Page 43 of If The Shoe Fits

“This is going to be brilliant,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

I nod, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest like a promise.

This is going to be brilliant.

And for the first time all evening, I believe it.

But I still worry. Not everyone wants a deeper look into their own souls. Certainly not in front of an audience.

“I-I’ll go first, Professor,” a timid voice says from the back of the crowd.

The room goes quiet, and my heart squeezes when I see who it is.

Bethany.

She steps forward hesitantly, her head slightly bowed, but her bright green eyes peek out from beneath her lashes.

I knew there was a reason Bethany is one of my favorite students—not that I play favorites, but if I did, she’d be near the top of the list.

Shy, studious, and with a heart so big it barely fits inside her slightly plump frame, she’s the kind of Witch people don’t always appreciate.

Sensitive souls often bear the brunt of unnecessary cruelty, and I see it in the way she holds herself now, biting her lip nervously as she moves through the crowd.

“Perfect! Come here, Bethany,” I murmur, holding out my hand.

She takes it, her palm slightly clammy against mine, and I smile warmly to reassure her. Tonight, she looks absolutely lovely.

Her soft, flowing dress falls in a cascade of Autumn colors—rich golds, deep oranges, and earthy reds—all layered in delicate ruffles that swirl around her ankles as she walks.

She looks like the season itself, and for a moment, I want to pull her aside and tell her how much she shines.

“What do I do?” she whispers, her earlier bravado faltering as she glances at the glowing glass slippers.

“Just try them on, Sweetie,” I tell her softly, squeezing her hand for good measure.

Her lips twitch upward into a tentative smile, and I walk her toward the little fenced-in area where the slippers sit, shimmering under the ballroom lights.

The crowd watches, murmuring amongst themselves, the tension in the air almost palpable.

“She’s going to try them on? Ha!” someone snickers from the back.

“Teacher’s pet!” another voice chimes in, earning a ripple of mean-spirited laughter.

“Shut up, guys!” a sharper voice interjects, and I can’t help but feel a swell of pride at the unexpected defense.

“Yeah, Bethany was brave enough to go first. Be quiet and let her have her turn!”

The comments stir a mixture of emotions—anger at the cruelty, pride at the kindness—but before I can react, Wulfy steps forward, his tall, commanding frame practically vibrating with authority.

“Quiet!” he orders.

The effect is immediate. The students fall silent, their nervous chatter dissolving into a hush that echoes across the room.

I glance at him, grateful for his presence. Wulfy stands tall, his sharp amber eyes sweeping the crowd, daring anyone to say another word.

And they don’t.

I turn back to Bethany, nodding at her to focus on the task at hand. She looks up at me, her lips pressed into a tight line that’s more grim determination than a smile, but I’ll take it.

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