Meanwhile, down in the kitchen, Cloris smokes in with a gift-wrapped box, which she sets on the center island. She then draws the apple from a pocket in her cloak and places it carefully in a bowl of fruit further down the counter. Wicked tasks complete, she flourishes on out of there. Enter the Feebs, who instantly assumes the gift box is for her and opens it. Upon seeing its contents, Phoebe glares.
Up in the attic, the lecture continues. Grams reveals that the stories are actually retellings of ancient battles between good and evil. Raige finds this all more than a little difficult to believe until Piper and the Dolt remind her of her own past life as The Evil Enchantress. Raige, busted, sneers as Phoebe storms into the attic with the gift box. She pulls herself up short when she spots Grams, and the two embrace. After learning of the Woodsman's attack, the Feebs grinds her teeth and displays the Lucite pumps, proposing that Cole is up to his old tricks. Grams reminds Phoebe that an evil witch bears responsibility in the traditional stories, but Feebs isn't having it. Cole knows Cinderella is Phoebe's favorite fairy tale; therefore, Cole is to blame for the sudden appearance of the pumps. The Dolt decides that now would be an opportune moment to consult with the ever-useless Elders, and orbs out.
Phoebe rashly decides to don the pumps to prove Cole's involvement. Raige counsels caution, as they can't be certain it's not some other demonic force promoting the attacks. Unfortunately for Raige, Grams nixes this idea, arguing that they can't loll around the Manor waiting for the next evil character to burst through a window. Piper, ever the sheep, follows Grams's lead, and urges Phoebe to try on the shoes. Phoebe slips the things onto her feet. Almost immediately, the pumps glow white, and a shimmering spiral of glowing pixie dust swirls up her body as Walt Disney's heirs speed-dial their lawyers to file breech-of-copyright lawsuits against Brad Kern. I, meanwhile, speed-dial my lawyer to file a pain-and-suffering lawsuit against Eilish for the unspeakable monstrosity masquerading as a ball gown that now assaults my senses. Phoebe's ensemble nearly beggars description, and quite frankly seems better suited for a belly dancer. A low-rent, talent-free, syphilitic hag of a belly dancer, but you get my drift. The outfit consists of a backless, strapless, midriff-baring opalescent bodice piece, connected to a foofy, bustled, be-bowed train, dangling over a white miniskirt, accented with tiers of silver lame ruffles that descend to the floor from her right hip. What remains of her hair has been fried into something approximating ringlets. It astounds me that even after all this time, they can still come up with new ways to horrify me.