“Mmm, can’t hear you, dear.”
“A Reader,” Agatha stressed over the strident cranks. “How do you know that word—”
Callis pumped louder. “Must have seen it in a book, I’m sure …”
“Book? What book—”
“One of the storybooks, dear.”
Of course, Agatha sighed, trying to relax. Her mother had always seemed to know things about the fairy-tale world—like all parents in Gavaldon who had feverishly bought storybooks from Mr. Deauville’s Storybook Shop, hunting for clues about the children kidnapped by the School Master. One of the books must have mentioned it, Agatha told herself. That’s why she called me a Reader. That’s why she wasn’t surprised by a prince.
But as Agatha glanced up at Callis, back to her, pumping water into the kettle, Agatha noticed that the pot was already full and overflowing into the sink. She watched her mother staring off into space, hands clenched, pumping water faster, faster, as if pumping memories away with it. Slowly Agatha’s heart started to constrict in her chest, until she felt that cold sensation deepening … whispering that the reason her mother wasn’t fazed by Tedros’ appearance wasn’t because she’d read storybooks … but because she knew what it was like to live through one …
“He returns to the Woods as soon as he wakes,” Callis said, releasing the pump.
Agatha wrenched out of her thoughts. “The Woods? Tedros and I barely escaped alive—and you want us to go back?”
“Not you,” said Callis, still turned. “Him.”
Agatha flared in shock. “Only someone who’s never experienced true love could say such a thing.”
Callis froze. The skeleton clock ticked through the loaded silence.
“You really believe this is your happy ending, Agatha?” Callis said, not looking at her.
“It has to be, Mother. Because I won’t leave him again. And I won’t leave you,” Agatha begged. “I thought maybe I could be happy in the Woods, that I could run away from real life … but I can’t. I never wanted a fairy tale. All I ever wanted was to wake up every day right here, knowing I had my mother and my best friend. How could I know that friend would end up being a prince?” Agatha dabbed at her eyes. “You don’t know what we’ve been through to find each other. You don’t know the Evil that we left behind. I don’t care if Tedros and I have to stay trapped in this house for a hundred years. At least we’re together. At least we’ll be happy. You just have to give us the chance.”
Quiet fell in the sooty kitchen.
Callis turned to her daughter. “And Sophie?”
Agatha’s voice went cold. “Gone.”
Her mother gazed at her. The town clock tolled faintly from the square, before the wind drowned it out. Callis picked up the kettle and moved to the wooden stove. Agatha held her breath, watching her spark a flame beneath the pot and stew a few wormroot leaves in, circling her ladle again and again, long after the leaves had dissolved.
“I suppose we’ll need eggs,” said her mother at last. “Princes don’t eat toads.”
Agatha almost collapsed in relief. “Oh thank you thank you thank you—”
“I’ll lock you both in when I go to town each morning. The guards won’t come here as long as we’re careful.”
“You’ll love him like a son, Mother, you’ll see—” Agatha grimaced. “Into town? You said you had no patients.”
“Don’t light the fireplace or open the windows,” ordered Callis, pouring two cups of tea.
“Why won’t the guards come here?” Agatha pushed. “Wouldn’t it be the first place they’d check?”
“And don’t answer the door for a soul.”
“Wait—what about Stefan?” Agatha asked, brightening. “Surely he can talk to the Elders for us—”
Callis whirled. “Especially not Stefan.”
Mother and daughter locked stares across the kitchen.
“Your prince will never belong here, Agatha,” said Callis softly. “No one can hide from their fate without a price.”
There was a fear in her mother’s big owl eyes that Agatha had never seen before, as if she was no longer talking about a prince.
Agatha crossed the kitchen and wrapped her mother in a deep, comforting hug. “I promise you. Tedros will be as happy here as I am,” she whispered. “And you’ll wonder how you ever could have doubted two people so in love.”
A clang and clatter echoed from the bedroom. The curtain drew back behind them before collapsing entirely, and Tedros lumbered through, groggy, red-eyed, and half-naked with a torn, bloodied piece of bedsheet stuck haplessly over his wound. He sat down at the counter, smelled the soup and gagged, shoving it aside. “We’ll need a sturdy horse, steel-edged sword, and enough bread and meat for a three-day journey.” He looked up at Agatha with a sleepy smile. “Hope you said your goodbyes, princess. Time to ride to my castle.”
That first week, Agatha believed this was just another test in their story. It was only a matter of time before the pyre came down, the death sentence lifted, and Tedros felt at ease with ordinary life. Looking at her handsome, teddy-bear prince who she loved so much, she knew that no matter how long they stayed in this house, they would still find a way to be happy.
By the second week, however, the house had started to feel smaller. There was never enough food or cups or towels; Reaper and Tedros fought like demented siblings; Agatha began to notice her prince’s irritating habits (using all the soap, drinking milk out of the jug, exercising every second of the day, breathing through his mouth); and Callis had the burden of supporting two teenagers who didn’t like to be supported at all. (“School was better than this,” Tedros carped, bored to tears. “Let’s go back and you can finish getting stabbed,” Agatha replied.) By the third week, Tedros had taken to playing rugby against himself, dodging invisible opponents, whispering play-by-play, and flinging about like a caged animal, while Agatha lay in bed, a pillow over her head, clinging to the hope that happiness would fall like a fairy godmother from a star. Instead, it was Tedros who fell on her head one day while catching a ball, reopening his stitches in the process. Agatha belted him hard with her pillow, Tedros clocked her with his, and soon the cat was in the toilet. As they lay on the bed, covered in feathers, Reaper dripping in the corner, Agatha’s question hung in the air unanswered.
“What happened to us?”
As the fourth week went on, Tedros and Agatha stopped spending time together. Tedros ceased his manic workouts and sat hunched at the kitchen window, unshaven and dirty, silently looking out at the Endless Woods. He was homesick, Agatha told herself, just as she’d once been in his world. But each day, a darker anguish settled into his face, and she knew it was deeper than homesickness—it was the guilt of knowing that somewhere out there, in a land far away, there would soon be no new king to take the crown from the old. But Agatha had nothing to say to make him feel better, nothing that didn’t sound self-serving or trite, and hid beneath her bedcovers, reading her old storybooks again and again.
Gazing at beautiful princesses kissing dashing princes, she wondered how her Ever After had gone rancid. All these fairy tales had tied up so neatly and satisfyingly … while the more she thought about her own, the more loose ends seemed to appear. What had happened to her friends: to Dot, Hester, Anadil, who had risked their lives for her during the Trial? What had happened to the Girls, charging into war against Aric and the Boys? Or to Lady Lesso and Professor Dovey, now faced with the School Master’s return? Agatha’s chest clamped. What if the School Master started kidnapping children from Gavaldon again? She thought about the parents who would lose more daughters and sons … about Tristan and how his parents would