“You can’t stop him,” Agatha said, touching her.
Sophie recoiled. “And let him get away with it?”
“What choice do you have?”
“You think that wedding will happen?” Sophie spat. “Watch.”
“Sophie . . .”
“He should be the one dead!” Sophie flushed with blood. “Him and his little princes! Then I’d be happy in this prison!”
Her face was so horrible that Agatha froze. For the first time since they returned, she glimpsed the deadly witch inside her friend, yearning to unleash.
Sophie saw the fear in Agatha’s eyes. “I’m s-s-s-sorry—” she stammered, turning away. “I—I don’t know what happened—” Her face melted to shame. The witch was gone.
“I miss her, Aggie,” Sophie whispered, trembling. “I know we have our happy ending. But I still miss my mother.”
Agatha hesitated, then touched her friend’s shoulder. Sophie gave in to her, and Agatha held her as she sobbed. “I wish I could see her again,” Sophie wept. “I’d do anything. Anything.”
The crooked tower clock tolled ten times down the hill, but loud, doleful creaks thickened between each one. In each other’s arms, the two girls watched the hunched silhouette of old Mr. Deauville as he wheeled a cart past the clock with the last of his closed-down shop. Every few paces he stopped, laboring under the weight of his forgotten storybooks, until his shadow disappeared around the corner and the creaks faded away.
“I just don’t want to end like her, alone and . . . forgotten,” Sophie breathed.
She turned to Agatha, trying to smile. “But my mother didn’t have a friend like you, did she? You gave up a prince, just for us to be together. To think I could make someone happy like that . . .” Her eyes misted. “I don’t deserve you, Agatha. I really don’t. After all I’ve done.”
Agatha was still quiet.
“Someone Good would let this marriage happen, wouldn’t they?” Sophie pressed her softly. “Someone as Good as you.”
“It’s late,” Agatha said, standing up. She held out her hand.
Sophie took it limply. “And I still have to find a dress for the wedding.”
Agatha managed a smile. “See? Good after all.”
“Least I can do is look better than the bride,” Sophie said, swishing ahead.
Agatha snorted and grabbed the torches off the gate. “Wait. I’ll walk you home.”
“How lovely,” Sophie said, not stopping. “I can smell more of that onion soup you had for dinner.”
“Lizard and onion soup, actually.”
“I really don’t know how we’re friends.”
Through the groaning gate, the two slipped side by side, torches lighting up their long shadows across overgrown weeds. As they waded down the emerald hill and out of sight, a gust flew back through the cemetery, igniting a flame on a candle dripping onto its mud-stained saucer. The flame grew over a blue butterfly settled curiously on a grave, then stoked brighter, long enough to illuminate the carvings on the two unmarked graves beside it. A swan on each. One white.
The other black.
With a roar, the wind lashed between them and blew the candle out.
2
Agatha Makes a Wish Too
Blood. It smelled blood.
Eat.
Smashing through trees, the Beast hunted their scent, grunting and slobbering on all fours. Claws and feet pounded the dirt, faster, faster, shredding vines and branches, bounding over rocks, until at last it could hear their breaths and see the trail of red. One of them was hurt.
Eat.
Through a long, dark hollow trunk it slunk, licking up the blood, smelling their terror. The Beast took its time, for they had nowhere to go, and soon it heard their whimpers. Bit by bit they came into view, silhouetted in moonlight, trapped between the end of the log and a thick patch of briars. The older boy, wounded and pale, clutched the younger to his chest.
The Beast swept them both up and held the boys as they cried. Snuggled in briars, the Beast rocked them gently until the boys stopped weeping and knew the Beast was Good. Soon the boys breathed heavier against the Beast’s black breast, nestling deeper into its arms, hugging them tighter . . . harder . . . bonier . . . until the boys gasped awake—
And saw Sophie’s bloody smile.
Sophie flung up from bed and knocked into her bedside candle, splattering lavender wax all over the wall. She whirled to the mirror and saw herself bald, toothless, pockmarked with warts—
“Help—” she choked, closing her eyes—
She opened them and the witch was no longer there. Her beautiful face stared back at her.
Panicked, Sophie checked her shivering white skin for warts, wiping away the cold film of sweat.
I’m Good, she calmed herself when she found none.
But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, her mind racing, unable to shake that Beast, the Beast she’d killed in a world far away, the Beast that still haunted her dreams. She thought of her rage in the graveyard . . . Agatha’s petrified face . . .
You’ll never be Good, the School Master had warned.
Sophie’s mouth went dry. She’d smile at the wedding. She’d work at Bartleby’s. She’d eat the widow’s meat and buy toys for her sons. She’d be happy here. Just like Agatha.
Anything to not be a witch again.
“I’m Good,” she repeated into silence.
The School Master had to be wrong. She’d saved Agatha’s life, and Agatha had saved hers.
They were home together. The riddle solved. The School Master dead.
The storybook closed.
Definitely Good, Sophie assured herself, snuggling back into her pillow.
But she could still taste blood.
The fog and winds of the night cleared to a blinding sun, so strong for November that the day seemed blessed for love. Every wedding in Gavaldon was a public occasion, but on this Friday, the shops were all closed and the square deserted, for Stefan was a popular man. Under a white garden tent behind his house, the entire town mingled over cherry punch and plum wine, as three fiddlers strummed in the corner, exhausted from playing a funeral the night before.
Agatha wasn’t sure if her dumpy black smock was appropriate attire for a wedding, but it suited her mood. She’d woken up miserable and couldn’t put a finger on why. Sophie needs me to be happy, she told herself as she tromped down the hill, but by the time she joined the crowd in the garden, her frown was a scowl. She needed to snap out of it or she’d make Sophie even more depressed. . . .