“My mother taught me that I am a whole person with or without a husband,” she says emphatically. “Who I am inside and how I treat others are the only things that matter. The same goes for you. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling. Another question pushes its way to the front of my mind as the cart bounces along the road toward town. “You’d like a husband, then? Or at least, you’d consider that an option?” I try to sound curious to hide how incredibly nervous I am to hear her answer.

Constance pauses for a moment. “No. That’s not for me.”

I don’t press her, even though my mind races with a dozen questions.

“Can I be honest with you?” she asks.

“I thought that’s what we were doing here,” I say.

“I don’t just want equal footing in Lille. I want much more than that.”

I look at her, confused. “Equal footing sounds pretty good to me.”

“It’s a start,” she says. “But you know what will happen? We’ll have to force people to give us what we’re asking for.”

“When you say we, you mean you and I?” I ask.

“Yes, but there are others,” Constance says. “At least, there were.”

I sit straight up. “Others?”

“Not many, but yes. Others. People who have slipped through the king’s fingers, mostly women who feel like they have nothing left to lose. You’ve heard of the incident in Chione?”

“That was you too?” I ask in utter disbelief.

“No. It was Émile, an ally of mine. But she’s gone now.”

The flyers the king had handed out made it clear that the people responsible were executed. I can tell by the look on Constance’s face that she saw them, too.

“The watchtowers guard every border,” I say. “No one in or out without the king’s say.”

“Not all of Lille’s borders are guarded so heavily. The western edge that butts up to the White Wood has only two towers and the guards are complacent. They think fear of the wood is enough to keep people from crossing into it.” Constance huffs loudly. “The palace underestimates the resourcefulness of women forced into a dark and dangerous place.”

I remember the seamstress’s husband, and how he was so completely offended by the thought that she’d kept one cent of the money she’d earned. I think of her terrified son and the bruise on her neck. Those things might be enough to make someone risk an illegal crossing.

“What do you think needs to happen in Lille?” I ask.

She stares at me, her brown eyes glinting, a deadly serious look on her face. “I think we need to burn the whole thing to the ground and start over. The entire system, the ideals that have been woven into this society. It all has to go.”

“That feels like an impossible thing to do,” I say.

“If I had told you a week ago that you would flee the ball on foot and discover Cinderella’s tomb, what would you have said?”

“I would have said it was impossible.” I turn to her. “But a week ago I didn’t know you. If it wasn’t for you, I might not have even made it out of the tomb.”

“And if it wasn’t for you, I might not be going to the White Wood to find some remnant of the one woman who knew the whole truth about why Cinderella went up to the palace that night, or about what curse afflicted Prince Charming and what that has meant for us over all these years.” She smirks. “It’s you and I together that will make the difference.”

I’ve never been very good at making myself small, and with Constance maybe I don’t have to. I want to knock our king off his throne, and she’ll help me do it.

17

We ride into town and wind through the streets, keeping our heads down. People are going about their business as if only a day ago their daughters hadn’t been snatched away from them, as if Liv hadn’t died. I resent being back here.

The market is bustling and crowded as usual. Shouting from the livestock auction mingles with the mundane chitchat from the other marketgoers, and it grates on me. Even with the throngs of people milling about and almost none of them looking in my direction, I fear that my disguise won’t be good enough. That someone might recognize me. Constance backs the cart into an alley between two shops and climbs out.

“We’ll need a sack of rice and root vegetables, things that will stay good for a few days or longer.” She puts a handful of silver coins in my palm and reaches up to adjust my hat, letting her fingers brush over my ear and down the side of my neck. A ripple of delight surges through me. “Meet me back at the cart in thirty minutes. Do not stop. Do not talk to anyone if you can avoid it. Try to blend in.” Constance squeezes my shoulder and rushes off.

The market is set up in the town square, where all remnants of the bicentennial celebrations have been cleared away. Larger booths ring the outer edge of the area, and smaller stalls and tents crowd the inside. The smell of animal dung wafts through the air, and this warmer-than-usual morning makes it particularly pungent.

The merchants yell, advertising their wares, none of them paying attention to their surroundings. I watch a young boy pocket a silver spoon from a table as the man attending it bargains with one of his patrons. My first thought is to alert the merchant, but when he makes a comment about the length of a young girl’s skirt and how her legs are simply too inviting to resist, I stop in my tracks. He deserves to have his things stolen.

Winding my way through the crowd, I catch bits and pieces of people’s conversations.

“… went up there in her mother’s dress. They found her in a ditch. Killed herself, she did.” The man speaking is chuckling so heartily that his cheeks are ruddy and a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. I look away. Familiar anger creeps up and heats my face.

“… they were beautiful, best lot in a few years. I heard a baron from Chione took two brides.”

“Is that allowed? Two at once?” I hear a woman ask. Slowing my pace, I look up again. Her husband shoots her a dagger of a glance and turns his back to her.

“I’d have taken two if I had thought of it at the time, but now it’s just you I have to deal with.” Her husband and his friends laugh while the woman smiles one of those fake smiles, all mouth and no eyes. I know the smile, and a little piece of me dies every time I have to use it.

I turn sharply to head away from them. Constance is right. Even if we can find a way to end Manford’s reign, men won’t suddenly start keeping their hands to themselves, or allowing women the same rights that they have. We’ll have to fight for it, and I cannot help but wonder what the cost will be.

I push forward and find the stall selling grains. Sacks and barrels of everything from rye and buckwheat to milled flour and rice are all stacked on top of each other. A small boy swats mice away from the sacks as an older man sits at a wooden table near the front of the stall. He doesn’t look up as I approach.

“Excuse me,” I say, before stopping short. My voice is sure to give me away. I pretend to cough, covering my mouth with my hand and using it to muffle my voice. “I need a sack of rice.”