marriedââ Agatha sputtered. âHow did you surviveââ
âBecause I had someone stand up for me,â her mother said, watching the bones strike eight. âAnd he paid the price.â
âMy father?â Agatha said. âYou said he was a rotten two-timer who died in a mill accident.â
Callis didnât answer, gazing ahead.
A chill prickled up Agathaâs spine. She looked at her mother. âWhat did you mean when you said Stefan suffered worst of all? When the Elders arranged his marriage?â
Callisâ eyes stayed on the clock. âThe problem with Stefan is he trusts those he shouldnât. He always believes people are Good.â The long bone ticked past eight. Her shoulders slumped with relief. âBut no one is as Good as they seem, dear,â her mother said softly, turning to her daughter. âSurely you know that.â
For the first time, Agatha saw her motherâs eyes. There were tears in them.
âNoââ Agatha gasped, a red rash searing her neckâ
âTheyâll say it was her choice,â Callis rasped.
âYou knewââ Agatha choked, lurching for the door. âYou knew they werenât moving herââ
Her mother intercepted her. âThey knew youâd bring her back! They promised to spare you if I kept you here untilââ
Agatha shoved her into the wallâher mother lunged for her and missed. âTheyâll kill you!â Callis screamed out the window, but darkness had swallowed her daughter up.
Without a torch, Agatha stumbled and tripped down the hill, rolling through cold, wet grass until she barreled into a tent at the bottom. Mumbling frantic apology to the family who thought her a cannonball, she dashed for the church between homeless dozens stewing beetles and lizards over fires, wrapping their children in mangy blankets, bracing for the next attack that would never come. Tomorrow the Elders would mourn Sophieâs valiant âsacrifice,â her statue would be rebuilt, the villagers would go on to a new Christmas, relieved of another curse. . . .
With a cry, Agatha threw the oak doors open.
The church was empty. Long, deep scratches ripped down the aisle.
Sophie had dragged her glass slippers all the way.
Agatha sank to her knees in mud.
Stefan.
She had promised him. She had promised to keep his daughter safe.
Agatha hunched over, face in her hands. This was her fault. This would always be her fault. She had everything she wanted. She had a friend, she had love, she had Sophie . And she had traded her for a wish. She was Evil. Worse than Evil. She was the one who deserved to die.
âPleaseâIâll bring her homeââ she heaved. âPleaseâI promiseâIâll do anythingââ
But there was nothing to do. Sophie was gone. Delivered to invisible killers as a ransom for peace.
âIâm sorry . . . I didnât mean it . . .â Agatha wept, spit dripping. How could she tell a father his daughter was dead? How could either of them live with her broken promise? Her sobs slowly receded, curdling to terror. She didnât move for a long time.
At last Agatha slumped up in a nauseous daze and staggered east towards Stefanâs house. Every step away from the church made her feel sicker. Limping down the dirt lane, she vaguely felt her knees sticky and wet. Without thinking, she wiped a gob off a knee with her finger and smelled it.
Honeycream.
Agatha froze, heart pounding. There was more cream on the ground ahead, spurted in a desperate trail towards the lake. Adrenaline blasted through her blood.
Nibbling his toenails in his tent, Radley heard crackles behind him and turned just in time to see a shadow swipehis dagger and torch.
âAssassin!â he squeakedâ
Agatha swung her head back to see men explode out of tents and chase her as she tracked the honeycream like breadcrumbs towards