In a world similar to ours but not quite the same, a little mouse named Mousella lived in a rainbow-colored tulip. She was quite handsome; she was a fieldmouse with sandy gray fur, black eyes like buttons, and a slender nose that ended in a pink tip. But her fine looks were nothing compared to her kind nature. 

In a clearing in the center of the Forest, Mousella lived with her stepsister, a cute little mouse that loved naively and openly, and her stepmother, a cruel bundle of fine jewelry and rouge. Mousella’s father was rarely home; he traveled often in his little cart, selling knick-knacks to distant parts of the Forest.

“Dirtyella!” her stepmother often yelled when her husband wasn’t home. “Bring us fresh morning dew for our breakfast porridge!” Her stepmother always wore the most hideous garments made of orchids and gardenias and other flowers with obnoxious personalities. “If it takes long, you’ll get a lashing of my tail instead of dinner.”

When Mousella’s paws ached from working and her back burned with lashings, she ran to the Blue Rose near the back of her house to weep at its stem. The color of its petals comforted her; the sweet baby blue color calmed her quaking heart and quick breaths. It gave her peace, and it gave her a place to breathe deep breaths, away from her wicked stepmother.

Mousella’s mother had blue eyes, the same shade as the Blue Rose. She had died when Mousella was yet a Mouseling, so Mousella had few memories of her. But she remembered her mother wiping tears from her eyes when she scraped her knee and kissing the wound to take the pain away.

On one fateful morning, as Mousella swept the floor of the tulip, a knock came from the door. She opened it to see a tall mouse with a large tummy and an arched back, dressed all in red. Above his two large front teeth, there was a superb, curly mouse-stache.

The mouse-stached stranger chortled at Mousella’s plain coneflower dress. “Are there any ladies in this house?” Mousella blushed and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. “I have a message from the Prince of the Forest to all the ladies in the land.”

Mousella rushed off to find her stepmother and went back to her chores. While she cleaned the fireplace, her stepsister, Tailina, sauntered over to her hunched form. “Oh, Mousella~” she sang. “Did you hear? The Prince is holding a Ball!” She collapsed on the toadstool cap sofa, her chrysanthemum dress resting elegantly on her knees. Tailina’s had white fur and her mother’s… garish taste in clothing, but Mousella loved her. Tailina had a good heart.

“Oh, why, that sounds marvelous!” Mousella said, wiping a streak of ash across her cheek. Her coneflower dress was stained with patches of black. “Do you think Stepmother will let me go? It would be lovely to dance with a nice mouse girl or boy.”

Tailina patted Mousella’s paw, then wiped the ash off her cheek with her handkerchief. “I’m sure Mother will let you go,” she said. “It would be much more fun if you went!”

On the day of the Ball, Mousella finally brought up the nerve to ask her stepmother. She poured her stepmother blackberry tea, her paws trembling, her black-like-button eyes not meeting her gaze. Her little heart quaked, ready to burst from nerves! As her stepmother loudly sipped her tea, Mousella asked the dreaded question.

“Go to the ball?!?!” Her stepmother snickered. Flecks of her corn-biscuit flew from her mouth. She laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair. But inside her heart, there was no laughter or joy, only bitterness.

Her husband, Pawl, was a good, down-to-Earth man who only had room in his heart for two loves of his life. But he already gave those spots to his late wife and his daughter, and he didn’t have room enough to love her as much. She stood up, nearly toppling the chair. With a twitch of her nose, cold eyes, and a pulsing black heart, she said with no humor, “Hilarious. Face it, a silly fieldmouse like you could never go to the Ball. Dirtyella.”

Mousella ran from the house in tears. She ran to her Blue Rose. She collapsed at its stem as her stepmother proudly and her stepsister meekly left for the Ball. She wrapped her furry arms around its stem in desperation. Pitter-pattering rain began to fall as the sunset and the Ball began, but Mousella did not get wet.

Blue petals enveloped Mousella in a hug, protecting her from the rain like an umbrella and comforting her shivering form. Mousella looked up to see the Blue Rose looking down at her. “Oh child,” said the Blue Rose in a misty voice, “you poor mouseling. You really wanted to go to that Ball, didn’t you?”

Though her paws were frozen in shock and her whiskers trembled, Mousella nodded. “But it’s impossible,” she added, “my stepmother will never let me go. It’s hopeless…”

A petal stroked her cheek, wiping her tears away. “Poor darling Mousella… There's always hope. Come, pick one of my petals. Rub it against your paws and close your eyes. Think about your wish as hard as you can.” Mousella did as she was told. Rain turned to mist, mist which swirled around her blind form, cloaking her entirely. “Now, open your eyes.”

The mist dissipated. When Mousella opened her eyes, she wore a wide skirt made of hundreds of lilies of the valley and billowing, white sleeves. “Oh, goodness!” she squeaked. She twirled in a circle and the little flowers rang like bells. “Oh, thank you, Blue Rose. Thank you!”

Mousella ran to the Pumpkin Castle where the first night of the Ball was held. She immediately started dancing. With every twirl, hundreds of bells rang. Everyone looked at the only fieldmouse present in awe, but Mousella paid no attention. Without a care in the world, she danced!

She only paw-sed when a handsome mouse with intensely black eyes reached out his paw and asked to dance with her. He wore a blue suit of neatly trimmed periwinkle over shimmery gold fur. She gladly accepted his paw, and they danced the rest of the night. They filled the Pumpkin Castle, already filled with the constant sweet smell of pumpkin, with the sounds of bells and joyful laughter.

As the first night of the Ball came to a close, Mousella rushed home as fast as her little feet could take her, vanishing in the crowd. The gold mouse’s whiskers drooped, his paw outstretched, but the mysterious dancing mouse was gone.

The next day, after her stepmother and Tailina left for the Ball, Mousella went to the Rose. She rubbed a second petal against her paws and wished with all her might. When Mousella closed her eyes, gold sparkles rained from the sun all the way down to the clearing in the Forest. As if falling on an invisible dress, they settled in the shape of a gown with long sleeves and a train. When she opened her eyes, she wore a shimmering gown of coneflower.

Mousella began the night, as she did before, dancing by herself. Yet again, the handsome stranger, now in purple, asked her to dance. Curious why he was giving her his attention, Mousella asked him, “Why are you so nice to me, a fieldmouse? Is it because of the beautiful gowns I wear?”

The handsome mouse laughed like bells. “Nothing like that,” he replied. “I see how you are kind and polite to everyone at the Ball, whether they’re a servant or a guest. I thought to myself, I want to get to know that mouse better.” So they danced and laughed and talked for the whole Ball. With every elegant dance move, gold dust sprinkled off Mousella’s dress.

But as the night came to a close, Mousella again escaped into the crowd. During dinner that next day, while Mousella served sunflower seed loaves of bread, she asked one last time if her stepmother would allow her to go to the last night of the Ball. Her voice strained as she begged, “Please, Stepmother. If you let me go to the Ball, I won’t dance at all, I’ll wear rags so your gown looks more beautiful, if anyone tries to talk to me, I’ll turn away. I’ll do anything as long as you let me go, as long as I get to spend the night with my family.”

But when her stepmother looked at Mousella, all she saw was her husband: black-like-button eyes, sweet, but feeling nothing deeper than “fondness” for her. Mousella’s father was always traveling. When he left one year ago, Pawl hugged his daughter goodbye, kissed away the tears on her cheeks, and told her he loved her more than there were stars in the sky. But the only thing he remembered to say to his wife was: “Farewell.”

Mousella’s stepmother, the most vile creature that ever was, clenched her porcelain teacup so hard it shattered. Tears dotted her eyes. She said fiercely, cruelly, “You will never go to the Ball, Mousella. I would rather die.”

Mousella watched her stepmother and stepsister leave for the Ball. It was raining again and her cheeks were damp, but not only from rain. Mousella didn’t cry because she wanted to go to the Ball; she cried because her stepmother didn’t love her.

She stumbled, her fur soaked, to her Blue Rose. Her Rose comforted her with its petals, hugging her like Mousella imagined a mother would do. “Would you still like to go to the Ball, little mouseling?” the Blue Rose asked tenderly. The Rose attempted to dry her fur with leaves.

Mousella nodded. As she was told, she wished on a petal. She wished that her stepmother would love her as a mother would, but it was impossible. So, instead, she wished for a gown. The glistening rain froze in mid-air. Wind lathered together to make fabric that clinched her waist, and droplets of rain swam through the air and stuck like jewels to the gown that formed.

Her final gown was blue. The ballroom-length skirt was layered in Rose petals, the short sleeves from lilacs. Her bodice was heart-shaped, sparkling with droplets of rain. Mousella didn’t look quite cheerful in her dress, but she didn’t look sad either. Anyone that looked at her would think she was a Princess and certainly the most handsome Princess that ever was.

Like both the other nights, Mousella went to the Ball, but she didn’t dance. She was much too blue. The handsome mouse, now dressed in an all-white suit trimmed with gold, didn’t ask her to dance. His ears folded in concern; he led her outside of Pumpkin Palace, to the courtyard filled with lush mushroom benches. Alone together, they were able to talk more than they ever could while they danced. Mousella told him about her stepmother, and he listened to every word she said. As the sun came up, he told her:

“I am the Golden Prince of the Forest,” he said, “I’m sorry about your stepmother. I wish there was something I could do. You… you are the most extraordinary mouse I’ve ever met. I want to know you, to get to know you. I want to know the mouse inside.”

“Even though I’m just a fieldmouse? And you’re a golden mouse, a Prince even?”

“I know if I get to know you better, I will grow to love you. And I will love every part of you. Someday I hope you could grow to love me too.” And after months and months of spending time with the Prince, Mousella found that she did love him, and he loved her. Under her Blue Rose, the Prince proposed. Mousella gasped and covered her mouth with her paws.

As teardrops dotted the corner of her black-like-button eyes, she said, “Yes.”

Mousella moved into the Pumpkin Palace with her new Prince husband. Her kind maids replanted the Blue Rose so it was right next to her window, and she could tell it good morning and good night. In the room beside her, Tailina lived. Every night, they wore gowns and danced without a care in the world.

Mousella filled her days with nice things: dresses, gardens, a Prince that listened, a sister that loved her, a father that visited when he could. She knew there would always be a gap where a mother should be, where her stepmother could have fit. Mousella didn’t dwell. She filled that gap with people who loved her, and she lived happily ever after.