فصل 16

Chapter 16

PROFESSOR DOVEY

What Makes Your Heart Beat?

I know where Merlin is.

He meant for me to find that clump of hair he sent with Anadil’s rat. He knew I’d understand.

But what I know will come to nothing unless I tell someone.

Someone who can find Merlin if Tedros and I die. Someone out of Rhian’s clutches.

I must tell them before the axe falls. But who? And how?

As soon as we’re shoved out of King’s Cove, these moldy sacks jammed over our heads, all I’m left with is my sense of smell and sound. I feel myself kicked up a staircase, my limbs knocking against the other captives. I recognize Tedros’ solid arms and clasp his sweating hand before we’re pulled apart. Bogden hushes Willam’s whimpers; Valentina’s and Aja’s high-heeled boots clatter out of rhythm; Nicola’s breaths start and stop, a sign that she’s deep in thought. Soon my gown scrapes smooth marble walls, beetle wings rustling as they fall, and my knees buckle as I lurch onto a landing, my body drained from all it has endured. A minty breeze blows in, along with the scent of hyacinths. We must be passing the veranda in the Blue Tower, over the garden where the hyacinths grow. Yes, I hear the songbirds now, the ones outside the queen’s bedroom, where Agatha let me rest when I came to Camelot.

But these senses aren’t all I have to guide me.

There is a sixth sense that only fairy godmothers have.

A sense that churns my blood and makes my palms tingle.

A sense that a story is barreling towards an end that isn’t meant to be, and the only thing that can steer the story right is a fairy godmother’s intervention.

It is this sense that made me help Cinderella the night of the ball. It’s this sense that made me force Agatha to look in the mirror her first year, when she’d given up on her Ever After. It’s this sense that made me come to Camelot before the Snake’s attack. My fellow teachers surely consider the last a mistake: a violation of the Storian’s rules, beyond a fairy godmother’s work. But I’d do it again. The King of Camelot will not die on my watch. Not just because he’s king, but because he is, and will always be, my student.

Too many of my young wards have lost their lives: Chaddick, Tristan, Millicent . . .

No more.

And yet, what’s my move now? I know there is one. I can feel my sixth sense burn even hotter. That familiar sting of hope and fear, telling me I can fix this fairy tale.

The fairy godmother’s call.

There is a way out of this.

I wait for the answer, my nerves shredding. . . .

Nothing comes.

Tedros grunts near me as he jostles in frustration against his guards. He’s realizing we’ve been beaten and there’s nothing standing between him and the axe.

The breeze gusts harder from multiple sides, the smell of morning dew thickening, and for a moment I think we’re outside the castle, death ever-near, only to realize there’s still marble beneath my feet. The others aren’t thinking clearly; I hear their panic—Willam’s whimpers turning to sobs, Valentina hissing and cursing, Tedros’ boots skidding, trying to stall— Then it all stops.

My guard has let me go.

And from the silence around me, I know the others are free too.

I hear a sack pulled off someone’s head.

Then Tedros’ voice: “Huh?”

I whip the sack off myself, as do the others. We have the same dazed expressions, our hair laced with potato dust.

We are in the Blue Tower dining room, looking out over a veranda, the sky the color of amethysts, warning of dawn. The long dining table is made of glass mosaic, the shards of blue forming a Lion’s head in the center. Laid out around it is a magnificent feast. Seared venison cut into pink hearts atop green broad beans. Marinated rabbit kidneys with emerald parsley. Hen’s eggs perched on buttermilk biscuits. Chilled cucumber soup with sungold tomatoes. White caviar, sprinkled with chive blossoms. Chocolate mousse swimming in vanilla foam. A bloodred grapefruit consommé.

There are seven place settings at the table, each labeled with one of our names.

We stare at one another like we’ve detoured into a different story.

The guards are mostly gone too. Only a pair in full armor remain, one blocking each door.

Then like a kick to the gut, I understand.

So does Nicola.

“It’s our last meal,” she says, gazing over the balcony’s stone rail.

We gather behind her, looking down at the execution stage atop a hill, burnished in the moonlight. There’s a dark wooden block in the middle of it.

Tedros’ throat bobs.

Two shadows suddenly glide overhead and Sophie passes on the catwalk above us. She’s walking with Rhian, speaking to him in a whisper. I only glimpse her face for a moment: she looks calm and engaged, as if she’s going with Rhian of her own accord. Her hand is on the king’s bicep. She doesn’t see us.

Then she’s gone.

The room falls silent. Tedros looks at me. Seeing Sophie strolling with Rhian so intimately has shaken him further. As it has me. My young charges sense my unease.

“Come,” I say, with a Dean’s authority, taking my place at the table.

Not out of hunger or a desire to eat; my body feels weak beyond the possibility of replenishment. But I need them to keep their wits. And I need time to think.

No one follows me to the table at first. But Tedros isn’t one to resist food and before he can help it, he’s dumped himself at Bogden’s place setting and is stuffing deer meat into his mouth, his eyes still brimming with fear.

Soon the rest are eating too, until their bellies are sated long enough for them to remember who served this meal and why.

“He’s mocking us, isn’t he?” Willam asks meekly.

“Fattening a pig before it’s slaughtered,” says Bogden.

“We can’t just stuff our faces like it’s a quinceañera and go die!” Valentina fumes.

“We have to do something,” Aja seconds.

They instinctively look at Tedros, who glances between the pirates at the doors, inscrutable through their helmets, both wielding swords. We have no weapons. To attack them would lead to a faster death than the one already scheduled. Yet, they’re listening to everything we say, as if Rhian’s not only taunting us with food, but the hope of escape. The gears in Tedros’ head are turning, knowing any plan he speaks out loud will be thwarted before it starts.

And then, as I’m looking at him, I feel it once more.

The sting of an answer.

Surfacing quickly . . . about to break through . . .

But again, nothing comes, like a ghost afraid to show itself.

“Do you have a fairy godmother, Professor?” Tedros asks, his face creased with stress. “Someone who saves you when you need it?” I want to tell him to be quiet. That I’m close to something. That I need to think— My sixth sense stirs once more.

But this time, it’s pushing me to answer Tedros’ question. To tell him my story.

Why?

Only one way to find out.

“Yes, even fairy godmothers have their own guides,” I say, glancing out the window at the lightening sky. My tone is strained, my pace rushed. “I graduated from the School for Good as a leader, but I resisted my quest assignment: to kill a nasty witch who was luring children to her gingerbread house.” “Hester’s mother?” Nicola asks.

“Indeed. If I had gone on my quest and succeeded, Hester never would have been born. Hester’s mother didn’t give birth to Hester until much later, thanks to dark magic that let her have a child at an unusually old age. But the reason I rejected my quest was simple: I had no instinct for violence, even against a child-eating witch. It was Merlin who changed my fortune. Merlin was a frequent guest teacher at the School for Good, and my fourth year, he’d been guest teaching Good Deeds after the original professor ran afoul of the Doom Room beast. Upon taking a shine to me as his student, Merlin told Dean Ajani that there was no reason for him to keep filling in when the Dean had a perfectly fine Good Deeds teacher in me. Because of Merlin, the Dean changed my quest and made me the youngest professor at the School for Good.” “So Merlin is your fairy godmother?” said Bogden. “Or father. Or whatever.” “No,” I say, dipping deeper in my memory. “Because I wasn’t fully fulfilled as a teacher, it turns out. Not even as a Dean, when I received that honor years later. A piece of me knew I was meant for more. I just didn’t know what that was. Ironically, it was King Arthur who changed my fortune next.” Tedros gawks at me, mouth full of biscuit. “My father?”

I can feel myself settling into the story. As if the past will unlock the present.

“After you were born, your father commissioned a teacher from our school to paint your coronation portrait. Arthur loathed his own coronation portrait so much that he wanted to ensure you had one he approved of, since he wouldn’t be alive when you became king. That teacher not only painted your portrait as Arthur asked, but also brought me along when he did.” “So King Arthur was your fairy godmother?” Willam says, agog.

“Wait a second,” Tedros cuts in, heaping chocolate onto his plate. “Lady Gremlaine said a seer painted my portrait, which makes sense since he predicted exactly what I would look like as a teenager, but now you’re saying it was a teacher—” His eyes startle like rippling pools. “Professor Sader. He was the seer who painted my portrait?” “And your father and I watched every brushstroke,” I add, remembering it had happened in this very room, spring flowers blowing in through the veranda. “Arthur had asked August to bring along the Dean who would one day teach his newborn son, no doubt to make me feel the burden of the future king’s education. Guinevere kindly let me hold you, though you were fussing and giving me trouble, even then. Your steward, Lady Gremlaine, was there too, though she hardly said a word. When your mother left with you, I sensed a sadness in Lady Gremlaine and I found myself talking to her more than the king. Idle talk mostly, about how she missed seeing her sister’s sons grow up and how I wished I’d had siblings of my own . . . but my attentions brightened her mood. Professor Sader noticed. On the way back to school, he mentioned that he was impressed with how I’d handled Gremlaine; that it took skill to connect with a person so forlorn. I had the sense he knew her well. Then August said he thought my talents as a teacher and Dean weren’t being fully used. That I might consider being a fairy godmother to those in need. I dismissed the idea at first; I hadn’t the slightest clue what it took to be a fairy godmother and it seemed like tedious work, chasing down sad saps and granting wishes. But August is persuasive and he made me a crystal ball, using a piece of his soul and mine. A crystal ball that showed me people in the Woods who needed help. My help. And I found myself answering the call. For the first time in a long while, I had a life beyond the School for Good and Evil.” “So it wasn’t Merlin or my father. It was Professor Sader,” Tedros realizes, so entranced he’s finally stopped eating. “He was your fairy godmother.” “Professor Sader set me on my path,” I answer. “It’s his face that appears when I look in my crystal ball. At least until it broke. Now it’s a glitching mess.” “Who broke it?” Aja prompts.

“August, believe it or not!” I shake my head. “You’d think a seer could see an accident coming, but he knocked it off my desk, chipping a big piece. Offered to make me a new one, but he died shortly thereafter. Merlin’s repaired it as best he can, but it’s changed. You saw its effects on me . . . my lungs haven’t recovered. . . .” “Then why were you still using it?” Nicola asks.

I ignore the question. That answer is between Merlin and me.

“Truth is, I didn’t need a crystal ball to be a good fairy godmother,” I say. “Seeing into people’s hearts. That was always my strength. Not magic, which was Lady Lesso’s. I’m sure she could have done wonders with a crystal ball. Indeed, I would have named Leonora my Second if August hadn’t cautioned me against it.” I notice one of the pirates yawning. Something inside me sparks, as if I know at last why I’m telling this story. As if I know where it’s headed. I stare intently at my frightened pupils.

“But now that I’m older, I realize that August wasn’t my fairy godmother after all. Because fairy godmothers can’t swoop in and change the story. Fairy godmothers only help you to be you. More you. I wasn’t there when Agatha looked in the mirror and realized she was beautiful. I wasn’t there when Cinderella danced with her prince. But each of them knew what to do at the time. Because I taught them the same lesson I’m teaching you now. When the real test comes, no one will be there to save you. No fairy godmother will hand you the answers. No fairy godmother will pull you from the fire. But you have something stronger than a fairy godmother inside of you. A power greater than Good or Evil. A power bigger than life and death. A power that already knows the answers, even when you’ve lost all hope.” I see my students looking at me now, their eyes unblinking, their breaths held. The pirates are listening too.

“There is no name for this power,” I say. “It is the force that makes the sun rise. The force that makes the Storian write. The force that brings each of us into this world. The force that is bigger than all of us. It will be there to help you when the time is right. It will give you the answers only when you need it and not before. And whenever you lose it or doubt its existence, like I have again and again, all you have to do is look inside yourself and ask . . . What makes my heart beat?” I lean in. “That is who your real fairy godmother is. That is what will help you when you need it most.” The room is quiet.

I wait for a response. A sign that they understand.

Instead, most furrow and frown as if I’m speaking in tongues. The pirates go back to yawning, bored by an old woman’s ravings.

But someone does understand.

Sitting at the other end of the table.

Tedros, who returns my gaze, his eyes twinkling like Cinderella’s and Agatha’s once did.

A prince awakened.

Nothing spoken after that could have possibly mattered.

WHEN THE TIME comes, none of us put up a fight.

The guards storm in, rip us from our feast and bind our hands with rope. The tattooed pirate in charge of Tedros cuffs a rusted collar around the prince like a dog and drags him by a leash. They shove us out of the dining room, through the hall, and across a catwalk to a staircase that leads down to the courtyard. From the courtyard, it’s only a short walk to the executioner’s stage, sitting atop a hill that slopes to the drawbridge and outer gates. A halo of gold rises behind the castle, the sun minutes from breaking through.

The first years are shivering, their eyes on the stage ahead, where a big-bellied, black-hooded man in a black leather vest and leather kilt takes practice swings with his axe. As we get closer, the hooded man sets his gaze on us and grins through his mask. The first years shrink into their skins.

But not Tedros.

There’s something different in him now. Despite his slashed clothes, beaten-up body, and the tattooed pirate yoking him with his leash, the prince looks stronger, like he’s more resolved in his fight. Our eyes meet, and I get that tingling feeling again: the conviction that I can fix this. That there is a way out of this death trap.

And then I realize . . .

Each time I’ve had the feeling, I’ve been looking at Tedros.

He gives me a curious glance, as if he knows I’ve figured something out.

In front of the stage, their backs facing the castle, a hundred leaders from around the Woods have gathered in their finest clothes. They must have traveled to Camelot for Rhian’s wedding, only to see death added to the menu of festivities. We come from behind and for a moment, I see them before they see me. The first thing I notice is how haggard they look, as if they’ve been up all night. They speak in hushed tones, their faces grim beneath their crowns and diadems. The second thing I notice is that many are missing their rings: the silver bands that mark them as members of the Kingdom Council. Dread pits in my stomach. It’s my instinct to look for these rings. The School Master taught Lady Lesso and me to check for them when a ruler asked to meet with us (usually about a relative they wanted admitted to the school). These rings, pledging loyalty to the Storian, are the best proof a king or queen is who they say they are. But now half of these rings are gone? Rings worn without exception for thousands of years?

I hear a scrap of conversation—

“My castle has been firebombed,” says a woman I recognize as the Empress of Putsi, who pushed me to accept her son into Good. “As soon as I destroyed my ring, Rhian sent his men to Putsi and the attackers fled.” “I thought you and I agreed to keep our rings,” the Duke of Hamelin retorts, still wearing his. “To protect the Storian. To protect the school.” “The school is behind these attacks. You heard the king,” the Empress defends. “I didn’t believe it before, but I do now. My people come first.” “Your castle, you mean,” snipes the Duke.

The Empress is about to respond when she sees us coming. The other leaders spot us too, as we curl towards the steps leading up to the stage. From the looks on their faces, it’s clear that they’ve either forgotten we were imprisoned or they didn’t know it was more than Tedros who would die today. And when they see me—Dean of Good, fairy godmother of legend, protector of the pen that keeps our world alive—their eyes widen in recognition. . . .

And yet, none move.

They just stand there, tethered in place, as if the same reason they’re not wearing their rings also precludes them from helping me and my charges.

I stare at the Princess of Altazarra, who once bawled in my arms when the boy she loved betrayed her to win a Trial by Tale her first year at school.

She looks away.

Sheep, I scorn. Rhian has the people’s support and no ruler dares challenge him, even if they know better. Every one of these leaders lives in fear of what’s about to happen to me happening to them, only at the hands of an angry mob instead of a king. Which means, even though I teach their sons and daughters, even though I’ve taught many of them, they won’t stand up for me or my students.

We’re dragged up creaking wooden steps to the stage, where the guards hold us in a line at the back, facing the chopping block and the audience below. A pirate is sharpening steel pikes and stacking them at the side of the stage.

I count seven.

“What are those for?” Aja murmurs on one side of me.

“Our heads,” says Nicola on the other, her eyes on Lionsmane’s message in the sky, ending with Rhian’s promise to mount our skulls for the Woods to see.

Next come the maids, in their white dresses and bonnets, who roll out a long gold-trimmed carpet patterned with lions, leading up to the stage.

Guinevere is amongst them, one of Japeth’s gruesome scims sealing her lips.

Tedros flushes red when he sees his mother in a maid’s outfit and the Snake’s slithering worm on her face, but Guinevere looks right at her son, her eyes smoldering. The glare disarms him as it does me. It’s the same look Lady Lesso used to give me before the Circus of Talents when Evil had a new trick up its sleeve.

Then I notice something in Guinevere’s hair. Tucked behind the ear, standing out against the white strands . . . a stray purple petal, unusual in shape.

A lotus petal.

Strange. Lotus blossoms don’t grow in Camelot. Nowhere near it. They only bloom in Sherwood Forest. . . .

But now the king approaches, his princess on his arm.

The crowd of leaders swivels to watch Rhian glide down the gold carpet, Excalibur on his belt, as he and Sophie make their way to the stage.

Rhian sees their faces, still stunned by the added executions, and he calmly stares back. That’s when I understand: this execution isn’t about Tedros or his allies. Not really. This is about threatening every leader here: if Rhian can cut off the head of Arthur’s son and Good’s Dean . . . then he can certainly cut off any of theirs.

The wind picks up, sweeping blades of grass across the hill. Sunlight spears past our shoulders, dawn anointing the copper-haired king and his princess with light.

Sophie grips Rhian like a crutch, her movement stooped and submissive. She’s wearing a white ruffled gown, even more prim than the maids’; her hair is tied back in a staid bun; and her face is bare and humble, though as she ascends the stage on Rhian’s arm and I get a closer look, I sense she’s painted herself to look that way.

As she takes her place beside Rhian at the front of the stage, she glances back at me, but there’s nothing in her eyes, as if the shell of her is here, but not her spirit.

I’m hit with déjà vu—

Not of Sophie, but Guinevere. That day I met her with her newborn son, when August was painting Tedros’ portrait. While Lady Gremlaine fixed her attentions on Arthur, her eyes so soulful, Guinevere was dead-eyed and distracted. As if she was only playing the part of Arthur’s wife.

Now Sophie has the same look as she holds on to a boy who is about to kill her friends and fellow Dean. Her gaze flits around the field, searching for someone. Someone she can’t find. Rhian senses her inattention. Instantly, Sophie’s demeanor changes: she gives him a doting smile, a caress of his arm.

I peer at her closely . . . then back at the lotus petal in Guinevere’s hair.

No doubt about it.

Skullduggery’s afoot.

Tedros studies me once more, knowing I’ve sleuthed something out— Again that sting hits, telling me he’s the key to a happy ending. Like the mirror was to Agatha or the pumpkin I used to send Cinderella to the ball. It’s Tedros I need.

But for what! What am I supposed to do! What good is a sixth sense if we have no heads! I hold in a scream, my chest imploding— Rhian clutches Sophie tighter as he addresses his audience.

“For a brief moment, after the Council meeting, I couldn’t find my princess.” He gives Sophie a look; her eyes glue to her dull, flat, highly suspect slippers. “Then I saw her, sitting calmly by the window. She said that she’d needed a moment to think. That she’d had the same doubts all of you had at the meeting. Was the school the enemy? Should you destroy your rings? Must Tedros die? But she’d looked you in the eyes and answered yes for a reason. I’d pulled Excalibur from the stone and Tedros hadn’t. That alone earned me the crown. For Tedros to no longer command the sword that he flaunted at school was proof that he was only a pretender.” I see Tedros’ eyes flick to Sophie. He’s glowering at her the way he used to in class. Back when she was trying to kill him.

“But there was more, my princess said,” Rhian continues, Excalibur shining against his thigh. “She told me that Tedros was her friend. She’d even loved him once. But he’d been a poor king. He’d been the rot at Camelot’s core. Arthur’s will was clear: the one who pulls the sword is king. For Sophie to fight for Tedros even after I pulled the sword was to fight against Arthur’s will. To fight against the truth. And without truth, our world is nothing.” The rulers of the Woods are quiet. The tension in their faces dissolves, as if Sophie’s words have reminded them why they’ve traded their rings for a king.

“Now I know she’s truly on my side,” Rhian says, gazing at his princess. “Because she’s willing to sacrifice her old loyalties for what’s right. She’s willing to let go of the past and be the queen the Woods needs.” He raises her hand and kisses it.

Sophie meekly meets his eyes, then steps to the side of the stage.

Glaring at her, Tedros is foaming at the mouth. He believes every word Rhian has said about Sophie. So do the other captives, judging from their expressions. They believe Sophie would trade our lives to save her own. I almost do too.

Almost.

Tedros looks at me once more, seeking a mirror for his rage, but his guard is dragging him forward now.

“Bring me the impostor king,” Rhian declares.

Tedros is thrown to his knees, the prince’s neck slammed over the wooden block, hands still bound, as Thiago tears off his metal collar. It happens so fast Tedros can’t resist. Breath flies out of me. Time is slipping away. And I’m still frozen, like those sheep in the crowd.

Rhian bends down to Tedros.

“Coward. Traitor. Fraud. Any other king would kill you with pride,” he says. “But I am not any other king. Which means I’ll give you one chance, Tedros of Camelot.” Rhian lifts Tedros’ chin.

“Swear your loyalty to me and I’ll spare you,” he says. “You and your friends can live out your days rotting in my dungeons. Speak your words of surrender and Lionsmane will write them for all to see.” Tedros searches Rhian’s face.

The offer is real.

A humbled enemy is worth more to Rhian than a dead one. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a merciful king. A Good king. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a Lion instead of a Snake.

King and prince lock eyes.

Tedros spits on Rhian’s shoe. “I’d rather give you my head.” Good boy.

The king goes a dark shade of red. He stands.

“Kill him,” he says.

The executioner skulks forward, both fists on the axe handle, the leather flaps of his vest slapping against his hairy belly. I try to think harder, to will a plan into being, but I’m distracted by a young maid, shoving a basket beneath Tedros’ head, before stepping back into line next to Guinevere and the other maids.

Tedros raises his eyes to his mother, who hardly looks at him, her gaze hollow. But the veins in her neck are pulsing, her body stiff as stone.

The executioner looms over Tedros, while Rhian speaks—

“Tedros of Camelot, you are hereby charged with the crimes of treason, usurpation, embezzlement of royal funds, conspiracy with the enemy, and impersonating a king.” “Those are your crimes,” Tedros hisses.

Rhian kicks him in the mouth, crushing Tedros’ cheek against the block.

“Each of these crimes carries a penalty of death,” says the king. “Losing your head is only a fraction of what you deserve.” The leather-hooded man runs his fat fingers along Tedros’ neck, pulling down his collar and exposing his flesh to the sun. He touches his axe blade to the prince’s skin as if to measure his stroke, all the while maintaining a lustful smile.

That’s when Tedros looks back at me, petrified, realizing that I’ve lied. That there isn’t a greater power within that can save him. That he’s going to die.

My heart swoops like a diving hawk. I’ve failed him. I’ve failed us all.

The executioner leans back and swings the blade high over his shoulder. It comes crashing down towards Tedros’ neck— A crow skims his head, knocking him off-balance.

Screams rip through the crowd.

The executioner swivels, as does Rhian, but a demon’s coming too fast, slamming through the crowd like a bullet, blasting leaders aside, before it bashes into Rhian’s face, throwing the king off the stage and wrestling him downhill.

Time slows to a dream. As if Tedros is dead and my mind is masking it. I must be imagining this, because not only is a red-skinned demon biting and smacking Rhian like a rabid bat, but there’s also a magic carpet floating down over the stage—less a carpet and more a sack, its billowing sides stitched up—with two figures standing atop, like marauding pirates. . . .

The Sheriff of Nottingham.

And . . . Robin Hood?

Together?

I see Robin grin down at me: the same bumptious grin he flashed when he wanted to avoid punishment at school. Then he raises his bow and lets an arrow fly— It hits the executioner in the eye, who falls instantly, dropping his axe, missing Tedros’ head by an inch.

Another arrow flies, stabbing the pirate holding me, spilling his blood onto my dress.

Time returns to full throttle.

From inside the sack comes an army—Agatha, Hort, Anadil, Hester, Dot, and more—who dive-bomb the pirates holding the captives onstage. All are armed for battle, like warrior angels, except Agatha, who has nothing but my old bag, the outline of my heavy crystal visible through the fabric. Within seconds, they subdue the pirates and sever their friends’ binds, setting Nicola, Willam, Bogden, Aja, and Valentina free.

Meanwhile, Sophie’s already hiking her dress and fleeing the stage into the frantic crowd, as if this is everyone else’s battle but hers. I try to track her, but now I see the pirate Thiago lunging towards Tedros, who’s still bound to the chopping block— Agatha is on the pirate with a panther’s speed, swinging the bag with my crystal ball like a mace and crushing Thiago in the ribs. Gasping, he kicks her in the chest, knocking her off the stage. Thiago collapses to his knees, reaches for his sword, and with his last dregs of strength, raises it above Tedros’ spine, the prince still flailing against the block.

“TEDROS!” Agatha cries, too far to get to him—

Two pale hands grab Thiago from behind and break his neck with one twist.

Guinevere tosses his body aside. Then she seizes his sword, tears the scim off her lips and hacks it to shreds, crushing the remnants with her shoe. While she cuts Tedros loose with the goo-covered sword, she sees Agatha and her son gaping.

“I’m a knight’s wife,” she says.

Tedros grins at her, then spots Rhian in the grass, still thrashing at Hester’s demon on his face. As his mother knifes into his binds, Tedros pins his eyes on the king, his face hardening, his muscles tensing, like a caged lion about to be unleashed. But now Tedros sees Agatha climbing to her feet, her eyes on Rhian too. The instant Tedros is free, he leaps off the stage, seizes his princess, and presses his lips hard against hers, before looking her in the eyes— “Run. Somewhere safe. Understood?”

“Is that an order?” she says.

“You bet it is.”

“Good, because I never listen to those.”

Agatha’s already sprinting towards Rhian, but my bag on her arm slows her down. Tedros cuts in front of her— “He’s mine!”

He flying-tackles the king, rips Hester’s demon off him, and punches Rhian in the face. Reeling, Rhian goes for his sword but Agatha swipes it off his belt and flings it down the hill while Tedros keeps smashing the king’s head into the ground.

I shake off my daze and realize my hands are still roped behind my back, preventing me from doing magic. Even so, we’re on our way to victory, with Rhian’s thugs outnumbered. I scan the stage around me— Robin targets pirates’ hands with arrows and the Sheriff wrangles their bodies into his enchanted sack. Nicola, meanwhile, conjures a storm cloud over Wesley’s head, which zaps him with lightning, before Hort cuffs him with the rusted collar that leashed Tedros. A pirate comes barreling at Hester, swinging the axe; Hester levitates him into the air, while Anadil levitates the chopping block, before the two witches magically smash the block and pirate together (Dot turns the axe to chocolate). Kiko mogrifies into a skunk, sprays Beeba in the eyes, who writhes right into Beatrix and Reena’s rope. Ravan and Mona hold up a wooden plank they’ve stripped off the stage, while Valentina climbs it like a tree and shoots spells at pirates from overhead. Even Willam and Bogden have somehow bagged a rogue of their own.

But I don’t see Sophie fighting for us.

I don’t see Sophie at all.

For a moment, I find myself wondering whether what Rhian said was true . . . whether she sold Tedros out to save her own skin . . . whether she switched sides after all. . . .

“Watch out!” Aja cries.

I wheel around and see bodies rushing the stage—leaders of the Woods, the strongest and most able, along with more guards from the castle and Camelot’s gates—who launch into battle in defense of Rhian. If they needed proof the school is a menace, its students terrorists, we’ve given it to them. The Ice Giant of Frostplains sweeps Agatha and Tedros into his ice-blue fists and catapults them at the stage, knocking Robin and the Sheriff down like bowling pins. Beneath the giant, Rhian struggles to his knees in the grass, the king’s face a mess of blood.

Like a second wave, Hester, Anadil, and Dot hurtle at him, fingerglows ready, but the Ice Giant spins towards them, hoisting Hester’s demon up by a leg, poised to tear it apart. Hester blanches and stops short, Anadil and Dot too. The Ice Giant thrusts out a finger, magically freezing the witches into blocks of ice. He freezes the demon too, tossing it to the girls’ side.

Rhian’s recovering now . . . limping towards Excalibur. . . .

Onstage, the Fairy Queen of Gillikin slings off her crown, revealing a hive of whip-tailed fairies, who sting Robin and the Sheriff into submission before lifting them up and dropping them down the Sheriff’s own sack. Pirates tie up Beatrix, Reena, and Kiko’s skunk, while Hort lights up his fingerglow, about to morph into a man-wolf, only to be pummeled by the Elf King of Ladelflop, who shoves him to the ground next to Nicola, who he’s already bound.

At the same time, I glimpse a pirate sword abandoned on the stage and duck to my knees, trying to cut myself loose— A flurry of goose feathers and sweaty weight crushes me. “Your thugs attack my castle and you think you’ll get away with it?” the Empress of Putsi bleats, squeezing my throat.

“Rhian’s thugs . . . ,” I wheeze, but she isn’t listening, her face engorged red, her breath smelling of sausages.

As she strangles me, I see the sword close and inch my fingers onto its hilt, but I can’t breathe with the Empress’s buttocks on my chest, her nails jamming my windpipe. I scrape the swordblade against the rope cuffing my hands. My lungs, already weakened, are collapsing now. My mind fogs black, my field of vision shrinks. . . .

“You didn’t take Peeta into your school,” she boils. “Peeta, a real prince who would have challenged Tedros and warned us he was a fake! But you didn’t take him. Because you wanted to protect Tedros. Just like you’re protecting him now—” The rope breaks over my wrists.

My eyes meet hers. “I didn’t take your son . . . because he’s . . . a . . . fool.” I stab a finger and shoot her off me with a blast of light, her shrieks resounding down the hill.

I try to stand, but I’m still choking for air. Around me, our team is beaten back as dozens more pirates surge into battle.

Where are they all coming from?

The enchanted sack, I realize.

Gillikin fairies are pulling them out from inside, biting their binds loose.

The Sheriff must have caught these pirates into his sack, only to now have them used against us.

One of these pirates—the captain, Kei—drags Robin and the Sheriff out of the Sheriff’s sack too, where they’d just been held by the fairies. Both are tied at their hands and feet, and the captain shoves them down onto the stage with the rest of our defeated team, where guards and leaders assail them and my students with weapons and fists. Attacked from all sides, they shrink into the middle of the stage, collapsing on top of each other like lambs mauled by wolves. Agatha and Tedros are the only ones still standing, swinging desperately at Rhian’s men—Agatha using the bag on her arm, Tedros brandishing his knuckles—but they’re both felled in seconds, crashing backwards onto the heap of bodies. Robin, the Sheriff, Guinevere, Hort, the witches, our entire fleet: they’re flailing on the ground, surrounded by the enemy, a pile of flesh being pounded into the stage.

No one bothers with me, the frail shrew who can’t even get up.

Then I see Rhian, stalking towards the stage, blood caking his face like a mask, the Ice Giant at his side. Rhian’s heading for my students, Agatha and Tedros in his crosshairs, Excalibur in his hands.

I will myself to my knees, still dizzy. I have to save them. I have to save the king . . . the real king. . . .

But as I plant my hands on the stage’s planks, something glows through the gaps in the wood.

Green eyes flashing like a stowaway cat’s.

“Sophie,” I gasp.

“Shhh! Is it over yet? Is Rhian dead?”

“No, you spineless twit! We’re all about to die! You have to help us!” “I can’t! Robin left me a message! He said to make Rhian think I’m on his si—” She freezes. I do too.

The Queen of Jaunt Jolie is gaping at us from behind the stage, watching me and Sophie conspire like friends instead of enemies.

Sophie turns on me with fire. “You think you can trap me here under the stage while my king fights alone! You shriveled dragon! I’d rather die than abandon my love!” She raises a glowing finger and blasts me with a stun spell, shooting me backwards off the stage and crushing my flank against hard dirt.

Sophie tried to soften the blow, but magic follows emotion and her fear made the spell worse. The pain is red-hot, as if I’ve been impaled by a firebolt. My ribs are cracked, my lungs cast in iron. I try to suck air into my throat, but my ears are ringing with a tone so high and strident that I can only grit my teeth. My spirit dims like a dying candle, my heartbeat slackens, as if this is the last my body can take, as if there’s no coming back from this.

But I have to fight. No matter what it costs.

I turn my head in the dirt and pry open my eyes, my head feeling like a melon that’s been dropped from a tower. Water clouds my vision and I blink, struggling to see what’s in front of me.

The Queen of Jaunt Jolie is gone.

But Rhian’s storming towards Tedros now, the prince exposed at the top of the prisoner pile, pirates bludgeoning him. Rhian hurls his guards aside and, with a snarl, swings Excalibur at his rival’s chest— Sophie crashes into Rhian, acting as if she’s been helplessly pushed in the mayhem, sending Rhian careening onto the mound of bodies. Pirates and leaders try to extricate the king from the pile, the Ice Giant leading the efforts, while Tedros, Agatha, Hort, Robin, and others try to wrest Rhian back, their only leverage against a sure death.

Meanwhile, Sophie keeps throwing pirates aside so she can pretend to help Rhian, mewling “My king, my love!”, only to let go anytime she has a firm grip, dropping him back into the cesspool of bodies. More pirates trying to save the king get pulled into this hellpit, including the Ice Giant, who topples like a tree, smashing into the stage. Wooden planks shatter and the platform implodes, sending every last soul, friend and foe, plunging to the grass and rolling down the hill. Flying wood obliterates the frozen blocks with Hester, Anadil, Dot, and the demon, who slide out of the ice and plummet down the slope with the rest. As bodies pile up at the base of the hill like a human bonfire, those defending the king meld with the students defending the school, fists and limbs flying, screams rising up like a smoke cloud, until I haven’t the faintest clue who is who.

Except one.

A prince glowing in the sun, gold hair matted in sweat, blue eyes afire as he fights for his kingdom, his people, the way his father once did, a Lion amongst kings.

Then it comes.

The answer I’ve been waiting for.

Floating out of my soul, like a pearl.

Not an answer, but a spell.

A spell that Yuba uses for his Glass Coffin challenge. A middling, magical gimmick, but now, as I watch Tedros fight, it comes to me like water in a desert. The spell pulses at my fingertips, demanding I intervene.

I know the Storian’s rules. This is beyond a godmother’s work. This is changing the course of a fairy tale.

But it must be done.

I see everything that is about to happen, as if my mind’s eye is my real crystal ball. Yet there is no fear of what is to come. Only certainty that I’m on this field for a reason. That I came to Camelot to be here now. To do what I’m about to do.

Down the hill, Agatha and Tedros crawl for Excalibur, orphaned in the dirt, their friends and the pirates locked in muddy free-for-all around them. Sophie is racing alongside Tedros to get to the sword too, but he sideswipes her, knocking her into Agatha, taking both girls down and slowing his own progress. He realizes his mistake. Rhian lunges from the other side of the sword, his hand clasping the hilt— I raise my shaking finger and with all the will I have left, I shoot a blast of white light into the sky, which rains down as sparkling dust, touching every friend and enemy, every pirate and prince and queen and witch, every single body on the battlefield, including mine.

The war stops.

No one moves.

Because I’ve turned us all into Tedros.

Fifty Tedroses, with the same bloodied mouth and black eye, the same shredded shirt, the same stunned expression.

No one can tell who’s who.

But I can.

I know people’s hearts.

And I also know that this spell will sustain for only a minute before we revert into our bodies.

Some of the Tedroses stir with recognition.

They remember this spell.

They remember how long it lasts.

Which is why they start to run.

Hort, Hester, Nicola, Beatrix, Kiko . . . My former students too: Guinevere, Robin, the Sheriff . . . All my Tedroses sprint for the drawbridge, baffling the pirates and leaders, who don’t know whether to chase these Tedroses or escape with them. More of my Tedroses join the flight—Aja, Anadil, Dot, Valentina, Ravan, Mona—dashing for Camelot’s gates and the freedom of the Woods.

Sophie is the last to run, dragged off by Robin, who she must recognize from his cap, because she doesn’t fight. She peeks back anxiously as if panicked by the thought of being free . . . of saving herself while leaving so many Tedroses behind. . . .

Only two of my Tedroses don’t flee, looking just as dazed as the enemy Tedroses around them. The two Tedroses I knew wouldn’t run, not without finding each other first.

I’m already on my feet, stumbling downhill, my broken body masked by Tedros’ form.

Thirty seconds left.

I push myself to run faster, even as I feel myself fading. I rush into the crowd of bewildered Tedroses and grab Agatha by her tattered shirt, the bag with my crystal still on her arm— “It’s me,” I whisper, hearing my voice as Tedros’, deep and assured.

Agatha’s princely face softens. “Tedros?” she mouths.

I clasp her arm tightly. “Spell breaks in twenty seconds. Get Dovey. Take her into the Woods. She’ll lead us to the Caves of Contempo. That’s where Merlin is.” I can see the other Tedroses zeroing in on us. We’re the only ones talking.

“What about you?” Agatha presses.

“If we run together, Rhian and his men will know it’s us. I’ll meet you at the old League hideout in one hour. Then we’ll go to the caves.” “I can’t leave you—”

“You will if you want me to stay alive,” I say, my glare so sure it quiets her. “One hour. Go. Now.” “Which one is Dovey?” Agatha breathes.

I point to the real Tedros.

“That one,” I say, watching him claw out from under a pile of clones, scanning the field for his princess. “Get Dovey to the Woods. We need to rescue Merlin.” I reach for her bag, determined to get my crystal away from her. “I’ll take this.” “No,” Agatha retorts, wrenching it back with more strength than I can challenge. Her steeliness burns through her prince’s blue eyes. “One hour or I’m coming back for you.” And then she’s running, diving for Tedros and seizing him by the wrist and dragging him towards the Woods, thinking it’s me. Tedros doesn’t resist, either because he knows it’s Agatha or because it happens too fast for him or anyone else to understand— But Rhian sees them.

His Tedros knows exactly what’s happening.

He won’t let them get away.

His eyes fly to his sword on the ground.

He bolts for Excalibur—

I’m there first.

I hold up King Arthur’s sword to the boy who claims to be his son, the boy who thinks he’s king, the boy who pulled this sword out of the stone and who I could kill by its tip.

But I’ve only killed for one person in my life.

A friend I still haven’t learned to live without.

Rhian doesn’t deserve such a fate.

I have other ways.

“This is Tedros!” I declare to Rhian’s men around me, pointing Excalibur at the king. “This is the impostor! This is him!” An army of Tedroses converge on the king.

Rhian backs up. “No . . . wait . . . he’s Tedros. He’s him!” Then he gapes at me, his self-assurance cracking beneath Tedros’ facade. “But if you’re Tedros . . .” He looks back at Agatha and the prince, hurtling for the Woods. “Then who are—” “Get him!” I cry.

“No!” Rhian screams.

But it’s too late. The hyenas taste blood. His men besiege him.

I sink to my knees, Excalibur spilling out of my hands into the grass, my body drained of life despite its veneer of youth. Inside, my lungs wither. My heart falters. My eyes cloud as if I’m already far away.

As Rhian is crushed beneath his own mob, I look back at my two Tedroses, helping each other over the gatehouse wall that separates the castle from the Woods.

Suddenly they freeze, as if something in their touch has given it away. Agatha stares at the real Tedros in horror before she spins to me, the Tedros who tricked her, left behind on the battlefield— The ground shudders, followed by the echo of hooves.

A dark horse streaks across the hill like a specter.

Its rider is blacked out by the sun as he crushes through the Tedroses assailing the king, shattering their bones and spraying them aside, before he swings off his saddle and sweeps the broken Tedros into his hands.

Crouched over the king, the shadow touches Rhian, as if he knows who he is beneath Tedros’ face. His fingers run along Rhian’s bruised, bloodied chest, feeling it rise and fall, alive with breath.

Gently, he lays the king down.

Then his cool blue eyes find me like sapphires in a cave.

He moves quickly, a black fog, like Death itself.

As he stands over me, his face comes into focus.

Japeth bares his teeth, his cheeks flecked with Rhian’s blood, his fists gnarled with murder.

He pulls Excalibur out of the grass, my princely face reflected in its steel.

Behind him, I see my two Tedroses sprinting to save me—

I give them a smile.

A smile that tells them I’m at peace.

This is what I’ve chosen.

This is what I want.

They run faster, harder towards me. But it’s too late.

“Little boy who thinks he’s a man. Little boy who thinks he’s a king,” Japeth seethes at me. “You tried to kill the one I love and now look at you. On your knees, bowing down to my brother. Bowing down to the real king.” I turn my smile on Japeth.

“No Snake will ever be king,” I vow.

He puts his face to mine. “Long live Tedros.”

With a roar, the Snake swings the sword for my neck.

I look boldly into his eyes, reverting to my true form.

His eyes flare in shock as the blade hits—

I shatter to a million crystals, spraying into the air, each filling up with a youth I’ve never known before they disperse, like seeds that will grow in a new time.

What’s left of me rises like a mist, filling in stronger, deeper than ever before, higher, higher, the colors growing more vibrant around me like an aurora, until I’m awash in a swirl of celestial glow. . . .

And then, as I look up, I see someone waiting.

Someone who’s waited patiently for me all this time.

Just a little bit higher.

There is no fear of flying. No temptation to turn back.

I lift into the light, my soul laid bare, as Leonora Lesso bends down and wraps me in her arms like the wings of a swan.