The next day the shoutings of gaurds didn’t wake Oliver up, the sounds of the city did.

At first when he woke up he had no idea where he was. His body ached where he’d been cut by the thorns. His feet were even worse. He didn’t even know if he could walk.

But he was safe, no one had found him. The book was safe, too. That was good.

The foot problem wasn’t. He grabbed the foot and pulled it up to him, looking at the sole. There was a long gash there, it hurt horribly, worse than anything he’d gotten in a while.

And there in the skin he saw a glint of green. At least some of the glass was still in there, and he had no idea how to get it out.

So to take his mind off the pain he grabbed the book and the pen, opening it up.

I escaped, he wrote in quickly, excited.

Yes. I knew that you would, and soon. You didn’t have to live as horribly as you did. You won’t marry into royalty, I’m sure, but you don’t have to be a slave like you were. You escaped, like Cinderella did. You’re free, Oliver.