But what can I do to help him? Agatha thought, gazing out the window at the rain. This wasn’t like a Trial by Tale at school, where she could sneak in to save him. The sword was Tedros’ test and his alone.
And yet, if she could help him somehow … wouldn’t that fix everything?
Agatha watched the storm gust across the castle—
Something caught her eye through the rain.
Agatha leaned over the windowsill to get a closer look.
Across the catwalk, a boy had emerged onto the Blue Tower balcony in beige breeches and a gray hooded shirt with the hood pulled over his head. He dismissed the guards and stood there all alone, drenched clothes clinging to his muscular frame. He peeked around to make sure no one was watching—Agatha ducked out of sight—before he began stretching each of his arms and shaking the tension out of his legs.
Then, with a deep breath, he gripped Excalibur by the hilt and began to pull.
The past six months, she’d watched Tedros do this every night: the same skulking onto the balcony, the same dismissing of the guards, the same diligent warm-up before he did battle with his father’s sword. In the beginning, there had been sword masters, blacksmiths, and ex-knights who coached him as he pulled, while Lady Gremlaine looked on with narrowed eyes. Back then, the kingdom had been on the verge of war, with half the people supporting Tedros as king and half calling for his deposal. Six months later, both sides had settled into a stagnant détente, the trapped sword a symbol of a king they were stuck with. Now there were no more coaches or watchful stewards, but still Tedros tried at the sword, again and again. This was the first time Agatha had ever seen him during the day, though, for he’d always waited until the sun was down, when no one beyond the castle would be able to spot him. Perhaps he thought the storm was camouflage enough or perhaps today he didn’t care who saw him as he heaved and sweated, ripping at the blade from every angle. …
Excalibur didn’t budge.
This too was part of the routine, and Tedros would react to defeat like he had every day these past six months: by getting up at dawn and working out even harder, as if it was his strength that was failing him and nothing else. Truth was Agatha had never seen him so strong, ripped muscles stretching his shirt, like he could shotput a ship out of the ocean. He tore at the hilt with this new strength, bright blood streaking his palms, dripping down steel, before he threw back his head and let out a single, futile cry—
Agatha closed her eyes and exhaled.
When she opened them, he was looking right at her.
She could hardly make out his face through the lashes of rain, but he was frozen still, gazing at her from beneath his hood. It was a dead, empty look, as if their shared past had been erased. As if this was the first time he’d ever seen her.
“You won’t learn the Empress of Putsi’s name by mooning into the rain,” a voice said.
Agatha turned to see Pollux and his sheep corpse lording over her. He glared down at her soggy album, a mess of runny colors.
“I know you’re not one for ceremony or celebration or nice things, Agatha. But this is your wedding,” said Pollux.
“And I thought it was a Leprechaun’s Ball,” she said.
“If you’re going to treat this as a joke, then maybe I should call Lady Gremlaine—”
“Run to mommy like you always do.”
“You are a sad little girl,” Pollux retorted.
“Says the dog puppeting a sheep.”
Pollux sighed. “I’m not here to torture you, Agatha. I’m here to help you get married. You have to care.”
“I care,” Agatha said quietly.
“You have to care because it’s a timeless tradition and because it’s the first time your people will see you as a queen—”
“I care,” Agatha repeated.
“You have to care because this is your legacy—”
“I care,” Agatha said.
“Do you?” said Pollux incredulously. “Based on what I see, you don’t. Tell me why I should believe you care about your wedding—”
Agatha looked at him. “Because I need to remind Tedros that we were happy once.”
Sorrow softened Pollux’s face.
Agatha turned back to the rain, hoping her prince was still there. …
But all she could see were two guards, wiping his blood off a sword.
Agatha ate dinner in the queen’s bathroom, where no one could bother her.
She still had her Wedding History lesson, but Pollux let her eat before it without alerting her chambermaids—a clear breach in protocol, since they had to know where the princess was at all hours.
Instead, Agatha had barreled into the kitchen herself, sending ten cooks into coronary shock.
“Princess Agatha,” Chef Silkima gasped, her rich brown skin flecked with flour. “What’s happened? … Is everything all r—”
“Can I get spaghetti with cheese for dinner?” said Agatha. “Lots of cheese. Tons. Like enough to ruin the dish.”
Chef Silkima and the cooks gaped down at their finished platters of cumin-spiced coconut soup, curried chicken in a green chili sauce, potato tikkis with peas and scallions, black-lentil salad with salmon crumbs, and a five-layer kulfi pistachio cake.
“Spaghetti with … cheese?” Chef Silkima croaked.
“To go, please,” said Agatha.
One of the cooks dropped his spoon.
Now, as she sat dangling bare feet into a bathtub of hot water, surrounded by mirrors and peeling gold wallpaper, Agatha twirled creamy-white spaghetti from a porcelain bowl into her mouth, savoring the melted mozzarella.
Everyone had their comfort in times of stress: Sophie had sea-salt facials, juice fasts, yoga poses, and deep-tissue massages; Tedros had dumbbells and climbing ropes and anything to work up a sweat. …
Agatha had food.
More precisely: so much food that it induced a warm, velvety coma that dulled her senses and made her unable to think beyond the gurgles of her stomach.
Reaper moseyed into the bathroom and sniffed at a scrap of cheese. He gave Agatha a curdled look, as if he thought she’d outgrown all this, and shuffled away.
Agatha and Tedros had certainly had fights before. Fights that made Agatha doubt whether he loved her or she loved him or whether they even belonged together. But this wasn’t a fight. She was sure Tedros loved her now—or at least as sure as she could be. …
Except relationships aren’t just about love, Agatha realized. Relationships are about taking off the mask you wear to make someone like you and letting them see the real you. The one you hid all along. The one you never thought was good enough to find love in the first place.
Tedros had helped her peel off her mask in her years at school. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable and her absolute worst and loved her even more for it.
But now it was Tedros’ turn to do the same and he was acting like most boys do when asked to face their feelings. …
They run.
There was another thing that also made this rift different than the others, Agatha thought, spotting the pile