Fear swelled into a contagious fog. In a dim alley, the butcher and blacksmith traded storybooks for clues to save their sons. Beneath the crooked clock tower, two sisters listed fairy-tale villain names to hunt for patterns. A group of boys chained their bodies together, a few girls hid on the school roof, and a masked child jumped from bushes to spook his mother, earning a spanking on the spot. Even the homeless hag got into the act, hopping before a meager fire, croaking, “Burn the storybooks! Burn them all!” But no one listened and no books were burned.
Agatha gawped at all this in disbelief. “How can a whole town believe in fairy tales?”
“Because they’re real.”
Agatha stopped walking. “You can’t actually believe the legend is true.”
“Of course I do,” said Sophie.
“That a School Master kidnaps two children, takes them to a school where one learns Good, one learns Evil, and they graduate into fairy tales?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Tell me if you see an oven.”
“Why?”
“I want to put my head in it. And what, pray tell, do they teach at this school exactly?”
“Well, in the School for Good, they teach boys and girls like me how to become heroes and princesses, how to rule kingdoms justly, how to find Happily Ever After,” Sophie said. “In the School for Evil, they teach you how to become wicked witches and humpbacked trolls, how to lay curses and cast evil spells.”
“Evil spells?” Agatha cackled. “Who came up with this? A four-year-old?”
“Agatha, the proof’s in the storybooks! You can see the missing children in the drawings! Jack, Rose, Rapunzel—they all got their own tales—”
“I don’t see anything, because I don’t read dumb storybooks.”
“Then why is there a stack by your bed?” Sophie asked.
Agatha scowled. “Look, who’s to say the books are even real? Maybe it’s the bookseller’s prank. Maybe it’s the Elders’ way to keep children out of the woods. Whatever the explanation, it isn’t a School Master and it isn’t evil spells.”
“So who’s kidnapping the children?”
“No one. Every four years, two idiots sneak into the woods, hoping to scare their parents, only to get lost or eaten by wolves, and there you have it, the legend continues.”
“That’s the stupidest explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“I don’t think I’m the stupid one here,” Agatha said.
There was something about being called stupid that set Sophie’s blood aflame.
“You’re just scared,” she said.
“Right,” Agatha laughed. “And why would I be scared?”
“Because you know you’re coming with me.”
Agatha stopped laughing. Then her gaze moved past Sophie into the square. The villagers were staring at them like the solution to a mystery. Good in pink, Evil in black. The School Master’s perfect pair.
Frozen still, Agatha watched dozens of scared eyes bore into her. Her first thought was that after tomorrow she and Sophie could take their walks in peace. Next to her, Sophie watched children memorize her face in case it appeared in their storybooks one day. Her first thought was whether they looked at Belle the same way.
Then, through the crowd, she saw her.
Head shaved, dress filthy, Belle kneeled in dirt, frantically muddying her own face. Sophie drew a breath. For Belle was just like the others. She wanted a mundane marriage to a man who would grow fat, lazy, and demanding. She wanted monotonous days of cooking, cleaning, sewing. She wanted to shovel dung and milk sheep and slaughter squealing pigs. She wanted to rot in Gavaldon until her skin was liver-spotted and her teeth fell out. The School Master would never take Belle because Belle wasn’t a princess. She was . . . nothing.
Victorious, Sophie beamed back at the pathetic villagers and basked in their stares like shiny mirrors—
“Let’s go,” said Agatha.
Sophie turned. Agatha’s eyes were locked on the mob.
“Where?”
“Away from people.”
As the sun weakened to a red orb, two girls, one beautiful, one ugly, sat side by side on the shore of a lake. Sophie packed cucumbers in a silk pouch, while Agatha flicked lit matches into the water. After the tenth match, Sophie threw her a look.
“It relaxes me,” Agatha said.
Sophie tried to make room for the last cucumber. “Why would someone like Belle want to stay here? Who would choose this over a fairy tale?”
“And who would choose to leave their family forever?” Agatha snorted.
“Except me, you mean,” said Sophie.
They fell silent.
“Do you ever wonder where your father went?” Sophie asked.
“I told you. He left after I was born.”
“But where would he go? We’re surrounded by woods! To suddenly disappear like that . . .” Sophie spun. “Maybe he found a way into the stories! Maybe he found a magic portal! Maybe he’s waiting for you on the other side!”
“Or maybe he went back to his wife, pretended I never happened, and died ten years ago in a mill accident.”
Sophie bit her lip and went back to cucumbers.
“Your mother’s never at home when I visit.”
“She goes into town now,” said Agatha. “Not enough patients at the house. Probably the location.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Sophie said, knowing no one would trust Agatha’s mother to treat diaper rash, let alone illness. “I don’t think a graveyard makes people all that comfortable.”
“Graveyards have their benefits,” Agatha said. “No nosy neighbors. No drop-in salesmen. No fishy ‘friends’ bearing face masks and diet cookies, telling you you’re going to Evil School in Magic Fairy Land.” She flicked a match with relish.
Sophie put down her cucumber. “So I’m fishy now.”
“Who asked you to show up? I was perfectly fine alone.”
“You always let me in.”
“Because you always seem so lonely,” said Agatha. “And I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me?” Sophie’s eyes flashed. “You’re lucky that someone would come see you when no one else will. You’re lucky that someone like me would be your friend. You’re lucky that someone like me is such a good person.”