“You have no idea how powerful he has become,” Amina snaps. “There is no defeating him. My best advice would be to run, hide, save yourselves if you can.”

“You can’t be this much of a coward,” Constance says.

Amina turns slowly, and a wave of silent rage pulses out of her. I stand up and move between them.

“Please,” I say, as much to Amina as to Constance. “We need your help.”

Constance speaks to Amina without looking at her. “We can’t go back. You need to help us.”

Amina glances at me, her face softening again. She looks around the small room, muttering something to herself. She nods at me. “You can sleep by the fire. You”—she eyes Constance—“can sleep outside for all I care. I don’t have much extra room, as you can see, but stay, and we’ll discuss this in the morning when I’ve had a chance to clear my head.”

Amina shuffles off, and I sink down onto the floor, relieved that she and Constance haven’t come to blows. The things Amina told us feel too big, too impossible. Am I just supposed to take her at her word? Believe that magic is real and so much more dangerous than I thought possible?

Constance briefly considers taking Amina’s advice to sleep outside, but changes her mind as the howling of the wolves, along with a blustery wind, picks up again. Amina tosses me a pile of blankets before settling herself on a straw-stuffed mattress in the far corner of the room. The house contains cupboards and closets but no other rooms as far as I can tell.

Constance and I take turns stoking the fire to keep the drafty little cottage warm throughout the night. As we drift in and out of sleep, I keep some distance between us, though I awake several times to find her face very close to mine, her eyes closed, her breath soft and warm. I’m afraid I’m dreaming, that I might reach out and she’ll be gone. But I allow myself to think of what it would be like to spend my days with her freely, in a future we create.

23

Constance stirs before Amina. She sits up, rubbing her eyes. Her body suddenly stiffens.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

She groans and rubs her shoulder, rolling her head from side to side and stretching her neck. “The floor isn’t very forgiving. Did you sleep okay?”

“Not really.” I unbandage my hand to find the wound almost completely healed.

“Look at that,” says Constance. “I guess the witch is good for something.”

I look to where Amina is sleeping. “Whether she’ll help us or not is another question.”

I have a feeling Amina wants to help us. She wouldn’t have shared her story if she didn’t. But she’s clearly not a person who does anything out of the kindness of her heart, so I understand Constance’s skepticism.

Constance shifts around on the pile of blankets. Her tunic, which is entirely too big for her, slips off her shoulder. My heart speeds up a little, and I look away. When I turn back she is smiling at me, which only makes my heart beat faster. She purses her lips, then lets them part, sucking in a quick puff of air. She smiles again, and I notice a deep dimple in her right cheek. If I had been standing, I might have had to sit down.

“One thing,” I say, changing my train of thought.

“All right.” Constance raises one fiery-red eyebrow.

“I know you’ve got a lot to be angry about. And I don’t blame you, but we don’t have any better ideas.” I glance toward Amina. “We need her to tell us what she knows, and I’d like it if she didn’t use whatever power she has to obliterate us first.”

“We don’t even know if she’s telling the truth.”

I had thought the same thing, but I look down at my almost completely healed wound. Her books and concoctions line the walls, and I’m sure there is something at work here that I don’t yet understand.

“I don’t know exactly what she is either,” I say. “But just promise me you won’t provoke her before we figure out more.”

“I’ll try,” she says. “For you. Not because I’m afraid of her.”

“Of course not,” I say, smiling.

Amina rolls over and sits up. Bits of hay stick out of her mussed hair, and she looks confused for a moment.

“You awake there, Granny?” Constance asks, an edge of annoyance still coloring her voice. I shoot her a glance, and she frowns dramatically, mouthing the word “sorry” to me.

“Unfortunately. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been up with the sun. I have you two chattering away to thank for that.” She climbs off the mattress and stumbles to her feet. “Put the kettle and pot on. We’ll need something to eat. What will it be—eye of newt, tongue of dog?” Amina cackles.

“That’s disgusting,” Constance grumbles.

I push the pot over the fire and move the embers around before throwing another log on.

“We were just about to go over a few things,” I say.

“I’ll need coffee, my pipe, and a moment to wake up before we start on this again,” says Amina. She gathers a clay mug and her little cedar box and plops down in the chair by the fire. She puffs on her pipe, then splays her hand out in front of her. “Go on then.”

“Cinderella got a message to Gabrielle, asking her to meet in secret,” Constance says.

“Is that so?” Amina seems intrigued.

Constance goes to her bag and pulls out her belongings. She unbundles a packet of handwritten notes. Some of them are faded and look too delicate to even touch. She hands them to Amina. “One of Lady Davis’s most brilliant ideas was establishing a network of people willing to pass messages in order to organize their efforts. Over time the network shrank, mostly because the king was increasing his stranglehold on the women of Mersailles. These are some of the communications.”

I peer over Amina’s shoulder.

My skin pricks up. “I saw a note like this at Cinderella’s tomb the night I escaped the ball.”

Constance hangs her head. “I’m not surprised. The tomb would have been a perfect place to leave a message. So many people used to leave little notes there a message like this wouldn’t have been noticed.”

Amina shuffles the remaining messages and peers down at a particularly yellowed and curling slip of paper.

“That one is from Cinderella to Gabrielle five years before Cinderella’s death,” says Constance. “Gabrielle met her, and Cinderella tried to tell her something, but the guards found her and took her away. She risked her life to deliver a message.”

“It’s not as if he kept her in a cell,” Amina says quietly. “She had her own room in the palace. It was quite lovely, actually.”

“A prison is still a prison no matter how pretty the decor,” says Constance. Her patience is already paper thin.

Amina remains silent.

“Does it make you feel better to think of her as some pampered princess?”

Constance can’t keep her emotions in check, and it’s wrong to ask her to. She has a right to everything she feels. I just hope Amina will still be willing to help us.

“Why do you think I’ve spent these last years of my life in these godforsaken woods?” Amina asks. “It’s not for the scenery. I know what I’ve done, and you could just leave me here to rot like I deserve, but no. You traipsed out here to bother me.”