The Last Ever After

  “I’m sorry. Will you excuse me?” Agatha gasped. “I . . . I feel like I need some air—”

  She pushed herself from the table and fled the cabin, leaving Lancelot and Guinevere, who’d never needed anything but each other’s company, feeling suddenly alone.

  Agatha didn’t know where she was going; she just had to get away from that house. Clumping across the moors in steel-blue twilight, she took a long, full breath and noticed, for the first time, the air was warm. Gone was the raw winter chill, replaced by a humid breeze, just like the wind that blew through Merlin’s Celestium.

  Maybe this is the Lake Lady’s thinking place, she wondered, clinging to any thought that didn’t involve Sophie or Tedros. Nothing loomed ahead except flat, lucid evening and sky maps of stars and Agatha knew she could go on walking, forever and ever, never finding an end.

  She slowed to a stop and peered back towards the house. Beyond it, animals commingled, with a few pigs amongst the sheep and cows, while horses chased each other in the moonlight.

  The moon lit up something else too: Gavaldon against the horizon, already clearer than it was a day before. And now there were visible holes in the glassy shield around it.

  More stories rewritten.

  More old heroes dead.

  The School Master was getting closer to his ending.

  But what was it? she thought. What did he need in Gavaldon?

  Something he needs to destroy Good forever, Merlin had said.

  Agatha chewed on her lip, wrestling this most important riddle of all—

  That’s when she saw them. Two goldilocked figures by a small oak grove, indistinguishable in the dark.

  Agatha was reminded of a moment two years ago during Forest Group sorting when she caught Tedros and Sophie flirting against a tree. It was the first time Agatha had ever seen her best friend look happier than she did when she was with her. Now the sight of Sophie with the same prince, neither in a rush to find nor include her, brought the feelings roaring back. A sick, primal loneliness reared its head—

  Only this time Agatha didn’t run from the pain.

  Slowly she let the loneliness in, holding it, studying it as it clawed at her heart like a monster at the door.

  What am I so afraid of?

  She’d spent her whole life alone before that June morning four years ago when Sophie first came with a basket of face creams and diet cookies, offering to make her over. She’d been happy alone, like a bird trapped in a cage who’d never seen the sky. But as they grew closer and closer, Sophie had opened Agatha’s wings to a love so strong she thought it would last forever. It was she and Sophie against the world.

  But on that first day of school, watching Sophie with a prince, Agatha realized how blind she’d been. The bond between two girls, no matter how fierce or loyal, changed once a boy came between them.

  She and Sophie had tried to go home after that. They’d tried to get back to the way they used to be. But it was as impossible as returning to being a child once you’d already grown up.

  All this time, Agatha couldn’t understand why Sophie had chosen to be with Rafal to begin with . . . why Sophie would choose to be with a boy so Evil. But standing there, alone in the dark, Agatha suddenly felt for her best friend. Because when Agatha kissed Tedros and vanished him home with her, Sophie no longer had someone who put her first. Her two best friends had left her for each other.

  Tedros too had once felt that pain, watching her and Sophie kiss before they vanished home.

  Now Agatha was the odd one out. For if Sophie and her prince ended up together, their first loyalty would be to each other and their new kingdom. She’d still be their friend, of course, but it would be different. For the first time, there would be a part of Sophie and Tedros that Agatha could no longer share. The two of them would have each other. And she would only have herself.

  The ache inside her amplified as if she was getting closer to the fire.

  It wasn’t just her best friend or her prince she was afraid of losing.

  It was the old Agatha.

  The Agatha who knew how to be alone.

  That’s why she’d held on so tightly to Sophie as a friend . . . then to Tedros as her prince . . . doubting them, testing them, distrusting them . . . but still holding on.

  Because somewhere along the way she’d stopped trusting herself too.

  Pain smashed through the barrier and flooded her heart. Agatha closed her eyes, unable to breathe, as if she was drowning—

  “Heard I took you to the Snow Ball and didn’t even know it,” a voice said.

  She turned to see Hort, barechested in long underpants, his hair dripping wet.

  Maybe it was her wrought expression or the red in her cheeks, but Hort awkwardly covered his chest. “Uh, she’s washing my clothes. Don’t fall in love with me or anything,” he mumbled.

  Agatha took one look at his worried face and exploded into cackles, tearing and laughing at the same time.

  “Oh eat my dust, will you!” Hort barked. “You know full well you’re impressed by what you see!”

  Agatha wiped her eyes. “Oh, Hort. One day people will read our fairy tale and you’ll be the one they love the most.”

  She started walking away.

  “I didn’t lose my clothes this time! I gave them to her!” he called out. “And I’ll have my own fairy tale, one day. With a happy ending and everything. I can prove it—”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “’Cause I found something you won’t believe.”

  Agatha stopped walking and turned.

  The weasel flashed a wicked grin. “Want to see?”

  Sophie had been standing next to Tedros in the oak grove for nearly ten minutes, but the prince didn’t say a word. He was staring at a beautiful glass cross, rising out of the ground between two trees. Garlands of fresh white roses draped the cross, along with a small glowing five-pointed star resting against the base. There were more of these five-pointed stars around it, ashy and burnt-out, as if Merlin returned to lay a new star whenever the old had grown cold.

  Sophie nuzzled into Tedros’ side. “Is this where your father’s buried? It’s pretty.”

  Tedros turned to her. “Sorry, do you mind if I do this alone?”

  Sophie scalded pink. “Of course—I-I-I’ll see you at the house—” She spun on her heel, tripping over a dimmed star, and bungled out of the grove.

  “Sophie?”

  She looked back at the prince.

  “Thanks for checking on me,” he said.

  Sophie nodded briskly and hurried away.

  Without the light of Merlin’s star, she couldn’t see anything outside now, except the outlines of the house a quarter of a mile away. She tromped across the moors, cheeks still simmering.

  Everyone had made her so frantic about the ring, so guilt-ridden and jittery, that she’d only been focused on getting Tedros’ kiss as fast as she could. She’d forgotten her prince wasn’t a prize to be won or a finish line she could barrel through. Had she even considered how he was feeling? Tedros was trapped indefinitely with the mother who’d abandoned him and the lover she’d chosen to spend her life with instead. How could he possibly look at Guinevere, let alone talk to her, let alone stay in her house, without wanting to kill her? Especially since it was completely within his right to kill her, according to his father’s decree?

  Sophie shook her head, mortified. Tedros was probably dying inside, his heart shredded by emotion, and she’d floated in like a gas bubble to tell him his father’s grave was pretty.

  Agatha would never have been so selfish or stupid.

  Sophie sighed dismally as she neared the farmhouse. She’d set out on this journey to rewrite her fairy tale, only to repeat the mistakes she’d made the first time. Tedros couldn’t be pushed or rushed or wheedled into a kiss. Even back on the trail, she’d been the one who tried to kiss him, which was no doubt one of the reasons why it hadn’t worked. Her prince had to come to her. Until then,
she’d wait patiently, even if heroes were being slaughtered, even if the sun was drip, drip, dripping until they all dropped dead.

  Sophie gritted her teeth. If heroes were dying, it wasn’t her fault, was it? Wasn’t it a hero’s job to win their story, even if it was happening the second time around? Why should she take the blame if they got old and useless? Let them take care of their stories and she’d take care of hers.

  Because this was her fairy tale.

  This was her happy ending.

  And this time she was getting it right.

  She pulled off her dirty shoes as she came up the porch. They’d all appreciate her in the end, of course—once she’d sealed her Ever After with her prince and relighted the sun. Everybody would win because of her hard work. In the meantime, Tedros could have all the space he needed. She’d be a patient ear to him, a perfect guest to her hosts, a good friend to Agatha: helpful, convivial, polite, like the girl who once kept track of her Good Deeds. With a deep breath, Sophie arranged her face into a smile and pushed her way into the house, fluttering back towards the dining room—

  She stopped cold.

  Lancelot was alone at the table, eating an apple.

  “W-w-where’s everyone else?” she asked.

  “Gwen is cleaning up and Horbst went to check on Agatha.” He chomped into the apple and slid her a cup of smoky red-brown liquid. “Gwen made a pot of her famous licorice tea.”

  Sophie turned for the door. “I should see if they’re okay—”

  “You’re scared of me, aren’t you? Been giving me cagey looks all night.”

  Sophie froze. Lancelot was staring at the ring on her finger as if he’d noticed it for the first time.

  “They’ll find their way home, I’m sure,” he said. “Sit and have your tea.”

  His tone left little doubt as to her options. Sophie sat opposite him, her stomach queasy.

  “Guinevere was just touting what a perfect queen you’ll make for the young prince. The kind who’d make Arthur proud.” Lancelot bit into his apple, studying Sophie.

  “Funny thing, actually. You see, every Christmas, Merlin comes to the house to give Gwen news of her son. Last year, I remember he told us Tedros had found the princess of his dreams. Thoughtful, fiery, compassionate girl . . . a soul of pure Good, who loved him as much as he loved her. Only I could have sworn the name of that princess didn’t sound anything like ‘Sophie’ at all. Lousy with names so I knew I must have remembered it wrong. Gwen never misses a thing, so I mentioned it to her just now in the kitchen, figuring she’d set me straight. Strange, though. Gwen said I was right: Merlin had named Tedros’ princess as ‘Agatha,’ but even Gwen agreed the old codger was losing grip on that famous brain of his, ’cause clearly Sophie was the one who was the boy’s princess. Not just from the way you went after him at dinner, but Gwen noticed you had Tedros’ name tattooed on your finger, which also happened to be bearing Tedros’ ring.”

  Lancelot’s dark pupils glinted. “Only now that I’m seeing it, I’m wondering how Tedros could give you a ring made of Evil’s gold.”

  Sophie’s heart hammered, like an alarm set off.

  “Black-swan gold, to be exact,” said Lancelot. “Every black swan has a single gold tooth at the back of its mouth—gold which has nefarious properties when it touches human skin. Since the very first tale, black-swan gold has been hunted by Nevers as a powerful weapon, the same way Good has long sought steel from the Lady of the Lake. For centuries, Evil murdered these swans and plundered their gold, killing every last one. Still, Evil had all the black-swan gold it could ask for . . . before King Arthur led his knights on a quest to destroy it. A quest on which I rode by Arthur’s side, finding and smashing treasure after treasure, until there wasn’t a shred of black-swan gold left in the Endless Woods.” Lancelot grinned. “Except, it seems, for the one circling your finger.”

  Sophie stood up. “It’s dark out there—I should check on Tedros—”

  “The effects of black-swan gold are unmistakable,” Lancelot went on. “Once you wear it upon your skin, it commits your heart to Evil, no matter how hard you try to be Good. It is like a wicked compass that steers you towards sin, without you even realizing it. Wear it long enough and it will convince you it knows the secret of your Ever After . . . that it knows what your heart really wants . . . that it can even prove who your true love is. Ask it a name and the magic ring will carve the answer you seek upon your skin, like a guiding light—but that answer will only lead you right back to Evil, where you began.”

  Sophie was numb now, trapped in her chair.

  “Stories go wrong when people think their own happiness is bigger than anyone else’s,” said Lancelot. “Arthur knew Guinevere loved me, and still he put a ring on her finger, even knowing she wouldn’t be happy as his queen. In the end he left the wreckage of a family and two real loves exiled forever. I, too, lost a best friend, for Arthur was like a brother to me. But at least Gwen and I live the truth now. We have each other, as it should have been from the beginning. What does Arthur have? He’s dead and his queen’s ring long destroyed, for Guinevere couldn’t wear a ring that didn’t belong to her in the first place. Not when she belonged with someone else.”

  Sophie saw Lancelot staring harder.

  “Which begs a question of our queen-to-be,” he said, rising from his seat. He put his big, meaty hands on the table and leaned towards her. “You’re wearing a ring that doesn’t belong to your prince, young Sophie . . .”

  The dark knight drew closer, closer, until Sophie saw his devilish, cold-eyed face reflected in the gold on her finger.

  “So who do you belong with?”

  The door swung open and Guinevere came in, with a small basket.

  “Oh! Sophie, thank goodness. I put some turkey and greens in here for Tedros. He’ll eat it if you give it to him, surely. I don’t want him to go hungry tonight on my account—”

  Sophie didn’t hear words, only blood throbbing in her ears.

  “I know what you must think of me, Sophie, all of it deserved,” said Guinevere quietly, seeing her face. “Just know that if he never forgives me, if he never speaks a word to me again . . . I’m thankful he’s found his true love. Merlin told us how much Tedros fought for his princess—how much both of you fought to be together. So I can be at peace, knowing my son won’t repeat my mistakes.” Guinevere smiled at the ring on Sophie’s finger. “Because both of your hearts only wish for each other.”

  She stroked Sophie’s cheek and left the basket in her shaking hands.

  As Sophie watched Tedros’ mother return to the kitchen, she glanced back sickly at Lancelot—

  But the knight was gone, as if it’d all been a dream.

  “What is it?” Agatha asked, trying to track Hort’s muscled frame in the dark. “What’d you find?”

  “You’ll see. You all think I’m such a weenie. Big mistake,” said Hort, itching at his long underpants as they treaded deep into the oak grove. “Huge.”

  Squinting back at the house’s lit windows, Agatha could see Sophie and Lancelot talking in the dining room. She turned to Hort. “Wait, this doesn’t involve you turning into a werewolf, does it? You never last more than ten seconds—”

  “Man-wolf. And it’s better than that. Trust me. Besides, haven’t practiced my talent in a while, so I only last five seconds now. I don’t get it. How do other man-wolves last so long? Is there some special diet or potion for stamina? I asked Professor Sheeks, but she sent me to the Doom Room for being cheeky.”

  Agatha followed Hort towards the sparkle of a pond at the grove’s edge, reflecting the moonlit mirage of Gavaldon.

  “Now that Sophie’s not with the School Master anymore, how can he still win your fairy tale?” Hort asked, studying the outlines of the town. “Doesn’t he need love on his side?”

  “That’s the odd thing. He hasn’t chased her even though he can’t win without her,” Agatha answered as they stopped at the pond’s edge. “He admitted it to me
himself. That’s why he needs her as his queen so badly. She’s Evil’s only hope to win.”

  “Then he’s too late.”

  Agatha stomach plummeted. “Oh . . . so Tedros might, um . . . kiss her? N-n-not that I care. But you were on the trail with them, so I’m just curious how they were getting alon—”

  “I wasn’t talking about Tedros,” said Hort.

  Agatha saw him grin down at his reflection in the pond and she rolled her eyes. “Oy, Weasel Boy, if you brought me out here to ogle you in a mirror—”

  But now she saw what he was looking at, shimmering deep beneath the surface . . . small bullets of light, shooting upwards like a comet tail, getting closer, closer, until a thousand tiny white fish splashed through, spitting streams of water.

  “Wish Fish? You found Wish Fish?” Agatha said, wiping her face and kneeling at the shore. “Princess Uma taught us about them first year!”

  “Told you it was better than a man-wolf. Touch the water and they’ll dig into your soul and find your greatest wish,” said Hort. “Nevers were supposed to do the lesson the day after the Evers did it, but then you set the fish free, started an animal stampede, and nearly burned down the castle. School didn’t get new Wish Fish after that.”

  Agatha stroked the bobbing mouths of the little white fish, feeling their tickly kisses. “Suppose these want to be set free too?”

  Yet as she gazed into their big, black eyes, she didn’t see any traces of the same yearning. “I used to be able to hear wishes,” she said to Hort. “Maybe I lost my talent like you.”

  “Or maybe they’ve just been fish too long to remember they were once human,” said the weasel. “In any case, I’m going first.”

  He stuck his finger in the water.

  Instantly, the fish zipped off in different directions, turning black, silver, and gold, as they assembled themselves into a picture. For a moment, Agatha had no clue what she was seeing, until suddenly the mosaic of fish clarified, as if coming into focus, and she raised her brows in surprise.

  The fish had drawn Hort and Sophie’s sunlit wedding at the edge of a lake as a mob of well-wishers cheered them on. Both the bride and groom wore black, the only concession to the fact this was an Evil occasion as opposed to a Good one.