Long ago, before I became blind, I lived with my mother and my two younger sisters. The youngest wasn’t my biological sister. She was my stepfather’s daughter. Her name was Sindelarat. You’ve heard of her, haven’t you? She is already legendary, so maybe you won’t believe what I’m about to tell you. Sin – that’s what we called her – was so dirty, she looked like she had powdered herself with soot. And she really did live in the attic. I won’t deny it (though I regret it, since that’s where she colluded with the thing that granted her powers). What I want to do is correct history. History has killed me off in favour of her, who people say lived happily ever after. You want to know the real truth? Sin is dead. I’m the one who survives.

Yes, we were unfair to her. We ordered her to do the heavy work. When she wanted to go to the ball, we threw rice in every corner and wouldn’t let her leave the house until she had gathered all of it in a bowl. Of course, it was wasted labour, but at that point we didn’t know she was being helped by a spirit, that accursed Fairy Godmother. That’s the story you’ve heard? Well, now I’ll tell you something different.

Our stepfather loved Sin very much. Before he died, she was sweet and gentle and innocent – at least, that’s how she presented herself. Father gave her beautiful dresses and a tiny tiara to sit atop her head of long gleaming hair. He admired his daughter’s long eyelashes, especially when she fluttered them. Meanwhile, we were given Sin’s old clothes. Good clothes, but hand-me-downs nonetheless. If he went on a trip, he would return home with a stack of presents for her, while my sister and I got a box of sweets. Our hearts burned with envy. How else could we have felt? A teenage girl’s greatest accomplishment is owning piles of fancy clothes.