فصل 12

Chapter 12

The Uninvited Guest

“Wait!” Hort yelped, chasing Aric and his men through the serrated tunnel shaped like a crocodile snout. “Shouldn’t we search the shore?” He scrambled to keep up as the tunnel grew narrower and narrower.

“Mogrif shield wouldn’t activate for nothing! Spiricks must have caught somethi—” But Aric and the boys had already vanished into the foyer. Hort peered back down the dark tunnel, tempted to go searching himself, but his hair was itchy with lice and his stomach rumbly. “Bet the girls have decent meals,” he moped, turning for the castle— A pink blast of light sizzled his skull and he crashed to the floor, head slamming on stone.

When Hort’s eyes fluttered open, he found himself splayed in his underpants and nothing else. Given he tended to lose his clothes quite often, Hort didn’t think much of this until he looked up. “What in the . . .” His black-and-red uniform magically floated away from him, towards the swarthy torchlight of the boys’ castle, before it swallowed into thin air and disappeared.

As she entered the boys’ rotted foyer, Sophie made sure the invisible cape covered every sliver of Hort’s suffocatingly snug uniform. (For a moment, she panicked that she’d swelled in size—then remembered Hort’s meager chest and flat bottom.) Under the cape, she’d stay undetected, provided she didn’t puke from the castle’s stench.

Worse than Evil’s, she thought, like sweaty socks doused in vinegar. She knew it must be the unwashed Neverboys, for the Everboys of Good were almost fussier about hygiene than the girls. Even after double Swordplay sessions last year, they’d come to lunch, hair wet, smelling minty clean, as if they’d collectively made a trip to the bath post-class. How were they possibly surviving in this rathole?

Besides an extra coat of grime and a few more leaks, the Evil foyer looked much the same. Through the sunken anteroom, she saw the three black, crooked staircases twist up to the three towers, carved MALICE, MISCHIEF, and VICE. Demonic gargoyles glared down from the rafters, torches flaring in their mouths. But as Sophie stepped into the light, she saw the boys had left their mark.

Crumbly columns decorated with swinging trolls and imps that once spelled N-E-V-E-R now spelled B-O-Y-S, while the iron statue of a bald, toothless witch had been decapitated. At the rear of the stair room, the door to the Theater of Tales had been sealed with a neurotic number of bars and locks, preventing any access to the Tunnel of Trees behind the theater. Sophie’s eyes drifted up the scorched walls, where thousands of crammed alumni portraits flaunted only boys’ faces, both Evers and Nevers. A year ago, her portrait had stood out among the villains on this very wall. Now Tedros’ took its place, with its halo of gold hair and cocksure smile. Sophie’s heart twinged at their resemblance. We’d have looked so perfect together.

Faint shouts echoed high above, with the sounds of tramping boots. Sophie tore eyes from Tedros, remembering everything he’d taken from her . . . her dreams, her innocence, her dignity. He wouldn’t take Agatha too.

Pulling her vanishing cape tight, Sophie followed the echoes up the Malice staircase—but not before shooting a spell behind her, setting the prince’s face aflame.

Agatha expected Tedros to be waiting for her once she slogged up the decaying thirty-flight staircase from the Bridge to the open-air belfry. After all, she’d crossed the Bridge as ordered and come to him at risk to her life and others’. But the belfry’s round cloister was deserted, shadowed by the School Master’s sky-high tower rising above it. What’s he waiting for? Agatha thought, glaring up at its distant window.

With less than an hour before Sophie woke up, Agatha didn’t have time for a prince’s poor planning. If Tedros wasn’t going to come to her, she knew who would take her to him.

A castle full of boys can end one of two ways. Either its inhabitants channel aggression into order, discipline, and productivity. Or they degenerate into hormonal apes. As Sophie stepped onto the fifth floor of Malice Hall, she saw Tedros’ school had gone the latter.

Hooting, half-naked boys in black breeches hung from the rafters and crammed into every inch of the sweltering hall, as if spending time in each other’s sweat was preferable to being in their rooms. The scorched stone floor was smeared with rotted banana, breadcrumbs, egg yolks, ham bones, chicken feathers, and milky stains, while the gray brick walls were graffitied with infantile warmongering against girls—WHO NEEDS GIRLS, I HATE GIRLS, and caricatures of Evergirls and Nevergirls being eaten by wolves, pitched from towers, and cast off a ship plank. Hidden against the wall, Sophie inched closer, expecting nothing less from smelly, villainous Neverboys . . . until she saw it wasn’t the Neverboys at all.

Hairy, burly Chaddick swung from the ceiling, whooping and kicking open rooms, while handsome, dark-skinned Nicholas fired stun spells at a cornered mouse. Regal-nosed Tarquin and muscled Oliver took turns punching each other’s flat stomachs; baby-faced Hiro led a burping contest; and quiet Bastian beat bongos, all pausing to join Chaddick’s fist-raising chant of “We Are Men, Mighty and Free.” Sophie blinked, aghast. What happened to beautiful, chivalrous Everboys? What happened to princes-to-be?

“Bonded by strength and fraternity,” the boys bellowed, “Gods beyond authority—” A door slammed open. “If we’re not back to Good and Evil soon, I’m going to kill all of you,” Ravan hissed in his pajamas, matted black hair and brown skin oilier than ever. “It’s enough we’re out of food, we’ve lost our teachers, and we’re down to the only floor in this stinking castle with bathrooms that ain’t flooded. All you have to do is slay one witch—one measly witch—and you’re too busy havin’ a house party!” Pointy-eared Vex blearily poked out next to him. “Isn’t killing witches Good’s job?” he yawned.

“There is no Good as long as there’s Girls!” Chaddick barked back. “We’re men first!” “Men first!” Everboys chorused.

“We want to stay up all night and never bathe? We want to raise hell and never clean? We want to mark our territory like dogs?” Chaddick thundered. “Who’s gonna stop us!” No wonder it smells, Sophie thought, invisible in the corner. She squinted out the window at the School Master’s soaring spire. How would she get up there? And how would she get to Tedros in time? Her stomach plunged. Suppose Agatha was already with him!

Sophie slowly unclenched. She was still here, wasn’t she? Which meant Agatha hadn’t kissed her prince yet. Her pulse quickened with hope. Perhaps Agatha hadn’t made it to the boys’ school at all.

She shielded her ears from Everboys’ deafening stomps and monkey hoots, as more and more Neverboys jabbed sleepy heads out.

“You hear me!” Chaddick howled, pounding his chest. “Who’s gonna stop u—” A purple spell slammed into him, zipping his mouth shut. Sophie twirled and saw Aric stomp by, violet eyes glowing, followed by his four chiseled henchmen. Spooked boys straightened in front of their doors, hands to head in salute, as Aric paced through the hall, inspecting each. Only Chaddick didn’t raise his hand. Aric leaned in and glared into his gray eyes.

“May I remind you that given your failure to kill Sophie in the Woods, Master Tedros has replaced you as captain,” Aric said, gold badge glinting. “And unfortunately, neither I nor my henchmen have the same tolerance for idiocy as our predecessor.” Screams echoed from the dungeon below.

“My boys relish any chance to punish an Ever. But a former Ever captain?” Aric smiled at Chaddick. “The Doom Room would have a proper reopening, indeed.” Red faced, Chaddick forced a desultory salute. “That’s better,” Aric said, unzipping his rival’s mouth.

“How’d you and your henchmen break through Lady Lesso’s shield if none of the princes can?” Chaddick spat. “Why should we trust you?” “Because I have an investment in this war, greater than anyone else’s,” Aric said coldly, walking away.

“If you broke through the shield, then why haven’t you broken the princes in too?” Nicholas shouted. “We could have killed Sophie by now!” “Yeah,” hollered Vex, “why hasn’t Tedros kissed Agatha?”

“Why aren’t we back to Good and Evil?” Ravan yelled.

All the Nevers jumped in with “Evil! Evil! Evil!” until Aric roared and they shut up.

“How do we know it’s just Sophie who’s our enemy . . . ,” he snarled. “And not Agatha too?” The Neverboys gaped at him. “B-b-b-but Agatha wished for Tedros,” Ravan said anxiously. “She wants to fix her fairy tale—she wants to fix our schools—” “And how do we know her wish isn’t a trap?” Aric said. “These are two girls who said their fairy tale doesn’t need a prince. Two girls whose kiss evicted men from kingdoms. Two girls who now want to make all of you boys slaves.” The boys went dead quiet.

Their captain’s eyes slowly raised to the corner. “They could be in our castle right now . . .” Sophie’s heart stopped, sweat crawling down her leg.

“Plotting their attack . . .”

Aric’s violet pupils zeroed in on her. . . . A drop of sweat beaded off Sophie’s invisible cape. “Listening to these very words . . .” His eyes traced down, just as her sweat hit the floor—

“I GOT HER! I GOT SOPHIE!”

The boys whipped around to see Hort in his underpants dragging a girl in a blue uniform down the hall, her head masked by his red hood. Yet his prisoner showed surprisingly little resistance and, in fact, seemed to be dragging him, leaving Hort huffing and puffing— “I told you! I told you someone was out there! She took my clothes and burnt Tedros’ portrait and I saw her in the dark and I get the treasure ‘cause I caught—” He tore off the hood, revealing Agatha.

“Not Sophie,” Hort gulped.

Sophie stifled a cry.

Aric skulked towards Agatha, baring ragged teeth. “How did you get in.” Agatha glimpsed his captain’s badge and stood her ground. “Take me to Tedros now.” “And why should I listen to an intruder?” Aric growled, finger glowing purple. “Why should I trust a friend of the witch?” “Because I’m here to save you from her,” Agatha said, knife-sharp.

Aric’s face changed, and the hall silenced.

“Sophie is turning into a witch again. Forever, this time.” Agatha’s mouth started to dry out, her voice fading. She hesitated a long moment, then finally looked up.

“All your lives are in danger unless I see Tedros.”

Sophie froze behind Agatha, shell-shocked by what she was hearing.

“How long do we have?” said Chaddick, stepping out behind Aric.

“Until she finds out I’m here,” Agatha answered, a red rash spreading across her neck.

The boys murmured as Sophie stayed trapped in the corner, eyes filling with tears.

Aric stared at Agatha, studying her face. His fingerglow extinguished and he stalked from the hall. “Follow me.” Agatha trailed after him, darkened by his shadow.

Sophie followed close behind, noticing her friend’s legs shaking. She knew they were thinking the same thing.

Agatha may not have kissed her prince yet. But her and Sophie’s happy ending was already gone forever.

Agatha kept up with Aric across a craggy red-stone catwalk to the School Master’s tower, clutching her arms in the wind. “Tedros knew I was coming,” she said, nodding towards the skyscraping spire. “Why wasn’t he waiting for me?” Aric didn’t reply. With his cruel violet eyes and deep, eloquent voice, he reminded Agatha of the best villains. How did he break through Lesso’s shield? she wondered, her mind flooding more questions. With a ways to the tower, she saw the chance to have them answered.

“What happened to your teachers?”

“After the castles changed and Dean Sader appeared, our teachers charged the Bridge to fight her.” Aric paused. “They never made it across.” “Why? Where’d they go—”

A loud thunk echoed behind Agatha, and she and Aric turned. A loose stone had fallen off the castle railing a few steps behind.

“Must have brushed it,” Agatha said, sheepish.

Aric studied the stone carefully and resumed walking.

“What happened to the Bridge?” Agatha pressed. “And the stymphs—” “One of the many reasons I hate princesses is they don’t find answers for themselves,” Aric groused.

Agatha quietly dropped behind. Against the dawning sky, the boys’ castle glowed angry red, while across the bay, the girls’ castle shone sapphire, like a vision of heaven and hell. Agatha looked over the railing at the boys’ shores below, where the white crogs feasted on scraps of skeletons, littered all over the banks. Agatha wondered what creatures could possibly create so much bony carnage . . . then saw a skull intact far off the shore. So much for her question about the stymphs.

A squeal flew behind her.

Agatha whipped around. No one was there.

“What is it?” Aric called back.

Agatha squinted down the empty catwalk. “Probably a rat,” she said, eager to move on.

As they neared the School Master’s tower, Agatha peered up at its pea-sized window, cloaked by cloud mist. “How are we going to get up ther—” Aric unleashed a whistle, and a massive rope of braided blond hair flung out the window and tumbled to the Bridge below. The captain leered at Agatha and grabbed on to it. “Hope princesses can climb.” Scowling, Agatha jumped on, bare feet scratchy against the dried-out hair. Pulling herself towards the faraway window, Agatha didn’t flag, even with the crogs gnashing in the moat below, even with the strange sensation of something under her weighing down the rope. Farther and farther she rose, into lashing winds, determined to stop a witch. . . . But with each pull upwards, thoughts of Sophie receded, something deeper propelling her. Her reflection had seen what she couldn’t admit. This wasn’t for Good anymore. This was for a boy.

The old graveyard girl sloughed away as Agatha surged into fog, her heart cracking open to a new ending. Her fingers sprouted blisters as sweat soaked her back, but still Agatha climbed. She was so close now, so close to the end . . . grasping higher, higher, like Rapunzel’s prince . . . finding more and more strength . . . until at last she saw the pointed spire prick through clouds.

Above her, Aric smoothly swung off the braid anchored to the window and vanished through the opening into the School Master’s chamber. Agatha waited for the rope to settle, then dragged up the last few lengths and raised her head enough to peek inside— Two shirtless boys clashed swords in spirited fight, one pale in a red hood, one tan in a silver mask. Dodging and recoiling, they bashed into bookshelves lining the ashy walls, spilling colorful storybooks all over the stone floor. The pale boy nicked the tan one’s chest, the tan boy nicked the pale one’s calf, leaving twin welts as their swords slammed once more.

Now the pale boy turned aggressor, driving the tan boy towards a stone table against the far wall, where a thick storybook lay open to its last page. Iron chains strung down from both sides of the ceiling, restraining something in place over the storybook . . . a long sliver of steel like a knitting needle, sloping to a deadly sharp nib . . . an enchanted pen, flailing to break free. . . .

Agatha’s eyes widened.

The Storian.

Agatha watched the pale hooded boy battle the tan boy back, the hooded one’s eyes dead set on the chained pen. Fending off the pale boy’s blows, the tan one tripped on a book and faltered. The pale boy bucked past him, lunging straight for the pen— “Aric,” smiled the tan boy, seeing the captain. Spooked, the pale one whirled around.

“Says he wants to guard the Storian with me,” the tan one said. He pulled off the pale boy’s hood to reveal Tristan, hair bright red, long-nosed face dotted with freckles. “Thought I’d put his skills to the test.” “Shouldn’t even be up here, master,” Aric lashed, glowering at Tristan, who anxiously stared at his shoes. “Comes and goes, does as he pleases. Deserves punishment—” “Leave him be. Doesn’t fit in with the other boys, does he?” said the tan boy, pulling off the School Master’s silver mask. Tedros shook the sweat off his thick gold hair and sheathed his sword, Excalibur. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective hilt—his body bigger, harder than a year ago, his cheeks glazed with glistening stubble, his jaw steel tight. He turned back to Aric. “Need to make sure we end things right this time and an extra guard can’t hurt. Besides, until Sophie’s dead, I might as well have some company. How the School Master stayed up here without slitting his throat out of boredom, I haven’t the faintest ide—” His voice petered off. A shadow stood in front of the window, its two big brown eyes staring through darkness like a cat’s.

Aric cleared his throat. “Master, we found her trespass—”

The coldness of Tedros’ gaze stopped him. Bare chested, Tedros moved past him towards the window. With each step, he slowly watched the shadows recede . . . over short black hair . . . skin white as snow . . . thin, pink lips, in a terrified smile. . . .

Standing at the window, Agatha held her breath, neck burning even redder than before. Tedros’ face was harsher than she remembered, his presence darker, the innocent, boyish glow . . . gone. But deep inside his eyes, she could still see him. The boy she’d fought to forget. The boy who came in her sleep. The boy her soul couldn’t live without.

“Take Tristan and go,” Tedros said finally, not looking at Aric.

Aric frowned. “Master, I must insist on—”

“It’s an order.”

Aric grabbed Tristan by the throat and shoved him down the rope, leaving the prince alone with his princess.

Or so he thought.

Invisible under her cape, Sophie was still puffing from her climb up the hair. She crouched deeper beneath the stone table, the Storian struggling to break free over her and Agatha’s storybook. Despite her squeal on the Bridge—she’d gashed her leg on a broken brick—somehow she’d made it to Tedros alive and unfound. But as Tedros moved towards Agatha, Sophie’s relief flushed to panic. For as she looked at a prince and princess deep in each other’s eyes, she knew her story was already over.

Agatha had chosen a boy.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“You’re . . . here,” Tedros said, touching Agatha’s arm as if unsure she was real.

Feeling his hand, Agatha’s neck went violent red. She couldn’t get the words to form—he needed to move back—he needed a— “Shirt,” she croaked.

“What? Oh—” Tedros reddened and grabbed a sleeveless black shirt off the floor, pulling it on. “I just—I didn’t think that—” His eyes scanned the room. “You’re here . . . alone?” Agatha frowned. “Of course—”

“She’s not here with you?” Tedros craned out the window, squinting down the rope.

“I came here like you asked,” Agatha said, thrown. “I came for you.” Tedros stared at her oddly. “But that’s . . . How could . . .” His eyes hardened as if a door inside had closed. “You. You put me through hell.” Agatha exhaled, prepared for this. “Tedros . . .”

“You kissed her, Agatha. You kissed her instead of me. Do you know what that did to me? Do you know what that did to everything?” “She saved my life, Tedros.”

“And ruined mine,” he said furiously. “My whole life, girls only liked me for my crown, my fortune, my looks, none of which I’ve earned. You were the first girl who saw through all of it . . . who saw something inside me worth liking, however stupid and impetuous and prat headed I can be.” Tedros paused, hearing his voice crack. When he looked back up, his face was cold. “But every night, I had to sleep knowing I’m not enough. I had to sleep knowing my princess chose a girl.” “I didn’t have a choice!” Agatha insisted.

Tedros scowled and turned away. “You could have taken my hand. You could have stayed here and let her go home.” He looked down at the last page of the book beneath the Storian—his own shadow slumping into darkness alone. “Don’t say you didn’t have a choice. You had a choice.” “A choice a boy could never understand.” Agatha looked at his back turned to her. “All my life, I was a freak, Tedros. No one let their pets near me, let alone their kids. As I got older, I holed up in a graveyard because I could forget the things I didn’t have. Like someone to talk to. Or someone who wanted to talk to me. I started to tell myself that being alone was real power. That we all die eventually and rot to maggots, so what’s the point anyway . . .” She paused. “But then Sophie came. Four o’clock on the dot after school. I’d wait for her by the door every day, ‘like a dog’ my mother said, longing for that hour before sunset we’d have together. I’d watch her as the sky went dark . . . the way she fidgeted, like she didn’t want me to go home either, even if she pretended I was a Good Deed. She made me feel loved for the first time in my life.” Agatha smiled, hearing the lightness in her voice. “And I knew everything would be okay in the end, no matter how our stories turned out. We’d have each other in our trapped, pointless little village, always each other, and that was the happiest ending I could imagine. Because she was my friend, Tedros. The only friend I’d ever known. And I couldn’t imagine a life without her.” Tedros didn’t move, his back still to her. Slowly, he turned, his face soft.

“Then why did you wish for me?”

Agatha looked down. She held the words as long as she could, afraid to say them out loud.

“Because now I need more than a friend.”

Silence fell, broken only by soft sniffles that Agatha knew must be hers, even though they sounded far away.

She felt Tedros’ arm on hers and looked up into his luminous blue eyes.

“I’m here, Agatha,” he breathed. “Right here.”

Agatha felt tears stinging. “She’ll never forgive me for it,” she rasped, shaking under his warm touch. “Sophie’s becoming a witch again. She’ll kill us both.” Tedros’ eyes flashed. He charged for the window, drawing his sword—“We need the princes—” “No!” Agatha said, grabbing him by the shirt.

“But you said—”

“We can end this. We can . . . rewrite our story.” Agatha’s mouth parched. Her face went pink. “S-s-she’ll go home. Like you wanted her to. No one has to die.” Tedros’ face slowly calmed, understanding.

Holding his gaze, Agatha pried Excalibur from his calloused fingers, its golden hilt sinking into her hand. She saw the fear in Tedros’ eyes, felt the sweat of his palm, and let her hand stay against his a moment longer. Their eyes stayed locked as Agatha stepped back, blade pointed towards him. Tedros watched her, nostrils flaring, neck veins pulsing, like a tiger on edge. “Trust me,” she whispered, gripping the sword tighter. . . .

Then she swiveled to the Storian over the table and slashed it free from its chains. Tedros lunged towards it in surprise— The enchanted pen plunged with relief to the storybook, conjuring a new last page. From its nib spilled a brilliant painting, a vision of prince and princess in their tower chamber, hands on each other, poised to seal “The End” with their kiss.

Tedros froze, gazing at the painting. He heard the sword clink to the ground behind him. Slowly he turned to see Agatha’s cheeks burning fiery pink.

“You’d stay here forever?” Tedros’ throat bobbed. “With . . . me?” Agatha reached out a shaking hand and touched him, mirroring the storybook painting.

“The Storian will only write ‘The End’ if I mean it,” she said quietly. “And everything in my heart tells me it’s with you.” Tedros’ eyes misted. “It’s always the princess who gets her fairy-tale ending,” he said, taking in Agatha’s face. “This time, it feels like it’s mine.” The silence thickened as Agatha pulled him in by the waist, the sound of the Storian grazing the page behind them. He could see their two shadows coalesce in the Storian’s shining steel . . . feel her shallow breaths as she drew him against her. Tedros’ muscles softened as his princess gripped him tighter . . . tighter . . . bringing his lips to hers— He jolted back. There was a black shadow in the pen’s steel.

Tedros whirled around—

Nothing but the pen.

“She’s here,” he breathed, backing away. “She’s here somewhere.” “Tedros?” Agatha frowned, confused—

Tedros hunted behind bookshelves. “Where is she! Where’s Sophie!” “She’s not here!” Agatha pressed, reaching for him—

He drew away sharply. “I c-c-can’t—not if that witch is alive—” Agatha’s eyes flared. “But she’ll be gone forever!”

“She’s a witch,” Tedros seethed. “As long as Sophie’s on this earth, she’ll find a way to tear us apart!” “No! You can’t hurt her! Tedros, this is the only way—”

“I let her live last time because of you, and she took you,” Tedros retorted. “I can’t make the same mistake, Agatha. I can’t lose you again!” “Listen to me!” Agatha said, glowing crimson. “I’m willing to give up everything I know for you! Never see my home again! Never see my mother again!” Agatha clasped his shoulders. “She’s not part of our story anymore. That’s why you told me to come tonight. Because you don’t want to hurt her. Because you know I’m enough.” She held him tighter, staring into his eyes. “Let her go home. Please, Tedros. Because I won’t let you touch her.” Tedros peered at her oddly again. “I forgot how strange you are.” Agatha tackled him in a hug, tearing with relief. “A strange princess,” she whispered against his chest. “About time we had one of those.” “Who tells strange stories.”

“Like what,” Agatha smiled, tilting up to his kiss. . . .

“That I told you to come tonight,” said the prince.

Agatha lurched back from him, smile gone.

The only sound in the chamber was the sound of an invisible girl’s sniffles suddenly stopping.

Aric stormed down the catwalk. Females can’t be trusted. He’d learned that lesson young. In the distance, he could see Tristan’s pale legs fleeing into the castle. What a waste of a man. Shouldn’t even be called a ma— He stopped.

Slowly Aric kneeled down to the ground and looked at a broken brick on the catwalk railing, dripping with fresh blood.

Aric’s finger lit up, and he blasted a flare into the castle to call his men.

He didn’t remember Agatha bleeding.

Hidden under the table, Sophie watched Agatha retreat from Tedros, his blue eyes dimming.

“You t-t-told me to come,” Agatha stammered. “You told me to cross the Bridge—” “We blew up the Bridge, so you can’t have crossed it,” Tedros shot back. “Only a witch’s magic could have gotten you here.” “But I—I saw you, Tedros! In the classroom—in the wind—”

“What?” Tedros scoffed.

“I saw—your—your—” Agatha’s voice faded away, replaced by the Dean’s echo.

“Sometimes we see what we want to see.”

A phantom. Her heart had birthed a phantom, just like all the other girls’.

Only she’d believed her phantom was real.

Slowly Agatha looked up at her prince, his finger raised at her, glowing gold.

“You never came,” she whispered.

“How did you get here, Agatha?” Tedros said, blocking the Storian from her with his body. His lit finger stayed pointed at her, visibly shaking. “How did you cross the Bridge?” Agatha backed up, her own finger glowing to defend. “By trusting you,” she breathed, head spinning. The arrows. The Wanted signs. The princes at the gate.

“This was never about me . . . ,” she said. “This was about revenge on Sophie . . .” “Don’t you see? You thought you knew your heart last time too,” Tedros pleaded. “I’m doing this for you, Agatha. For us.” “Why can’t you trust me?” Agatha choked. “Why does she have to die?” Tedros gazed at their lit fingers, each pointed at the other.

“Because one day you might change your mind again,” he said softly.

His eyes lifted, racked with pain.

“One day you might wish for her instead of me.”

“Please, Tedros,” Agatha begged. “Please let her go—”

“What if I tried to hurt you right now?” Her prince’s eyes were wide, scared. “Would she show herself? Would she save you?” “She’s not here! I choose you, Tedros!”

“Choosing me isn’t enough this time, Agatha.”

Tedros looked right through her, like he did in her dream.

“This time I’m making sure of it.”

Agatha gasped.

In a flash, Sophie saw her chance and blasted a pink spell between them—Agatha lunged, thinking it was Tedros’; Tedros dodged, thinking it was Agatha’s. Instantly, ten red hoods launched through the window, arrows drawn at Agatha. Agatha retreated in shock, surrounded on all sides. She glowered at Tedros, cheeks blotched with fury— “You’re an animal,” she hissed. “I’ll never choose you. You hear me? Never!” She shot a spell and the window’s dawn light magically went out, plunging the tower into darkness. A moment later, the light came back—but Agatha was gone.

Tedros swiveled to the window, but the rope and catwalk were deserted, his princess lost. Rage cooled in his blood. He could have had happiness right then and there. He could have had The End. But he’d let his obsession with a witch poison it once more. Now he was alone with the pen, his Ever After ruined by his own hand.

“She told the truth,” he whispered. “I’m—I’m a fool—”

“Not quite.”

Tedros turned. Aric looked down at the Storian as it finished a rich-hued painting in the storybook: a vision of Tedros and Agatha shooting spells at each other, surrounded by armed henchmen. Only as Tedros stepped closer, he saw there was someone else in the painting . . . someone else beneath the table, smiling gleefully under her invisible cape. . . .

Tedros’ and Aric’s eyes slowly moved beneath the table, Sophie long gone.

“Agatha was lying all along, master,” Aric said. “They were both here to kill you.” Tedros fell silent, staring at the painting, mouth open with shock. He saw his ashen face reflected in the Storian, waiting for his next move. He looked away.

“The princes,” he rasped. “It’s—it’s time you let them in, isn’t it?” Aric grinned. “I’d say it is.”

Tedros listened to him and his henchmen go.

“Aric.”

He heard his captain stop behind him.

“Tell them the bounty isn’t just for one head anymore.”

Tedros turned, scarlet red.

“It’s for two.”

As the sun broke, a frantic, big-eyed fly squeezed under the locked Theater of Tales door in the boys’ castle and to their Tunnel of Trees, blocked entirely by rocks. Wheezing with panic, the fly sputtered and skirted around rock after rock until it made it back to the Clearing.

Dripping tears, Agatha’s fly flew up the girls’ towers, towards her room atop Honor’s blue turret, terrified of what she’d find. Grazing the open window and chipping her wing, she crashed to her friend’s bed . . . the friend she’d betrayed to boys, the friend she’d traded for a prince, the friend she’d vowed was a deadly witch . . .

But racing up the sheets, Agatha froze in horror. For she’d seen what she’d wanted to see, from finish to start.

Sophie smiled as she slept, like the most peaceful of nights.

Her neck creamy and bare, not a wart in sight.