We are home. I'm sure that's obvious. Eventually I always turn into a pumpkin, for moments as a princess are fleeting and happen in dreams. I can see the glitter washing away, the rivers of water slowly clouding in with streams of dirt, mud caked into the seams of my dress as they become the ribs on the rough skin on a gourd left to rot in a field somewhere.
Ben laughs when I say this but he looks sad because he's frustrated that his charm couldn't override my stubbornness.
Someone should have warned him.
