“Exactly like the palace-approved version,” I say.

Amina shakes her head. “Look again.”

I lean in. She’s right. The larger drawing is the same, but in the backdrop there is something on the ground, a heap that almost bleeds into the intricate rendering of the foliage that lines the pathway to the house.

A shiver runs up my back.

“Didn’t you say Cinderella’s mother was executed in the driveway?” I ask Constance.

She only nods. The little heap of ink looks like a person slumped on the ground.

I take the book from Amina and lay it on the floor, setting the palace-approved version right next to it. “The next drawing should be one of an older Cinderella bowing in front of her new stepmother.”

It is, but in Constance’s version, Lady Davis is leaning forward, her hand extended, her face gentle, her eyes full of sorrow, and Cinderella isn’t bowing as much as she is kneeling, like she’s just collapsed, her fingers rigid against the floor.

“Her father’s imprisonment and execution,” Constance says. She glances up at me. “What is going on here?”

“I think this book may be closer to the truth than anything I’ve ever seen,” says Amina. “Whoever recorded it this way, with the drawings telling the real story, would have put themselves at great risk by doing so.”

We flip through, and I spot another difference. “In the palace version, it says that after Cinderella’s wedding, Gabrielle’s and her younger sister Isla’s eyes were pecked out while their mother was forced to watch, and then they were sent into the woods to remain in exile until they died. In Constance’s book, they are exiled without all the gory details.”

“They were left out there to rot, but they didn’t,” Constance says. “They got away.”

I read over the words. “The color of the dress is different in your version, Constance. Also, it says that the stepsisters simply tried fitting the glass shoe, but in the palace text it says they cut off their own toes to try to make it fit.” I glance up at Constance. “People hate them. I saw a little girl at the bicentennial celebration break down in tears at the thought of being like them.”

Constance draws her mouth into a hard line. “He made them monsters to keep the attention off him. He is the real monster.”

“And now look,” I say. “All these years later, people take it as fact. It’s as if repeating the lie over and over makes it true.”

I reach down and turn to the last image. It shows Cinderella and Prince Charming sharing a passionate kiss against the backdrop of the royal palace.

“The last drawing in the palace-approved story is of Cinderella sitting on her throne beside her prince,” I say. “His throne is golden with rubies, and hers is plain. And his throne sits on a platform nearly two heads above Cinderella.”

We study the last picture in Constance’s book. Cinderella’s curly hair is worn in a plait that hangs down her back. She stands face-to-face with Charming, his arms wrapped around her.

I run my hand over the picture. “The prince’s arms, one around her waist, one around the back of her neck.” Cinderella’s arms hang at her sides, her fingers curled into fists. “This is supposed to be the beginning of their happily ever after. And she doesn’t embrace him? Her hands are balled up.” I hear Amina’s breaths coming in quick succession as she stares down at Constance’s book. My fingers tremble at the edge of the page.

Constance leans in. “They’re kissing.”

“No,” I say. “They’re not.”

I snatch up the book and stand with it in the middle of the room. A bright light, like a small, luminous cloud, hangs around their heads in the space where their faces come together. Their lips parted but not touching. The cloud of light looks as if it is passing between them. Cinderella’s eyes are open and blank, staring straight ahead. I push the book away from me, fearing that the king will come out of the picture right before my eyes. My vision from the pool and this picture are almost identical. The king, the ball of light. “This is what I saw in my vision.”

Constance runs her hands over her face and lets her arms fall heavily to her sides. “You’re awfully quiet,” she says to Amina.

“Am I?” Amina asks, rolling her eyes.

“You must know more … It is your fault Cinderella fell head over feet for Manford in his guise as Prince Charming.” Constance’s tone is sharp, angry. “What really happened to Cinderella?”

Amina shakes her head. “There are a great many things I should have done differently.”

Constance is fuming. “You were hiding out there so you didn’t have to face what you’ve done. You spent years following Manford around, helping him ruin people’s lives. You’ve had all this time, time that isn’t granted to anyone else, and what do you do? You hide.”

“My life’s purpose was unclear until I met you, my sweet,” says Amina, her tone mocking. “Now I know I’m meant to follow you around, ruining your life, maybe for all time. How does that sound?”

Constance’s hand moves to her dagger.

“Try it,” says Amina. “See what happens.”

“Just stop,” I say. I move between them. “Both of you. The cotillion is days away, and we are no closer to a plan.” I stare at the picture again. “I’m the one who’s sparked those little rebellions we’ve heard about. I’m the one he’s been hunting. And I’m going to have to let him get close to me, so I can put a dagger in his neck.”

Amina shifts in her seat, and Constance crosses her arms hard over her chest.

“The neck is a small target,” says Constance. “You should aim for something bigger, the chest or belly, first.”

Amina slowly turns her head to stare at Constance.

“That’s—helpful,” I say.

Amina gets up and walks out of the room.

Constance turns back to me. “I say we practice our knife skills on her.”

She is only half joking.

Constance makes a target out of an outfit she has in her burlap bag: a pair of trousers and a tunic, the sleeves and legs sewn closed and stuffed with dead grass and leaves. The head is a gourd, half the size of a normal human head, and Constance has painted on a set of eyes and a mouth, turned down into a frown. It’s horrifying.

She props it against one of the trees that line the drive and gestures to it.

“Stab it.”

I glance at the blade in my hand. “Just anywhere or …”

Constance laughs. “Let me show you.”

She steps behind me and slides her right hand down my arm. I know I’m supposed to be focusing on training, but I can already tell it’s going to be difficult with her so close to me.

“There are three things you have to do when you’re using a blade,” she says. “You have to be able to hold on to the dagger; you have to be able to strike whatever, or in this case whoever, the target is; and you have to have all your fingers when you’re done.”

“Sounds straightforward enough.”

She nods. She’d sharpened and polished her dagger, and as I stand with it in my outstretched hand, I can’t help but feel a little more confident.