فصل 25

25

The Scorpion and the Frog

For the next week, Tedros was a ghost.

No one saw him during the days—not in the house, nor on the moors, or near the oak grove—and no one had the slightest clue if or where he slept. Guinevere fretted her son would starve, until Agatha gently suggested they leave a basket of food on the porch for him in the evenings. By the morning, it was always gone.

To Agatha, his disappearing act was at once a terror and a relief. On the one hand, the sun was getting smaller every day, leaving the moors streaked in permanent pink and purple sunset. The world was barreling to an end and the prince who could save it with a kiss was nowhere to be found.

And yet, it also meant for the first time in weeks, Agatha didn’t have to think about that prince. The two of them had become inextricable, the way she and Sophie had once been. Every thought she’d had these past few weeks had been consumed with Tedros: worrying about Tedros, fighting with Tedros, making up with Tedros—Tedros, Tedros, Tedros, until she’d run herself ragged living life from both their points of view. With the prince gone, she suddenly remembered she was a full human being without him. And indeed, if being alone was her ending to come . . . then now was the time to start preparing for it.

By the sixth day, she and the group had settled into a routine, like a ragtag family. Hort spent his days with Lancelot doing chores around the farm. From morning until night, they’d milk cows, till the vegetable garden, gather eggs from chickens, shear sheep, bathe the horses, and manage a frisky goat named Fred who chased any animal of female persuasion halfway across the moors. Caked in sweat, smelling of hay and manure, Hort seemed elated to be useful to such a virile man, and they looked almost like father and son with their oily black hair, puffed-up chests, and swaggering gaits.

Guinevere, meanwhile, had the house to manage, with an endless amount of laundry, sewing, cooking, and cleaning on account of the extra guests, all of which she did eagerly, rejecting any offer of help, as if she needed the work to distract her from her thoughts.

Which left Agatha and Sophie on their own.

For the first time since they lost their Ever After, the two girls didn’t have a boy between them. Trapped on these heaths with nothing to do, it was like they were back in sheltered Gavaldon, with a world of princes and fairy tales far far away.

While Hort slept on the couch in the den, the two girls had to share a bed in the small guest room. Each morning, they’d have bacon and eggs with Hort, Lancelot, and Guinevere, do their best to tidy up before Tedros’ mother shooed them out, and spend the rest of the morning walking the moors or riding horses together.

The first week, they seemed to have forgotten how to be friends at all. At night, each girl rolled to her side of the bed and murmured something half-hearted. During walks and rides, their stilted conversation revolved around what might be for lunch, the abundance of farm animals, and the weather (which given the magical location, was invariably the same). Agatha noticed Sophie was edgy and preoccupied, constantly peeking at her ring and Tedros’ name tattooed beneath it. Whenever Lancelot crossed their path, Sophie pretended to fix a fingernail or adjust her shoe, avoiding eye contact. Sometimes, Agatha would catch her tossing in her sleep, murmuring disconnected phrases: “Don’t listen to him” . . . “black-swan gold” . . . “hearts don’t lie,” before Sophie would wake up shaky and red faced and seal herself in the bathroom.

Agatha, meanwhile, still couldn’t get comfortable around her old friend. While traveling with Merlin, she’d convinced herself that letting Sophie end with Tedros was the Good thing to do—first, because Sophie would destroy her ring and kill the School Master; and second, because if she couldn’t be the queen Tedros needed, shouldn’t Sophie have her chance?

But Hort’s words at the pond had put a dent in her convictions. For one thing, while Sophie aspired to rule one of Good’s kingdoms, here she was holding Good hostage over her ring. Even if agreeing to her terms would save Good’s future . . . it still seemed Evil.

More importantly, could Sophie really make Tedros happy? Tedros might appear strong and swaggery, but deep inside he was gentle, lonely, and soft. How could Sophie know every part of him? How could she take care of him? The more Agatha tried to envision their Ever After, the more she had a sinking feeling, as if reliving an old story. As if she were Lancelot now, surrendering Tedros to Sophie, like the knight had once surrendered Guinevere to Arthur. What Good had come of that in the end?

As the days passed and Tedros didn’t return, each girl seemed to slip further into private doubts, speaking less and less to the other . . .

Then came Nellie Mae.

For the past six days, Agatha had been riding a horse named Benedict, which she’d chosen for his scrawny legs, rumpled black coat, and hacking cough.

“Goodness, Aggie, don’t you read storybooks?” Sophie said after Guinevere had opened the stable of riding horses that first day. “Black horses are untrainable, untamable, and mean. Besides, he sounds like he’s on death’s door. What in the world possessed you to pick him?” “Reminded me of myself,” Agatha said, rubbing his neck and finding a handful of fleas.

Sophie, meanwhile, had chosen an elegant, chestnut-skinned Arabian mare named Nellie Mae, with a striking white tail.

“So much character in her eyes,” Sophie admired. “For all we know, she belonged to Scheherazade.” “Schehere-who?”

“Oh Aggie, didn’t they teach you any princess history at that Good school?” Sophie said, mounting her horse. “Not every fairy-tale princess is creamy white with a small nose and a name like Buttercup or—” Agatha didn’t hear the rest because Nellie Mae had bolted from the stables like a demon out of hell.

For the rest of the week, Sophie tried in vain to control her mare, which kicked and neighed and spat at her, only obeying Sophie if she strangled it by the reins . . . while Agatha calmly rode Benedict as if coasting down a river.

Still, day after day, Sophie refused to switch Nellie Mae, as if admitting her poor taste in horses would somehow invalidate all her life choices. But this morning, after Nellie Mae stomped on her toe, farted in her face, and spent a good deal of time walking in a circle, Sophie finally turned to Agatha. “She’s as difficult as me, isn’t she?” Agatha snorted. “You’re worse.”

“What is it with me and foul-tempered animals?” Sophie mewled as Nellie Mae swayed back and forth, trying to fling her off. “Is this because I didn’t take Animal Communication?” “Problem is you’re fighting it instead of trusting it,” said Agatha. “Sometimes there’s more to the story than you, Sophie. You can’t pick everything at first sight, just because it looks good, and then force it to be with you, like a handbag or a dress. Relationships are more complicated than that. You can’t control the story from both sides.” “Wouldn’t you try to control your story if everyone told you your heart was Evil, when you know it isn’t? Wouldn’t you try to prove them wrong?” Sophie fought, gripping the reins. “I have a Good heart, just like you, and I trust what it chooses for me. I have to. Because if I don’t, what do I have left?” Agatha met her eyes. Neither of them were talking about horses anymore.

Sophie stroked Nellie Mae’s head. “I am ready for a relationship, Aggie. You’ll see.” She whispered into the horse’s ear. “Right, Nellie Mae? We’re a team for Good, you and I. I trust you and you trust m—” Nellie Mae bucked Sophie so hard she flipped backwards and landed face-first on her horse’s rump, before Nellie Mae took off across the moors.

“Aggggieeeeeeeee!” Sophie screamed.

For a moment, Agatha relished the sight of Sophie dragged into oblivion, her nose in the horse’s buttocks, her buttocks on the horse’s head, before Agatha realized that if she didn’t stop them, Nellie Mae wouldn’t ever stop.

With a firm kick to Benedict’s side, Agatha raced after Sophie’s horse, while Hort and Lancelot hooted from the sheep’s meadow, thoroughly entertained.

The problem, of course, was that as kind as he was, Benedict lived life at a glacial pace and saw no reason to move any faster, especially given how little regard he had for both Sophie and Nellie Mae. But now Agatha glimpsed a deep swamp patch ahead of Sophie’s horse, bounded by a fallen tree the size of a boulder.

Nellie Mae accelerated towards the tree, perhaps seeing a chance to rid herself of her rider once and for all.

“Sophie, watch out!” Agatha yelled.

Sophie looked up and gasped—

Nellie Mae leapt over the tree, throwing Sophie headlong into swamp mud, before the horse landed gracefully on the other side and galloped into the sunrise.

Sophie heard Agatha’s horse trotting up. “Now do you take back the part about me being more difficult?” Sophie groaned, caked in mud.

Agatha looked down from her horse and held out a hand. “No.” “Fair enough,” Sophie sighed, pulling up and climbing onto Benedict behind her.

As they rode towards the house, Sophie gripping onto her, Agatha felt her friend’s head rest on her shoulder.

“Still rescuing me after all these years, Aggie,” Sophie whispered, nuzzling in.

“Have you ever heard of a fairy tale called The Scorpion and the Frog?” Agatha asked.

“Obviously. Do you not know it? Really, as much as I like Clarissa Dovey, her curriculum seems woefully thin.” Sophie cleared her throat. “Once upon a time, a scorpion desperate to cross a stream sees a frog safe on the other side and asks him for a ride. The frog doesn’t want to help, of course, because he says the scorpion will surely sting and kill him. The scorpion replies that to kill the frog would be foolish, for he can’t swim, and if the frog dies, so will he. Convinced of this logic, the frog offers the scorpion a ride . . . but as they start to cross the river, the scorpion instantly stings the frog. ‘You fool!’ the frog croaks as he sinks. ‘Now we both shall die!’ But the scorpion only shrugs and does a jig on the drowning frog’s back. ‘I could not help myself,’ the scorpion says—” “It’s my nature,” Agatha finished.

Sophie smiled, surprised. “So you do know it!”

“Better than you can imagine,” Agatha said sharply.

Sophie didn’t say another word for the rest of the ride.

By the next day, the girls had fallen back into their old friendship, with Agatha grumbling at Sophie’s monologues, Sophie teasing Agatha over her clumsiness, and the two of them bickering and giggling like teenagers in love. The days rolled by, into the second week, and still there was no sign of the prince, except for the missing baskets of food each morning. And yet, his absence brought Sophie and Agatha closer and closer, whether they were drinking cherry punch in front of a fire, exploring the moorlands, or gabbing and snuggling with each other well after the rest of the house was asleep.

“Why do you think Lancelot and Guinevere have a guest room at all?” asked Agatha one evening, as they shared a picnic basket in a wild garden about a mile from the house. “It’s not like they can have guests. Except Merlin, I suppose, but he prefers to sleep in a tree.” Sophie stared at her.

“The things you learn when you’re camping with someone,” Agatha smirked, picking at a slice of Guinevere’s almond cake. “Do you think she and Lancelot wanted a child together?” “It would explain the puerile choice of wallpaper,” groused Sophie, sipping at homemade cucumber juice.

“But what’s stopping them? Been more than six years since Merlin hid them here.” “Maybe Guinevere realized she didn’t want a child with a man whose personality is as odious as his hygiene,” Sophie snipped.

When they were finished, they treaded farther into the flower garden, reveling in the hazy air and feeling of safety, as if they were in a bigger, better version of the Blue Forest.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” said Agatha, sucking the honey out of a honeysuckle. “When we came back to the Woods, Tedros and I found a portal through your mother’s grave on Graves Hill. But there was no body in it. And when we came out the other side—” “My mother had a villain’s grave on Necro Ridge.”

Agatha looked at Sophie, thrown.

“The things you learn when you’re camping with someone,” Sophie smiled. “Tedros told me everything that happened before you both rescued me. But it doesn’t make sense to me either, Aggie. It has to be the Crypt Keeper’s mistake. I know your mother didn’t tell you she’d been at school, but my mother would have told me. She never went to the School for Good and Evil. She never went into the Woods. I’m sure of it. So the Storian couldn’t have written her fairy tale. Because my mother died right in front of me . . .” Sophie stopped, voice faltering. “Like yours died in front of you.” Agatha’s throat dried out.

“I’m so sorry, Aggie,” Sophie rasped.

Agatha felt old emotions rise as Sophie wrapped her in a smothering hug. For the first time since she left Gavaldon, Agatha wept for her mother.

“Callis loved you so much,” Sophie whispered, rubbing her friend’s back. “Even if she hated me.” “She didn’t hate you. She just assumed we wouldn’t stay friends once we got to our schools,” Agatha said, wiping her eyes.

“She also assumed you’d be in Evil and me in Good,” said Sophie.

“Would have solved everything, wouldn’t it?” said Agatha.

The two girls laughed.

“Everyone thinks we’re so different, Aggie,” said Sophie. “But we both know what it’s like to lose someone who truly understands us.” Agatha lay her head on Sophie’s shoulder. “And to find someone too.” Now it was Sophie’s turn to cry.

“We should get back,” sighed Agatha finally. “Think Guinevere and Lancelot have enough headaches without us disappearing too.” As they walked home, Agatha took Sophie’s arm.

“What do you think of those two, by the way? For two lovers who changed the course of a kingdom, they’re quite . . . domestic.” “That’s sugarcoating it,” Sophie said, grimacing. “If she’d stayed with Arthur, imagine the things Guinevere would be doing with him right now: planning the Easter Ball or welcoming neighboring kings for dinner or managing the royal court. And here she is, folding a man’s shirts and taking pleasure in it. Arthur would have been better off with someone like my mother, who knew she was meant for a grander life.” “I only saw your mother once or twice in town when I was really young,” said Agatha. “But I remember she was beautiful, like a gold-haired nymph.” “It’s been seven years, so I can’t even picture her face anymore,” said Sophie. “The more I try to remember it, the more it shape-shifts, like I’m trying to recapture a dream. But she didn’t leave the house much. Didn’t have any friends either except Honora, until . . . well, you know. That’s how I know she never went to the school or into the Woods at all. Because she never would have gone back to Gavaldon. She despised that place.” “Like mother, like daughter,” Agatha quipped.

“The difference between me and her is that I got out,” said Sophie, her tone steeling. “I’ll have the grand life she always wanted. I’ll have an Ever After big enough for the both of us.” Agatha smiled tightly and they lapsed into silence.

As the two girls neared the farmhouse, they glimpsed Gavaldon lit up far away like the northern lights, the protective shield around it pocked with holes of various sizes, none bigger than the size of a melon. Through the holes, they could see the green turrets of the cottages rich and textured, the clock on the crooked tower sharp and clear, and groups of children in the square, noses buried in storybooks. They could even see some of the shop windows, including Mr. Deauville’s Storybook Shop, now reopened and teeming with kids.

“They’re reading the rewritten storybooks,” Agatha realized, remembering Merlin’s warning. “Every time Evil wins, a fairy tale rewrites itself. That’s why Gavaldon’s opening to the School Master and his Dark Army. Readers are believing in the power of Evil.” Sophie swallowed. “Uh . . . how long did Merlin say we had before the Woods went dark?” “No more than a week now,” Agatha warned, eyeing the ring on Sophie’s finger. The End was right there . . . and yet so far away. “Meant to ask you. The other night, I saw you and Lancelot talking in the dining room. What did he say to you?” Her friend stopped walking, but said nothing.

“Sophie?”

Sophie’s eyes were still on Gavaldon. “It’s coming, isn’t it?” she said softly.

“What is?”

Sophie turned. “Each of us thinks we know who’s Good and who’s Evil. You, me, Tedros, Rafal . . . even Lancelot. But all of us can’t be right, Aggie. Someone has to be wrong.” Agatha shook her head. “I don’t underst—”

“What if we could go back to the beginning? When it was just me and you.” There were hot spots on Sophie’s cheeks, desperation in her voice. “It was our first Ever After, Aggie. Can’t it be the last?” Agatha gazed at her starlit, hopeful friend, framed by the vision of their old home.

Gently Agatha took Sophie’s hand and looked into her eyes. “But it wasn’t, was it? Our Ever After didn’t last.” Sophie let go of her, sadness weakening her smile. “You still think I’m that same girl. You think I’m the one meant to be alone.” “No—that’s not what I meant—” Agatha countered.

“Say it, Aggie,” Sophie asked, lips quivering. “Tell me you and Tedros deserve the Ever After. More than Tedros and me. More than me and you.” Agatha broke into a sweat.

“Tell me you want to be Camelot’s queen. That only you can make Tedros happy forever,” said Sophie, eyes welling. “Tell me and I’ll destroy the ring tonight. I promise.” Agatha flushed in surprise. She searched Sophie’s face and saw she was speaking the truth.

This was The End.

This was the way out of the fairy tale.

All she had to do was say the words.

“Say you’re a fairy-tale queen, Agatha,” Sophie coaxed.

Agatha opened her mouth—

And yet no words came . . . only the image of her in a Wish Fish painting, wearing Tedros’ crown . . .

“Say it, Aggie,” Sophie pressed her.

Agatha imagined herself as that classic, regal leader . . . worthy of standing beside King Arthur’s son.

“Say it and mean it,” Sophie demanded.

Agatha struggled for air. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . .”

Shallow gasps faded into the wind.

“But you can’t say it, can you?” Sophie whispered, touching Agatha’s cheek. “Because you’ll never really believe it.” Agatha felt hot tears blind her, her voice padlocked inside— But now there was someone else coming towards her across the moors.

A blond, broad-shouldered boy, holding a single pink rose.

Freshly bathed and shaven, Tedros glided towards Agatha in a loose, milk-colored shirt and black breeches, Excalibur sheathed on his belt.

Only he wasn’t looking at Agatha.

His eyes pinned on Sophie as he stopped in front of them, his mouth a sensual grin.

“Can we go somewhere, Sophie? You and me?”

Sophie smiled and glanced at Agatha plaintively, as if asking her permission . . . but she’d already let Tedros take her hand.

As he led Sophie away from the house, Agatha waited for her prince to look back at her.

He never did.

Standing there, alone on the moors, Agatha watched the two shadows nestle closer, before Tedros slipped his rose into Sophie’s palm. Gazing at her prince, Sophie clasped it to her chest and whispered something to him. The future king smiled and guided her ahead, their silhouettes melting into the moonglow, as if a door to Ever After had opened . . .

Then they were gone, like the last beat of light in Agatha’s heart.

“Here I was expecting you to swing in on a vine, bearded, dirt-smeared, and thumping your chest like Tedros of the jungle,” Sophie ribbed as they treaded through darkness hand in hand. “A bit disappointed, actually.” “Stopped at the house and cleaned up,” the prince said tersely.

“You’ve been gone more than a week. What have you been doing all this time?” “Thinking.”

Sophie waited for him to elaborate, but they walked more than an hour before he said another word. His clean-smelling hair tickled against her neck and the prince led her so firmly that a hot flash rippled up her spine. Sophie’s other hand cupped the soft pink rose, making sure it was still there. Once upon a time, at a Welcoming, Tedros had thrown his rose to see who would be his true love, and she’d failed to catch it.

But Sophie had the rose now.

A muffled roar echoed ahead and she looked up to see the moon reflect off a broad river bounded by walls of dark rock. The river slipped ahead calmly before it plunged down a cavernous waterfall, too deep to see the bottom. Beyond the waterfall, there was nothing but the moon’s white glare.

“Leave it to you to find the ends of the earth,” said Sophie.

“In here,” said Tedros, pulling her towards an opening in the river rock.

Sophie crammed into the hole, trying to find her grip without crushing her prince’s rose. As she came through, Tedros clutched her waist and helped her stand to full height. For a moment, she couldn’t see anything. Then she heard the scrape of a matchstick and watched Tedros light a tall candle he must have taken from the house— Sophie gasped.

They were in a shimmering sapphire cave, the walls made entirely out of the rich blue gem. Bands of flawless sapphires distorted her face back at her like a hall of mirrors. A blanket and pillow lay in the corner and crumbs of food littered the ground, along with a few discarded baskets. Clearly this had been Tedros’ camp for the past week.

He spread the blanket and helped Sophie sit down before he cozied in beside her, his leg touching hers, and placed the candle in front of them.

“Noticed you and Agatha spending a lot of time together,” he said.

Sophie peeked at his arched brow and knew better than to ask how much he’d been spying on them from afar. “Well, you had your time with Agatha and you had your time with me. Isn’t it fair that she and I had our turn? Especially if it’s the last time before things . . . change.” She gave him a coy look.

Tedros nodded, picking at the candle wax. “Of course.”

“We were worried about you, Teddy. Out there on your own. It must have been overwhelming to be thrown in that house with—” “I don’t want to talk about an old story, Sophie. It’s the new story I care about.” He turned, his stare piercing. “When we were on the trail, you said there were two types of queens. The one who wants to be a queen and the one who doesn’t. I asked what you would do as my future queen—” “Before we were rudely interrupted by zombie pirates,” Sophie simpered.

Tedros didn’t smile. “It was the wrong question. I should have asked you why you want to be my queen.” Sophie’s shoulders relaxed. Finally, they’d finish what they started in the Woods. No nerves, no setbacks this time. . . . Everything was in her hands now. All Tedros wanted was the truth.

She looked up at the jagged sapphires over their heads, reflecting the two of them like a thousand crowns. Then Sophie took a deep breath and began to speak.

“I used to dream of princes. Magnificent balls filled with hundreds of beautiful boys and me the only girl. I’d walk the line examining them, trying to pick which one would be my Ever After. Every night I’d get closer and closer, only to wake up before I found him. How I dreaded that moment when my eyes opened. To be in a world of magic and romance and Goodness and then robbed back into a drab, pointless life seemed so . . . wrong. I didn’t belong in a cottage lane with fifteen houses exactly like mine. I couldn’t marry some shopkeeper or cobbler’s boy and slog at the bakery each day just to feed our children. I wanted to find real happiness, where The End didn’t mean getting old and useless and being crammed in a graveyard with everyone else. Agatha thinks all this sounds like heaven, of course, but she wants to hide in an ordinary life. I’m special. I’m different. I’m meant to have my name remembered more than Snow White and Sleeping Beauty and girls who were just pretty and passive and waited like dolls for their princes to arrive. I’m meant to live in people’s hearts for Ever After, no matter how old my story gets. Because unlike all those other Good girls, I found a happy ending for myself. I made it happen, no matter how many people tried to take it away from me. That’s why I want to be a queen, Tedros. Because no matter what anyone said, I always knew I was one. Searching for her king.” Sophie stroked his cheek. “And here you are.”

Tears sprang to Tedros’ eyes.

“I told you,” Sophie smiled. “I told you we belonged together from that very first day.” Her prince took her by the waist. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Sophie.” “And was the truth . . . enough?” she asked, red-hot.

Tedros nodded, his fingers moving up her back. “You only left out one thing . . .” She inhaled his sweet breath. “What’s that?” she whispered, leaning in.

Tedros held her neck and slowly pressed his lips to hers, soft as a cloud. With a gasp, Sophie fell into his kiss, heart pumping against his chest.

At last.

At last!

She tasted every morsel of his perfect mouth, waiting for the rapturous swell between them that would seal their end . . . for a spark as electric and strong as love could bear . . .

But all Sophie tasted was dead hollowness, as if kissing a stone.

Shaken, she seized Tedros tighter, kissed him harder, but she felt nothing from his side, nothing from her side, absolutely nothing at all, as their lips grew lifeless, repelling each other, until finally she pulled away.

Tedros glowered at her, ice-cold. “You left the part out about being my queen because you love me.” Sophie’s heart was a black hole.

“I’m not your true love, Sophie. I never was,” said the prince. “We don’t belong together.” Sophie sputtered for breath. “But . . . but—the ring—” She glanced down at her hand urgently, only to see the stain of Tedros’ name vanish beneath the gold, as if it had never been there at all.

A loud clink jolted her and she turned to find Excalibur on the ground next to her.

Sophie looked up at Tedros, tramping out of the cave.

“By the time I come back, I want it destroyed,” he commanded.

Then he forged into the night air and veered out of sight.

Slowly Sophie looked down at the ring, flickering beneath the candle.

Rage ripped through her blood . . . rage so thick and primal it made her whole body rattle— She tore the ring off her finger and hurled it at the sapphire wall, before it crashed into dirt across from her.

Lancelot was right.

The ring had lied to her. It had carved the name of a prince who she never belonged to. It had knowingly led her down the wrong path. It had made an utter fool of her.

And so had the boy who’d given it to her.

Teeth gnashed, she grabbed Excalibur with both hands, picturing Rafal’s twisted grin. Evil’s Master would learn his lesson for betraying her.

Sophie raised Good’s sword high over the ring and brought it down with a scream— The blade stopped a sliver short.

But had he betrayed her?

Why would Evil’s ring lead her to Good’s prince in the first place?

And why would Rafal let her go off with that prince without chasing her?

She thought of Captain Hook, who had orders not to return her to the young School Master. She thought of the beautiful frost-haired boy at the window, watching her leave. She thought of his omniscient blue eyes and serene face, his last words floating as she fell away . . .

“You’ll come back to me.”

Eyes widening, Sophie slowly put the sword down.

Rafal hadn’t betrayed her.

He’d set her free, just like Agatha had set her and Tedros free . . . so that all of them could find the truth for themselves.

A truth Sophie had been running from for a very long time.

The gold ring was warm to the touch when she picked it up from the dirt and slid it onto her finger. For a moment it glowed red, as if sealing a new bond between them, and she glared down at her reflection in its surface.

There would be no destroying the ring tonight.

Or ever.

For the reason she’d known what was missing in Tedros’ kiss is because she’d already felt it once with someone else.

Someone who loved her for what she truly was.

Someone she’d been too scared to love back.

Because if she did, it meant she and Agatha were both queens—each afraid to accept their fate.

But unlike her best friend, Sophie was ready now.

Alone in candlelight, she closed her eyes and made a wish . . .

For a prince . . . a castle . . . a crown . . .

Evil this time, instead of Good.

A chill swept through the cave and blew the candle out.

Agatha lay in infinite darkness, praying for sleep. She lasted only a few minutes before she sat up and lit the candle on the bed table.

Her eyes caught the small mirror on the wall and she saw her tired face, raccoon circles around her eyes, and the slouch in her shoulders.

How long ago it seemed she was a princess.

She was about to ball up under the covers and try to sleep with the candle burning, when she heard faint music and giggles from behind the house.

Rising to her knees, she peered through the window to see Guinevere dancing in the garden as Lancelot played the piccolo, dancing beside her. Lancelot took her arm as they twirled and laughed, the two of them celebrating the end of each song with a kiss.

Agatha watched, mesmerized. All this time, she’d thought of them as woeful exiles, banished to purgatory and surely bored stiff of each other after six long years. Instead, they were swaying and kissing at midnight for no reason at all, like two punch-drunk teenagers. It didn’t matter where they were, who was around them, what they had and what they didn’t.

They still had each other.

They still had love.

Agatha colored with shame. Here she was, surrendering her prince because she was too afraid to fight for her own self-worth. And not only that, she was pretending she was doing it to protect Good’s old heroes. What would those old heroes think of her now? A true princess didn’t hide from her fate behind the shield of Good. A true princess knew fate wasn’t just hers—but her prince’s too. By not being with Tedros, she was ruining both of their lives. Gavaldon or Woods, royals or peasants, Good, Evil, Boys, Girls, Young, Old . . . none of it mattered as long as they were together.

She didn’t have to be a queen. She had to be his queen.

And that, she knew how to do.

Without thinking, she was staggering out of the bedroom and down the hall. She flung open the front door and darted down the porch steps to the dewy moors. She squinted into the dark night, heart breaking . . .

Because it was too late. Tedros and Sophie were long gone.

Crestfallen, she hung her head and trudged back towards the door.

A soft crunching sound crackled in the distance.

Agatha looked up and saw a hulking outline far across the heath moving towards the house.

She slunk forward, eyes fixed ahead as they adjusted to the darkness.

“Hort?” she called out.

But now she recognized the heft of the walk . . . the long, muscular arms . . . the thick belt on his waist, missing a sword.

Tedros’ gaze locked on her as he strode towards the house.

Before she knew it, Agatha was sprinting towards him and Tedros sprinting towards her. Stumbling in the dark, Agatha could hear herself panting, choking up, as his shadow hurtled towards her, faster, faster, until they collided like stars and Agatha fell. Tedros swept her up in his arms as she laughed and he kissed her long and hard, like he’d never kissed her before— “You think I don’t know you, Agatha,” he whispered. “You think I can’t see who you are.” “It’s not enough for you to see it, Tedros,” said Agatha. “I have to see it too.” “And now my whole kingdom will see it. The greatest queen who will ever live.” Agatha stared into his eyes, so clear, so convinced. “But I’m just me—I’m just a girl . . . and you . . . you’re . . .” “You think I know how to be a king?” Tedros blurted.

“What? But you always act so—”

“Act. Act!” He shook his head, voice breaking. “Tell me you love me, Agatha. Tell me you’ll never give me up again. Tell me you’ll be my queen forever—” “I love you, Tedros,” Agatha wept. “I love you more than you know.” “Say the rest too!”

“I—”

But there were no more words, as tears streamed down their faces and mixed on their lips, the sugar and salt of love.

Far across the moors, Hort waited a long time after Tedros left the cave before he made his move. He’d followed the prince when he’d brought Sophie here, so it was unsettling to see him leave the cave without her. Skulking out from behind a tree, Hort stole through the opening, his fingertip glowing, until the sapphire walls blinded him with their glare.

“Sophie?” he called, shielding his eyes. “Sophie, where are you?” But all Hort found was an unused sword and a spatter of black feathers, as if she’d been rescued away by a swan.