed. From your over-priced tomatoes." She narrowed her eyes. "Is any of this getting through?"

The vendor found himself speechless so Thomas filled in the blanks. "Don't mess with Myrielle," he warned.

"Or she'll poison you like the last vendor!" Emilia added.

As the children proceeded to make choking sounds Myrielle could see their plan was working, and it made the two hours they'd spent rehearsing this scenario seem incredibly worthwhile.

The vendor now chewed on his crusted lip, a nervous reflex that told her she had won. "Two coppers then," he conceded. "Now stop bein' grim, it's unbecoming of a lady!"

Myrielle snorted. "There's no more room for ladies in this boar-eat-boar world." She crossed her arms and stared into his huckster eyes. "Now I want that onion too. And some garlic. And three tomatoes."

***

Down the village lane that was lined with shabby cottages the peasant folk called home, Thomas and Emilia threw pebbles at each other while Myrielle trailed behind.

"Come on Myrielle!" Thomas urged. "Join us in the stoning game!"

Myrielle heard his words but she barely looked in his direction. In the past she would've jumped at the chance to play the popular 'stoning game.' Who would be the merciless stone-thrower this time? Who would be the latest victim? And would the punishment fit the crime? It never did, but it was all so playfully violent. Or at least it used to be.

"I'll join you another time," she said vaguely.

Thomas turned abruptly and blocked her path. "You always say another time!" He pouted. "But now that the academy's closed you have nowhere to teach. So play!"

And there it was; the reason why things stopped being fun. A dream dashed, and an entire floundering kingdom that didn't care...

***

Back home inside the family's tiny kitchen, Myrielle struggled to generate some culinary mojo. She switched glances between an empty pot and her recently acquired produce. "Vegetable stew? Again?" She was feeling less inspired than the twelfth season of a cooking competition, but there were mouths that needed feeding so she grabbed the nearest knife to get started.

Before she could make the first cathartic chop, the sound of arguing stole her focus.

She tiptoed down a cramped hallway and stopped at a rotted wooden door. Before going inside she plastered on a smile, and then opened the door to a narrow bedroom with rolls of fabric stacked in every corner. Her ailing father Peter was in bed with a mug of tea, a chronic sufferer of aches and pains in an era of non-existent treatment. Myrielle's mother Rose sat by his bedside, perpetually over-worked and the leader of the household.

"Who's ready for a hearty stew?" Myrielle said grinning. Whatever disenchantment she might've been feeling, she always tried to hide it from her father. She'd employed this strategy after reading a book on Ancient Chinese medicine, in which one of the guiding principles had said that stress had a negative relationship with health. That principle had been at the forefront of her mind when she'd heard her parents arguing, but whatever the problem it now seemed magically resolved.

"Tell us more about the hearty stew!" Rose encouraged.

"Well, it's...three tomatoes, and...an onion..." Her happiness façade was fading fast. "Frankly it's more of a murky hot drink that will vaguely taste of a garden."

Rose hopped out of her chair and led Myrielle into the hallway. "Let's allow father to rest while I help you sort it out."

Once they were out of the bedroom Myrielle confronted her mother.

"I heard you arguing, "she said accusingly.

"It was nothing more than words between married adults," Rose explained, closing the topic with her motherly aura. "Speaking of which...isn't this family overdue for some wedding bells?" She pinched Myrielle's cheek as they squeezed into the kitchen.

"Wedding bells?!" Myrielle grabbed a knife and started chopping aggressively. "In the state this family's in you'd have me thinking about leaving for marriage?!"

Despite her show of personal offense, Myrielle sometimes fell asleep wondering what it would be like to have someone by her side. In reality the thought of leaving her family wasn't even something she'd consider, at least not until they were financially stable. It was a noble promise, aided by the fact that she wasn't exactly swatting away suitors left and right. She sighed and continued chopping.

"You seem troubled," said Rose, as she busied herself peeling the garlic.

"Well it's slightly troubling when you tell me to leave and get married," she muttered.

"What's troubling is how little time you have left before your body begins its decline."

Women were just a synonym for baby-ovens, a tale as old as time.

Myrielle caught her reflection in the knife and looked away. "Yes mother, we know, the average life expectancy of a woman is approximately forty." She glared at the tomato that would become her next victim. "What does it matter anyway when we're starving?"

"Things could still turn around!" Rose said cheerfully.

"With those self-obsessed royals running the show?" She laughed bitterly. "I doubt it."

"I'm sure the royal family is working to make things better," Rose explained. She didn't believe her own words, but she couldn't let her daughter descend into all out bitterness. What she secretly wondered was where on earth were the royals now? And would they go on ignoring these troubled times forever?

[WRITER COMMENTARY: Hope you're enjoying this story so far! There's a lot to come involving the sort of prince that definitely would NOT qualify for Disney, as well as  competition for the next Cinderella (oh, and some unexpected romance! Hope you keep reading and enjoy!]