Agatha froze. Now her finger was shining even brighter than before.
It can’t be.
She heard a girl’s screams ahead. Screams she knew. Sweating, shivering, Agatha skimmed under overturned chairs, shoving the last fringe of tent off her, until she felt a blast of sunlight and scraped into the front garden, expecting carnage—
But people were just standing there, silent, still, watching the skyfall of arrows from every direction.
Arrows from the Woods.
Agatha shielded herself in horror, then realized the arrows weren’t aimed at her. They weren’t aimed at any of the villagers. No matter where they came from out of the Woods, their shafts curved at the last second, tearing toward one and only one target.
“Eeeeeyiiiiii!”
Sophie ran around her house, ducking and batting arrows away with her glass heels.
“Agatha! Agatha, help!”
But there was no time, for a shaft almost sliced off her head, and Sophie ran down a hill, fast as she could, arrows following her all the way.
“Who would want me dead?” Sophie wailed to stained glass martyrs and statues of saints.
Agatha sat beside her in the empty pews. It had been two weeks since Sophie started hiding in the church, the only place where the arrows didn’t pursue her. Again and again she tried to break out, but the arrows returned with vengeance, slashing from the Woods, followed by spears, axes, daggers, and darts. By the third day, it was clear there would be no escape. Whoever wanted to kill her would wait as long as it took.
At first Sophie saw no reason to panic. The townspeople brought her food (taking heed of her “fatal allergies” to wheat, sugar, dairy, and red meat), Agatha brought her the herbs and roots she needed to make her creams, and Stefan brought assurances he wouldn’t rewed until his daughter was brought home safe. With the townsmen uselessly combing the forest for the assassins, the town scroll branded Sophie “the Brave Little Princess” for taking the burden of yet another curse, while the Elders ordered her statue be given a fresh coat of paint. Soon children clamored once more for autographs, the village anthem was amended to “Blessed Is Our Sophie,” and townsmen took turns keeping watch over the church. There was even talk of a permanent one-woman show in the theater once she was out of danger.
“La Reine Sophie, an epic three-hour celebration of my achievements,” Sophie raptured, smelling the sympathy bouquets that filled the aisle. “A bit of cabaret to stir the blood, a circus intermezzo with wild lions and trapeze, and a rousing rendition of ‘I Am but a Simple Woman’ to close. Oh, Agatha, how I’ve longed to find my place in this stagnant, monotonous town! All I needed was a part big enough to hold me!” Suddenly she looked worried. “You don’t think they’ll stop trying to kill me, do you? This is the best thing that’s ever happened!”
But then the attacks got worse.
The first night, firebombs launched from the Woods and annihilated Belle’s house, leaving her whole family homeless. On the second night, boiling oil flooded from the trees, immolating an entire cottage lane. In smoldering ruins, the assassins left the same message, burned into the ground.
GIVE US
SOPHIE
By the next morning, when the Elders took to the square to calm rioting villagers, Stefan had already made it to the church.
“It’s the only way the Elders and I can protect you,” he told his daughter, bearing a hammer and padlocks.
Agatha wouldn’t leave, so he locked her in too.
“I thought our story was over!” Sophie cried, listening to a mob of villagers outside chanting, “Send her back! Send her back!” She slumped in her seat. “Why don’t they want you? Why am I always the villain? And why am I always locked in?”
Next to her, Agatha gazed at a marble saint in a frieze above the altar, lunging for an angel. He stretched his strong arm, torqued his chest, as if he’d follow the angel wherever it went—
“Aggie?”
Agatha broke from her trance and turned. “You do have a way of making enemies.”
“I tried to be Good!” Sophie said. “I tried to be just like you!”
Agatha felt that sick feeling again. The one she’d been trying to keep down.
“Aggie, do something!” Sophie grabbed her arm. “You always fix things!”
“Maybe I’m not as Good as you think,” Agatha murmured, and pulled away, pretending to polish her clump. In the silence, she could feel Sophie watching her.
“Aggie.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did your finger glow?”
Agatha’s muscles clenched. “What?”
“I saw it,” said Sophie softly. “At the wedding.”
Agatha threw her a glance. “Probably a trick of light. Magic doesn’t work here.”
“Right.”
Agatha held her breath. She could feel Sophie thinking.
“But the teachers never relocked our fingers, did they?” her friend said. “And magic follows emotion. That’s what they told us.”
Agatha shifted. “So?”
“You didn’t look happy at the wedding,” Sophie said. “Are you sure something didn’t make you upset? Upset enough to do magic?”
Agatha met her eyes. Sophie searched her face, seeing right through her.
“I know you, Agatha.”
Agatha gripped the pew.
“I know why you were sad.”
“Sophie, I didn’t mean it!” Agatha blurted—
“You were upset with my father,” said Sophie. “For all he put me through.”
Agatha goggled at her. She recovered and nodded. “Right. Uh-huh. You got me.”
“At first I thought you’d done the spell to stop his wedding. But that doesn’t make any sense now, does it?” Sophie said with a snort. “That would mean you sent the arrows for me.”
Agatha croaked a laugh, trying not to look at her.
“Just a trick of light,” Sophie sighed. “Like you said.”
They sat in silence and listened to the chants.
“Don’t worry about my father. He and I’ll be fine,” Sophie said. “The witch won’t come back, Aggie. Not as long as we’re friends.”
Her voice was more naked than Agatha had ever heard it. Agatha looked up, surprised.
“You make me happy, Agatha,” said Sophie. “It just took me too long to see it.”