Prince Charming stared despondently at The Shoes. He’d heard the story so many times, it was all but history ready for his making. And it was true, they were lovely. Slender, crystalline, size 4. Only one pale pair of feet would fit into them; he’d seen them himself, just yesterday, as they’d said he would in the story of himself.

She was, apparently, perfect. Gamine, suppliant, the kind of slender, toned body that takes hours of hard labour, which she’d been fortunate enough to attain under the banner of Personal Tragedy.

But – and he cast his eyes to the other box – no one had told him he’d find these. Size 8. Chunky platforms, patent leather, slick and shiny as sin. Thigh high, with silk-ribbon laces to keep a man occupied for hours.

He was bent over the youngest one’s foot, when he felt her behind him. The middle sister. Dark, sullen, with unkempt hair, and thighs made for those boots. Heavy with the promise of delicious cruelties.

Then he remembered. Thank godmothers for midnight curfews.