a roar, the wind lashed between them and blew the candle out.
Blood. It smelled blood.
Eat.
Smashing through trees, the Beast hunted their scent, grunting and slobbering on all fours. Claws and feet pounded the dirt, faster, faster, shredding vines and branches, bounding over rocks, until at last it could hear their breaths and see the trail of red. One of them was hurt.
Eat.
Through a long, dark, hollow trunk it slunk, licking up the blood, smelling their terror. The Beast took its time, for they had nowhere to go, and soon it heard their whimpers. Bit by bit they came into view, silhouetted in moonlight, trapped between the end of the log and a thick patch of briars. The older boy, wounded and pale, clutched the younger to his chest.
The Beast swept them both up and held the boys as they cried. Snuggled in briars, the Beast rocked them gently until the boys stopped weeping and knew the Beast was Good. Soon the boys breathed heavier against the Beast’s black breast, nestling deeper into its arms, hugging them tighter … harder … bonier … until the boys gasped awake …
And saw Sophie’s bloody smile.
Sophie flung up from bed and knocked into her bedside candle, splattering lavender wax all over the wall. She whirled to the mirror and saw herself bald, toothless, pockmarked with warts—
“Help—” she choked, closing her eyes—
She opened them and the witch was no longer there. Her beautiful face stared back at her.
Panicked, Sophie checked her shivering white skin for warts, wiping away the cold film of sweat.
I’m Good, she calmed herself when she found none.
But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, her mind racing, unable to shake that Beast, the Beast she’d killed in a world far away, the Beast that still haunted her dreams. She thought of her rage in the graveyard … Agatha’s petrified face …
You’ll never be Good, the School Master had warned.
Sophie’s mouth went dry. She’d smile at the wedding. She’d work at Bartleby’s. She’d eat the widow’s meat and buy toys for her sons. She’d be happy here. Just like Agatha.
Anything to not be a witch again.
“I’m Good,” she repeated into silence.
The School Master had to be wrong. She’d saved Agatha’s life, and Agatha had saved hers.
They were home together. The riddle solved. The School Master dead.
The storybook closed.
Definitely Good, Sophie assured herself, snuggling back into her pillow.
But she could still taste blood.
The fog and winds of the night cleared to a blinding sun, so strong for November that the day seemed blessed for love. Every wedding in Gavaldon was a public occasion, but on this Friday, the shops were all closed and the square deserted, for Stefan was a popular man. Under a white garden tent behind his house, the entire town mingled over cherry punch and plum wine, as three fiddlers strummed in the corner, exhausted from playing a funeral the night before.
Agatha wasn’t sure if her dumpy black smock was appropriate attire for a wedding, but it suited her mood. She’d woken up miserable and couldn’t put a finger on why. Sophie needs me to be happy, she told herself as she tromped down the hill, but by the time she joined the crowd in the garden, her frown was a scowl. She needed to snap out of it or she’d make Sophie even more depressed …
A flash of pink surged through the crowd and bear hugged her into a poofy, ruffled gown.
“Thank you for being here on our special day,” Sophie cooed.
Agatha coughed.
“I’m so happy for them, aren’t you?” Sophie mooned, dabbing nonexistent tears. “It’ll be such a thrill. Having a new mother, two brothers, and going to the shop each morning to churn”—she gulped—“butter.”
Agatha gaped at Sophie, back in her favorite dress. “You’re pink … again.”
“Like my loving, Good heart,” her friend breathed, stroking pink-ribboned braids.
Agatha blinked. “Did they put toadstools in the punch?”
“Sophie!”
Both girls turned and saw Jacob, Adam, and Stefan trying to fix crooked blue tulip garlands over the altar at the front of the tent. Standing on pumpkins to reach, the boys beckoned her with waves.
“Sweet little munchkins, aren’t they?” Sophie smiled. “I could just eat them both u—”
Agatha saw her friend’s green eyes chill with fear. Then it was gone, and the only traces left were the bruised circles beneath them. Nightmare scars. She’d seen them on Sophie before.
“Sophie, it’s me,” Agatha said quietly. “You don’t have to pretend.”
Sophie shook her head. “You and me, Aggie. That’s all I need to be Good,” she said, voice shaky. She clasped Agatha’s arm and looked deep into her friend’s dark eyes. “As long as we keep the witch inside me dead. Everything else I can bear if I try.” She gripped Agatha tighter and turned to the altar. “I’m coming, boys!” she shouted, and with a strained smile, swept off to help her new family.
Instead of feeling touched, Agatha felt even more miserable. What’s wrong with me?
Her mother came up beside her and handed her a glass of punch, which she downed in one gulp.
“Added a few glowworms,” Callis said. “Brighten that sour face.”
Agatha spat a spray of red.
“Really, dear. I know weddings are putrid things, but try not to look hostile.” Her mother nodded ahead. “The Elders already despise us. Don’t give them more reason.”
Agatha glanced at three wizened, bearded men in black top hats and knee-length gray cloaks, milling between seats and shaking hands. The length of their beards appeared to indicate their relative ages, with the Eldest’s funneling down past his chest.
“Why do they have to approve every marriage?” Agatha asked.
“Because when the kidnappings kept happening, the Elders blamed women like me,” her mother said, picking dandruff from her hair. “Back then, if you weren’t married by the time you finished school, people thought you were a witch. So the Elders forced marriages for all those unwed.” She managed a wry smile.
