Cinderella Banquet Hand Spa
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The palace buzzed with whispers of silk and silver as the prince’s ball loomed, its promise of music and moonlight drawing even Cinderella from her ash-strewn corner. She knelt before her fairy godmother, eyes wide with hope as pumpkins warped into gilded carriages and mice became steeds in bursts of starlight. Yet when the final spell faded, Cinderella stared at her hands—calloused palms, cracked nails, a map of hardships no magic seemed to erase. "The magic handle?" The godmother sighed, flicking her wand uselessly. "Some things resist enchantment, child. But perhaps..." Her gaze snagged on a bowl of overripe strawberries nearby, their juice staining the air scarlet. With a wink, she crushed the fruit, blending its pulp with honey stolen from a beehive and dawn dew gathered from rose petals. "Magic fails where cleverness thrives," she murmured, smoothing the concoction over Cinderella’s hands. Minutes later, the girl marveled at skin softened, scars muted beneath a luminous glow. "Temporary," warned the godmother, "but long enough to dance till midnight." Cinderella laughed, the sound lighter than crystal slippers, as she stepped into a night where even miracles needed a little cunning.
