When the firelight dances across Constance’s face, all I want is to tell her how I adore her, how she makes me feel like I don’t have to be afraid, but Erin is always there at the back of my mind.

“I would never try to come between you and her,” Constance says. “I just want you to know that I care for you, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks.”

I inch closer to her, leaning toward her. “With Erin, it’s mostly me chasing after her, trying to force her to understand that …” I trail off. It’s not fair to say anything bad about Erin. I know what living in Lille has done to her, and it’s not her fault.

“Understand what?” Constance asks, her tone gentle.

“To understand that I’m worth it? That she is worth it. I don’t know.” I struggle to find the right words. “For a time, I’d convinced myself that we could make things work. If we could just hold on, if we were willing to fight for it.”

“And did the two of you fight for it?” Constance looks down.

“She didn’t want to.” The words stick in my throat. They make me angry and sad and hurt all at the same time. “She wanted us to follow the law, to obey our parents. And I think, more than anything, she believed that what we felt for each other was wrong.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I realize now that she wasn’t ready to risk everything to be with me and that I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“You cared for her, so you pushed. I would have done the same thing for you.” She glances up at me, her deep-brown eyes soft, questioning.

My heart races. I don’t know what to say or do. All I know is that I want to be close to her. I lean in and she reaches up, running her fingers down the side of my neck, tracing my collarbone. My stomach twists into a knot. Before I have a chance to overthink it, I press my lips to hers. Her hands move to my neck and face. A surge of warmth rushes over me as she presses herself against me. There is an urgency in her kiss, like she’s trying to prove to me how much she cares, and I yield to her, unconditionally.

The fire in me that has smoldered for her bursts to life in a way I never knew was possible. I’m lost in the tide of her breathing, the sweet smell of her skin, the push and pull of our bodies against each other. Each touch sends a shiver straight through me. In this moment, nothing else matters, only the surrender to the feelings we share.

In the late hours of the evening, Amina returns from her walk.

“Where did you run off to?” Constance asks, straightening out her tunic and working her hair into a curly bun on top of her head.

Amina sits down in the chair and prepares her pipe. “I took a stroll. And I have something interesting to share.”

“Something about the king?” I ask.

“In a way, yes. It seems we won’t have to wait too long to have our chance at a confrontation with him.” Amina reaches into her cloak, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and hands it to me. I show it to Constance.

“He’s plastered these flyers all over town. Nailed one to every door,” says Amina. “Every girl in the kingdom will be required to attend a cotillion on the midwinter solstice.”

“Your walk took you farther than you let on,” says Constance, eyeing Amina suspiciously.

“He’s looking for me,” I say. “He doesn’t want to wait until the next ball. He thinks this will draw me out.”

“And he’s right,” says Amina, puffing away and gazing off. “We have less time to prepare now, but this is our chance.” Her tone is strained, almost sad. I wonder if she’s changed her mind about wanting to help us.

“Then we should get to it,” I say, glancing at Constance, who only nods. “I think we should start by trying to find the little book Cinderella spoke of.”

Constance nods. “She said it was a journal, and if she risked her life to try and give it to Gabrielle, then it must be important.”

“And if it still exists, if she took it back to the castle, there’s no telling what became of it,” Amina says. “But we’re talking about an object that existed two hundred years ago. It could be dust for all we know.”

I shake my head. “We have to try. The cotillion is our way in.”

“And what will you do then?” Amina asks. There’s a solemn tone to her voice again. I worry there is something she’s not telling us.

Constance straightens up. “We’ll kill him. That’s what we’ll do.”

Amina sits back, sighing heavily, but says nothing.

30

We spend each night leading up to the cotillion in the parlor over a pot of stew and a kettle of strong black tea, reviewing every aspect of what we know so far about the king, about the palace. We make plans, scratching out the details on parchment, but each one of these plans turns to kindling in the bottom of the fireplace when a flaw is noticed. There will be little room for error, and nothing we come up with seems good enough.

Amina has taken several more trips into town and heard a rumor that the king has increased security at the border because of an uptick in disruptive incidents. Constance thought they may have been staged by the other escapees she’d spoken of, but she had little hope that enough of them remained to pull off an uprising. Amina thought they might be people who were still trapped under the king’s thumb, resisting because of my escape. I can’t imagine how angry that must have made him.

In addition to making the cotillion mandatory, King Manford has made it clear that anyone who willfully disobeys his orders will be considered a forfeit, their property seized and their family members executed. They are the words of a desperate man.

Our planning comes to a grinding halt when we try to figure out what will happen once we’re inside the palace.

“We’ve come to the most important part and still nothing,” I say one evening as we sit racking our brains. We’re running out of time.

“We know we can get in,” says Constance. “But once he realizes who you are, that you’re the one who escaped, you’ll be a target.”

The visions I had in the pond haven’t stopped since we came to our new residence. I still dream almost every night of the king and the light. “I need to find Cinderella’s journal. That is the key. I just know it.”

Amina rifles through her belongings and pulls out a book I recognize immediately. It’s the palace-approved version of the Cinderella story.

“I don’t even want to look at that right now,” I say.

She flips through the pages and then stops abruptly, looking up. “Constance, I’d like to have another look at that book of fairy tales, the one you said was passed down to you.”

Constance rolls her eyes and goes to get the book, handing it to Amina.

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Amina asks.

“We don’t have time for this,” I say.

Amina ignores my protests and opens Constance’s book, running her hand over the first page, a scene of Cinderella as a toddler, standing on the front step of her house and holding her father’s hand. Amina glances back and forth between the two versions of Cinderella’s tale.