Free Prerequisites for Sleep by Jennifer L. Stone

shoulders, so that she had to spend most of her time with her arms crossed or discreetly sliding the neckline back in place. Syd’s curves got the better of her and proceeded to burst from the seams. The dress had been altered twice; no fabric remained hidden inside to let out.
    Mother called every seamstress in town, only to be informed they were booked solid. How unusual, she thought, that not one of them was able to accommodate her. The household was in a state of panic. It’s not as if a Gowns R Us outlet could be found in the market of our village. Then mother remembered Mrs. Godparent,wearily retired after thirty years of making gowns for primping, self-absorbed females. Promises of brandy and meat pies, as well as assurances that Syd was not the primping, self-absorbed type, secured her services.
    By the afternoon of the event, Syd’s dress had yet to be delivered. Mrs. Godparent sent a carrier pigeon with the message that she was running a few hours behind. There were no mice and no dramatic scenes where Jo and I tore apart a secretly constructed gown. I don’t know how that silly rumour began.
    â€œGo, go,” Syd said, “or you’ll miss the dinner. The food is always the best part. I’ll catch up with you later.”
    The meal was over when Syd arrived. Most of the guests were outside on the patio, catching a breath of air while waiting for the musicians to begin playing. My sister was strategically positioned on top of a cartload of pumpkins, wildly driven by Mrs. Godparent. The old woman’s silver hair had escaped from its usual bun and whipped around in a state of frenzy, sending dandruff flying in all directions that resembled fairy dust in the harvest moonlight. Through it all, Syd remained composed and beautiful. Jo and I watched, listening to the cooing of oohs and ahhs around us as though the fireworks had begun.
    The prince, who had been exchanging pleasantries with a couple of dukes and the Duchess of Everafter, stood mesmerized, unable to move until Syd had gracefully climbed the stairs and curtsied apologetically before him. He had a slight lisp and kept pronouncing Sydney as Cindy. My sister was much too polite to correct him. They waltzed throughout the evening until Syd discovered she had to leave because she started her monthlies and had forgotten to slip some rags into her evening bag. Such explicit details could not be spoken to a prince. Instead she rushed past him, calling out, “I had a wonderful time, but I must go before it’s too late.”
    Who is the mysterious Cindy? Syd, Jo and I, as naive as we were in thinking that it would all blow over, couldn’t help but chuckle over the tabloid story and engraving that accompanied that headline. The entire town was buzzing. It’s a small village. Everyone knows someone, and someone eventually directed the prince to The Glass Slipper, where he professed his undying love for the owner’s daughter. A beaming Frank brought him home, forgetting that it was Sydney’s day to clean the kitchen.
    When the shocked prince proposed to a filthy Syd, it effectively placed her between a rock and a hard place. It is bad protocol to refuse a prince, and common knowledge that, in doing so, a girl would give the impression that she thought she was too good for one. I could tell Syd felt she had no choice. Under the circumstances and given the times we lived in, I would have probably done the same thing. I didn’t get the chance to tell her, though. Sid was whisked away to the castle, for her own good, before we could speak again.
    The second-last time I saw Syd was at her wedding. We did go to the wedding, relegated to the table of the town’s assorted evil relatives. I was surprised to be in the company of so many and wondered if they were as bad as they were made out to be. Syd was almost in tears when she tracked us down. She said she had nothing to do with the seating plan. The queen had made all