her stomach rumble. Sheâd let her father take the last of her butterless bran oat crackers for the boys, because Agatha had practically forced her. The boys would gag on them, surely. That made her feel better.
Sophie sighed. The School Master was right . I am Evil.
Yet for all his powers and sorcery, he hadnât known there was a cure. A friend who made her Good. As long as she had Agatha, sheâd never be that ugly, horrible witch again.
When the church darkened, Agatha had resisted leaving her alone, but Stefan forced her. The Elders had been clearââOnly Sophieââand now was not the time to disobey their orders. Not when they were about to save her life.
Without Agatha there now, Sophie suddenly felt anxious. Was this how Agatha used to feel about her? Sophiehad treated her so callously back then, lost in her princess fantasies. Now she couldnât imagine a future without her. No matter how hard it was, sheâd endure the days ahead in hidingâbut only because she knew sheâd have her friend at the end of it. Her friend who had become her real family.
But then why had Agatha been acting so strange lately?
The past month, Sophie had noticed a growing distance. Agatha didnât laugh as much on their walks, was often cold to the touch, and seemed preoccupied with her thoughts. For the first time since they met, Sophie had started to feel she had more invested in this friendship.
Then came the wedding. She had pretended not to notice Agathaâs hand, dripping, trembling in hers as if wanting to slip out. As if gripping a terrible secret.
âMaybe Iâm not as Good as you think.â
Sophieâs pulse hammered in her ears. Agathaâs finger couldnât have glowed that day.
Could it?
She thought of her mother, who too had beauty, wit, and charm . . . who too had a friend she had long trusted . . . only to be betrayed by her and die broken and alone.
Sophie shook off the thought. Agatha had given up a prince for her. Almost given her life for her. Agatha had found them a happy ending against all odds.
In the cold, dark church, Sophieâs heart skittered out of sync.
So why would she ruin our fairy tale?
Behind her, the church doors creaked open. Sophie turned with relief and saw the shadows waiting in their gray cloaks, black hats in hand.
Only the Eldest was holding something else.
Something sharper.
The problem with living in a graveyard is the dead have no need for light. Besides the flittering torches over the gates, the cemetery was pitch-black at midnight, and anything beyond just an inky shadow. Peering through her windowâs broken shutters, Agatha caught the sheen of white tents down the hill, pitched to house those left homeless by the attacks. Somewhere out there, the Elders were about to move Sophie to safety. All she could do was wait.
âI should have hidden near the church,â she said, and licked a fresh scratch from Reaper, who still acted like she was a stranger.
âYou canât disobey the Elders,â said her mother, sitting stiffly on her bed, eyes on a mantle clock with hands made of bones. âTheyâve been civil since you stopped the kidnappings. Letâs keep it that way.â
âOh please,â Agatha scoffed. âWhat could three old men possibly do to me?â
âWhat all men do in times of fear.â Callisâ eyes stayed on the clock. âBlame the witch.â
âMmhmm. Burn us at the stake too,â Agatha snorted, flopping into her bed.
Tension thickened the silence. She sat up and saw her motherâs strained face, still staring ahead.
âYouâre not serious, Mother.â
Sweat beaded on Callisâ lip. âThey needed a scapegoat when the kidnappings wouldnât stop.â
âThey burnt women?â Agatha said in shock.
âUnless we married. Thatâs what the storybooks taught them to do.â
âBut you never