Yes, the Prince is a fine man. And the children

are as golden as if I had spun them from candied

globes of buttered pumpkin. But this ache. This ache

is as old as memory and worries me like a tooth.

I know. You thought I meant the first one, the real one.

But I don't. I certainly am not angry with the one who

managed to escape, the one who named me Ella,

set me down, then left me. The one who never came

when called to. But every night I dream I spent

all day at my window, trying to write to her with