I am struck silent.

“You’re—you’re not working for the king, then?” I’m having trouble figuring out who she is and why she’s here.

“I would choose death over serving him.” Her tone is suddenly serious.

I keep Cinderella’s sarcophagus between us as I move toward the door. “I was just leaving.”

“And where are you off to?” she asks. In her hand, she holds a small lantern, lit just brightly enough so I can see her face. We are matched in height and build and are probably close in age as well. Her fawn skin, dewy and smooth, seems to glow from within.

A ripple of guilt runs through me. I should not be admiring some stranger’s beauty at a time like this. “I’m trying to get home.”

“On a night like this? A pretty girl like yourself should be at the palace looking for a suitor.” She watches me carefully as she speaks.

“I’ve just come from there,” I say. The way she said the word “pretty” gives me pause. It’s a compliment, but there is something else in her voice. I avoid her eyes. “I’m not going back. I don’t care how many guards the king sends after me.”

“Don’t you want to find a husband and settle into your proper role?” Subtlety isn’t this girl’s strong point. Sarcasm permeates every word.

“I don’t want anything to do with a husband or any sort of proper role.”

“And why is that?” she asks.

“Because that’s not my choice. That’s not what I want.” It’s probably a mistake to spill my secrets to her, but I feel like I have less and less to lose with each passing moment.

She smiles at me and my face flushes hot.

“So, did you come here to pay homage to Cinderella?” she asks. She places her lamp on the ground and pulls a small bundle of flowers from the folds of her cloak. I shiver as she walks up to place them on Cinderella’s coffin, running her hand over the smooth marble.

“No,” I say curtly. “But from the looks of it, lots of other people have. I didn’t think this place still existed.” My teeth clang together as I try to bite back the cold.

She walks toward me, takes her cloak off, and places it around my shoulders. “Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I almost swoon in the warmth of the cloak. I breathe in her scent, a mix of wildflowers and lavender. I have to remind myself to focus.

She’s wearing a pair of close-fitting trousers and a tunic. A thick belt encircles her waist and from it hangs a gleaming dagger. She goes to the doors and peers out through a little chip in the glass. Her face relaxes as she turns to me.

“Why are you dressed like that?” I ask. She looks lovely, but I’ve never seen a woman wear pants and a tunic before.

“The pockets,” she says. She puts her hands in them and gives a little twirl. “I love pockets.”

I smile, despite the cold, despite the terrible circumstance. “You said before that I was wrong about the legends being true. What did you mean?”

Her gaze drifts to the glass slippers. “All fairy tales have some grain of truth. Picking apart that truth from the lies can be tricky, though.”

“Questioning the story is against the law.”

She stiffens.

“I’m sorry. I’m not threatening you,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I’ve rarely heard anyone say that even parts of the story are fiction. Most people believe every word.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” The weight of everything that has happened falls on me all at once. “I have to go. If the guards find me …”

“They won’t if you stay here,” she says.

“How do you know that?” I ask frantically. A wave of panic rushes over me. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, but I have to do something.”

The girl stares at me for a moment. “West of the city center, about five miles, the road branches out into two forks. The far right one meanders for a few more miles and leads to a gate. Meet me there tomorrow.”

“I probably won’t be alive tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll be rotting in some dungeon on the king’s orders by then.”

Her brows knit together as if this troubles her. She ducks behind the coffin and picks up a small bag. After fishing around inside, she takes out a set of clothes—a pair of pants and another tunic, a pair of boots—and tosses them to me. “Put these on.”

I set her cloak aside and pull on the trousers, casting aside the shell of my dress. I slip the tunic over my head as the girl steps toward me, a small dagger glinting in the lantern light. My heart skips. I realize what a fool I’ve been to so blindly trust a stranger. I turn to run, but in one quick motion she slices the strings of my corset, and for the first time all day I can breathe. My heart pounds in fear, but also something else. Exhilaration? Panic? It feels like I’m free from something much more than fabric and strings.

“Stay here,” she says as I face her. “Stay hidden. And tomorrow, come to meet me if you can, because I think you’re probably right about the king’s men. They won’t stop searching for you.” She straightens up. “What’s your name?”

“Sophia,” I say.

“I’m Constance,” she says. “I’ll lead the guards away from you. When you leave at first light, stay off the main road.”

“I don’t even know which way to go,” I say, feeling more hopeless with each passing moment.

“City center is in the direction of the rising sun,” she says. “Remember, leave at first light.”

She moves to the door, and I hold out her cloak.

“Keep it,” she says. “You can give it back when you come see me.”

13

I don’t sleep, and as soon as daylight touches the sky, I leave Cinderella’s tomb. Following the rising sun, I cut through the woods, stumbling along in boots that are two sizes too big. The main road is visible through the trees after a while, but I don’t take it. I stay in the shadowy confines of the tree line until the road is clear at the junction that leads into the heart of Lille.

I hesitate as I think of the girl. Constance. If I go now to meet her, my parents will be left wondering what happened. The king will send his men to the house, I’m sure of it, but what will they say? Will they admit that I slipped through their fingers? I can’t leave my parents wondering if I’m dead or alive. I keep the hood of the cloak up as I cut across the main road and make my way home.

When I arrive on my street, a trio of palace guards are storming out of my house. They mount their horses as I sink low, pressing my back into a garden wall. They ride past, raining bits of earth and pebbles down on me. As the sounds of the horses fade, I scramble to my feet and dart around to our rear entrance. The door is locked. I rap gently on the glass until my mother’s tear-soaked face appears. She flings it open and pulls me inside, cupping her hand over my mouth. My father appears in the doorway, and his eyes grow wide. He glances back over his shoulder.

“Hurry up with that tea, woman,” a gruff voice calls from the front room.