“Hiding is why she’s out here.” Constance is unmoved.

“Yes, but why?” I ask. “She’s exiled herself as a form of punishment. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do. You heard her say she doesn’t think he can be stopped. Maybe she’s given up.”

“I think a part of me had given up, too.” Constance heaves an exaggerated sigh and turns to me, smiling. “I’m not going to forgive her for what she did, but I won’t kill her.”

“I guess that’s good enough for now.”

She looks at me in that way again, and I never want her to stop. She makes me feel seen. Alive. Hopeful.

“You know, if we can stop Manford, you could come back to Lille. You wouldn’t have to stay away.” Imagining all these new possibilities helps me push away the thoughts of what will have to come first.

“I’d like that,” Constance says. “It’d be nice to stay in one place after all this time.”

Under the glinting moon, her hair is like a smoldering ember, her face so much like the splendor of the stars in the sky above us that I wonder how she can be real.

“But if we can find a way to end his reign,” Constance says, “it doesn’t mean that everyone will suddenly change. The people of Lille don’t know anything other than Manford’s laws and rules. It will be hard to make them see a new way.”

We sit in silence for a moment, a swell of sadness rising in me, and Constance seems to sense it. She lays her head gently on my shoulder, and her hair brushes against my cheek. I breathe in the flowery scent that always clings to her.

“If this doesn’t work,” she says, “we can run away together. Maybe get our own decrepit little shack in the woods.”

She is joking, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I feel my face grow warm. “You might get tired of me.”

“I might get tired of your cooking,” she says, smiling. “That gruel was—”

“Terrible? I knew it!”

She reaches down and runs her fingers over the back of my hand. For a moment I think she might turn her face up and press her lips against mine, and while I want that more than anything, I can’t bring myself to slip my hand under her chin and bring her mouth closer. My feelings for Constance grow with each passing second, but my feelings for Erin hang heavy on my heart. I feel terrible for caring so deeply about Constance while Erin suffers.

She shouldn’t be suffering, and neither should I. It is this feeling that strengthens my resolve to do whatever must be done to make sure Manford’s reign comes to an end, even if that involves raising Cinderella from the dead.

25

The next night, the moon is just a sliver of silver in the black sky, and Constance, Amina, and I have gathered by the fire as a wicked wind gusts through the White Wood.

Constance sharpens her dagger on a flat stone as Amina puffs away on her pipe.

“There’s something I’d like to ask of you,” Amina says.

Constance scowls, and I nudge her with my shoulder.

“What is it?” I ask.

“We’re heading into an unknown future. I’d like to see if, perhaps, we might illuminate our path.”

Constance is exasperated. “You clearly have something specific in mind, so why don’t you just get on with it.”

Amina rolls her eyes and stands up, stuffing a piece of parchment into Constance’s hand. I lean over and read it. It’s a list of the herbs we need from the garden, and underneath it is a schedule with little drawings of the phases of the moon and the word “divination.”

“Divination?” Constance asks. “Like fortune-telling?”

“It is a tool,” Amina says. “For looking ahead.”

“You can see the future?” I ask.

Amina sits back down and takes up her pipe. “In a way, yes. Don’t you think a little peek into the events to come might be helpful?”

“How do we do that?” I ask, intrigued.

Amina settles into her chair and crosses her legs. “After the harvest, on the full moon, we’ll see what can be seen.”

“Can you ever just give a straight answer?” Constance asks, throwing her head back and looking at the ceiling. “I’m exhausted trying to decipher your riddles. See what can be seen? What does that mean?”

“It means shut up and stop asking so many questions,” Amina snaps.

Constance sits forward and opens her mouth to speak, or more likely to share some choice words with Amina, when the winds whip themselves into a strong bluster.

The roof rattles, and the floorboards creak under Amina’s rocker. A stiff draft moves through the room, and the flames of the roaring fire lap at the blackened bricks of the fireplace. A noise is carried in on the wind.

“This place is going to get blown away with the next strong gust,” Constance says.

“And hopefully you with it,” Amina says without even looking up.

Constance raises an eyebrow. “Listen—”

“Shh!” I say, scrambling to my feet. “Did you hear that?”

“The wind, Sophia,” Constance says.

“No. No, there’s something else.”

There is another sound in the wind. The whinny of a horse. As the wind gusts again, we all hear it. Amina leaps from her chair and stands listening in the middle of the room. She goes to the threadbare rug that takes up most of the floor, grabbing it by its edge, revealing a small door underneath. When she lifts the hatch, I see the unmistakable glint of fear in her eyes. “Get inside. Now. Don’t say a word. Don’t even breathe if you can help it.”

Constance moves to my side, and we crowd into the little opening, which leads to a root cellar. With its low ceiling and dirt floor, it is nothing more than a hole in the ground. We crouch down while Amina drops the hatch and covers it with the rug, knocking a shower of dust onto us.

“What is it?” Constance asks. Her voice is magnified in the small space, and Amina stomps hard on the floor above.

“Shh,” I say. “Someone is coming.”

I still my breath and try to hear over the rush in my ears. Horses, men’s voices, and then a bang at the door. Amina’s boots knock against the floorboards as she makes her way to the front of the house. The groan of the rusted hinges rings out as she opens the door. A heavier set of steps enters the cottage and stops just over our heads.

“Still living in squalor, I see,” says a man’s voice. It’s familiar.

“It suits me,” says Amina.

“Indeed it does,” says the man. “And tell me again why you’ve chosen this life? You certainly aren’t out here on my orders.”

“I prefer it to the city or the palace.” Amina’s tone is condescending, and the man shifts from one foot to the other just above us. “Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here.”

Suddenly I recognize the voice, and fear washes over me. My heart sputters, and I hold my breath. King Manford.

“You haven’t set foot on my doorstep in years, and now you show up because you want something.”

“I’m hurt,” he says.

“Oh please,” Amina says. “We both know it would take more than that to hurt your feelings.”