CinderellaI sweep a crumb off of the glass table beside me and run my hands down the front of my skirt, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles. The small glass grandfather clock in an alcove across the hall chimes six a.m.. Everything in this house seems to be made of glass now, and as I gaze around the front hall, all I see is glass and marble and cold. White walls stretch two stories tall with a grand wooden staircase climbing from the middle of the room. At least they couldn't change it's dark ebony to stone too. My ponytail seems to sway in a nonexistent breeze, the blond strands tickling me slightly between my shoulder blades. I sigh, and it vibrate