“You haven’t set foot on my doorstep in years, and now you show up because you want something.”
“I’m hurt,” he says.
“Oh please,” Amina says. “We both know it would take more than that to hurt your feelings.”
“You know me too well,” he says. I hear him laugh. It’s the most grating, unnatural thing I’ve ever heard.
I search for Constance’s hand in the dark and find it clenched at her side. She takes a step closer to me.
“You are the fabled fairy godmother,” the king says in a mocking tone. “Making carriages out of pumpkins and shoes out of glass. You belong in the palace. It is you, after all, who has always been on this journey with me.”
“Our journey ended long ago,” Amina says.
“Is that what you tell yourself?” He sighs.
“Enough,” Amina says. “You need to leave and let me continue on as I have all these years, without your interference.”
Constance taps me on the shoulder and points down at her other hand. I’ve been squeezing it too tight. I let go immediately. As she readjusts herself she presses her chest so close to mine that I can feel her heartbeat. It is racing.
“I want the girl, and I want her now. Where is she?”
“Didn’t you invite her to the ball? That implies she had the right to leave if she wanted to.”
The king laughs heartily as more dust rains down on my head.
“You know better than that,” he says.
Constance presses her lips to my forehead, and I shut my eyes tight. I wait for Amina to open the hatch and turn us over. There is a rustling above us as Amina takes a step toward the king.
“Leave,” says Amina. “And do not come back.”
“I’d hoped that time away would have brought you some much-needed focus, but you are still utterly useless. Your magic is flawed, weak. Are you sure you can still call yourself a witch?”
Amina takes a long, deep breath. The longer he stays, the more he’ll be able to get under her skin, maybe even make her second-guess her decision to help us.
“You’re just as worthless as you’ve always been,” the king snarls. He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Your spells and potions have always been lacking. I’ve had to take things into my own hands because of your ineptitude.”
Amina doesn’t respond.
“I do hope you’ll keep me informed should you hear anything,” says the king.
The front door opens, and a horse whinnies. No sound is made for several moments, and then the hatch pops open. Amina looks down on us, her face crestfallen, her mouth drawn into a tight line. We climb up and stand quietly, waiting to be sure the king is gone.
“What was all that about?” Constance asks angrily. “Suddenly when we’re here, he just decides to stop by for a visit?”
“No sense in hiding how you feel. Come right out with it,” says Amina, who looks absolutely drained.
“You told him we were here!” Constance runs to the window and peers out, her dagger drawn. Amina appears not to hear her as she slumps into a chair.
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding my hands up, my heart still pounding. “Amina could have opened that hatch and handed us over right away, but she didn’t.”
Constance retreats to the kitchen.
“Do you think he’ll come back?” I ask.
“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” Amina sighs. “My dear Sophia, you may one day find yourself the topic of your own fairy tale. I can already see him turning your escape into a cautionary tale.”
“I won’t give him the chance to use me like that,” I say. “I would die first.”
Amina turns to me, sadness in her eyes. “Please don’t say that. Because you very well might.”
26
We spend the following days preparing for the harvest. Every rustle of the trees or creaking of the boards in the old cottage makes me jump, fearing the king has returned. Constance is so suspicious of Amina that she adjusts to Amina’s schedule, sleeping when she sleeps, waking when she wakes, and following her around, which pushes Amina to her wits’ end.
When the full moon rises they are barely speaking, but the time has come for us to gather the herbs for the necromancy ritual and to perform the work Amina calls divination.
Amina gathers bushels of herbs from her garden—wormwood, mugwort, bay leaves, vervain, yarrow. Using a mortar and pestle, she grinds them up in different combinations. She makes sachets from white linen and stuffs them with the herbs, stitching the edges closed. The look of concentration on her face is so stern that I dare not interrupt, even though I am curious about the ritual’s steps.
She consults her book, goes out and checks the sky, and when she’s done, she brews an infusion of rue and serves it in three cups.
I swallow a mouthful and have to stifle a gag, my eyes watering. “It’s so bitter.”
“Be sure to finish all of it,” Amina says. She drinks hers like it’s nothing. Constance sips her tea, and when we’re done, Amina asks us to follow her outside.
“It’s the dead of night,” Constance says.
Amina blinks. “And?”
“Do you think it’s safe?” I ask.
Amina laughs. “No. It’s not safe, but it is necessary.”
Constance tightens her belt and runs her hand over her dagger’s hilt.
An insidious little smile spreads across Amina’s lips. “It won’t do you much good. It’s not the wolves or bears you should be afraid of. The night creatures, the ones with no name who come alive in the moonlight—those are the things you should be worried about.”
Constance pauses in midstep, thrusting her chin in the air. “I’m sure there isn’t anything out there as scary as you.”
“Let’s hope you’re right about that,” says Amina.
“Can we get on with this?” Constance asks.
“I think you should be more mindful of your tone,” Amina says, still smiling. “Lest you find yourself on the wrong side of a transformation spell. It would be a shame if you ended up as some slimy, amphibious creature.” She walks out the front door.
“Is she threatening me?” Constance glances at me. “Because it sounded like a threat.”
I hear Amina cackling from somewhere outside and shrug, but Constance remains stone-faced.
“I don’t think she means it,” I say.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as a toad, Sophia.”
“But you’d be such a cute one,” I say. “A beautiful bullfrog.”
Constance shakes her head and gives my hand a quick squeeze.
We walk in procession behind the cottage and through a thicket in the bright light of the full moon. As we emerge into a second, smaller clearing, we come upon a pool of water. The space above it, open to the night sky, allows the moonlight in. Devoid of plant life, animals, or even ripples, the flat pond, wide as the cottage itself, seems out of place. It looks like a large round mirror.
My head swims. I feel like I’m floating. I glance at Constance, who has taken a seat on the ground.
“What was in that tea?” I ask.
Amina sways back and forth with her eyes closed. “The rue is quick. Especially in the moonlight.” She glances toward the water. “In you go.”
“We have to go all the way in?” I ask. The moon seems brighter than I’ve ever seen it.
“Absolutely.” Amina’s tone becomes deadly serious. “Long ago, when people wanted a glimpse of what the future might hold, they could look into a body of water such as this, on a night when the moon was full, when the water is calm. I have learned that putting yourself into the pool during divination makes the visions clearer. When you enter the water, empty your mind and see what will be revealed.”
“There you go again,” Constance says. “You and your riddles.”
The air is suddenly quite chilly, and a thought occurs to me. “Do I have to disrobe completely?”
Constance’s gaze sweeps over me, sending
a jolt down my spine.
“Nudity is optional,” says Amina. “But from what I can tell, we all have the same bits and pieces. And even if you don’t, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, dearie. I’ve seen my fair share of tallywhackers as well.”
Constance scrunches up her nose. “Make her stop.”
I stifle a laugh. I feel almost euphoric in the light of the moon.
“I’ll go first,” says Amina.
Amina disrobes without a second thought and strides into the water. Constance slowly turns to me, covering her eyes with her hands.
“I was right, Amina,” Constance says. “There is nothing in these woods scarier than you.”
I can’t hold it in this time. My laugh rings out like a bell in the stillness.
“Hush,” Amina croaks.
She bobs in the water, eyes closed. The moonlight shines down on her. The water beads on her hair. The pond doesn’t ripple as she gently sways in the water. All around us, fireflies gather on the branches on the trees, their little yellow lights flickering on and off. Constance and I watch in silence. Suddenly Amina’s eyes snap open and she looks at Constance. “So that will be the way of it.”
“The way of what?” Constance asks.
Amina wades to the shore and wraps herself in her shawl. “You next,” she says to Constance.
Constance turns her back to me and slips her arms out of her tunic, pulling it up over her head and tossing it to the ground. I am unable to take my eyes off her. She removes her trousers and tosses them aside. As she pivots toward me, I have to make a concerted effort to keep my mouth from falling open. A blanket of freckles covers her chest and shoulders and trickles down on to her arms like a sprinkling of stardust. Her hair, a mass of red, luminescent curls, frames her face like a halo. She doesn’t look away or try to cover herself. A wave of yearning threatens to consume me. With a smirk, she wades in until the water rests just below her shoulders.
“Close your eyes,” Amina orders.
Constance glances at me once more before doing as she’s told. My head is still swimming, but now from more than just the rue. Constance tilts her head up, like she’s listening to something. She strikes at the water with her hand. Her eyes open slowly. They are rimmed with tears.
“What is it?” I ask.
Constance doesn’t answer. She closes her eyes again. Her breaths come in quick bursts; a whimper escapes her. She opens her eyes and climbs out of the water, collapsing onto the ground. I rush to her side.
“I’m fine,” she says. I don’t believe her. She’s trembling, holding herself around the waist. I drape her tunic around her shoulders, and she smiles, but there is sadness there.
“Your turn, Sophia,” says Amina.
I’m not wearing a chemise under my tunic and vest, and I think about going in fully clothed. I move to the edge of the water but stop. I’ve fled the ball, traveled into the White Wood to find a witch, and am preparing to raise Cinderella from the dead. Compared to those things, being naked under a starry sky doesn’t seem like such a monumental task.
I unbutton my vest and set it aside. Amina turns completely away, but Constance raises her eyes to the sky. I slip out of my tunic and trousers and wade into the pool. I brace for the chill of the water, but it’s like stepping into a warm bath. Constance levels her eyes at me, and something shifts in her. Her mouth opens and then closes, like she wants to speak but can’t. And while she looks me over, taking in every inch of me, her gaze lingers longest on my eyes.
“Try to clear your mind,” says Amina. “If that’s even possible.” She gives me a knowing glance. My face flushes hot with embarrassment.
I close my eyes. In the water I am weightless. I tilt my head back and suddenly feel like I am falling. My eyes snap open. I scramble to keep my feet under me. The water sloshes about, lapping at my chest.
“Are you all right?” Constance asks from shore.
“Yes. I—I just—I’m okay.” I close my eyes and again feel like I’m falling. The king’s face appears in my mind’s eye, sneering, a mask of hate and anger. His eyes are black and hollow, and Cinderella stands just behind him, speaking to me, her words muffled. The king reaches for me, taking hold of my shoulders and pulling me close to him. His face transforms into something horrid and rotting—something dead. A ball of white-hot light erupts between us, pulling at the center of my chest. I cry out.
“Sophia!”
Constance’s voice cuts through my own screams. She is in the water with me, her arm around my waist, pulling me toward the shore. I cough and gasp, and fetid water spews from my mouth. I’d gone under and hadn’t even realized it.
Amina stands very still, staring. Watching. I lean against Constance as we wade out of the pool. I fall to my knees in the dirt, and the cold air stings my damp skin. I’m completely drained, as if I haven’t slept in days.
Constance rests her hand on my back. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I saw something,” I struggle to explain, glancing back at the pool. “The king—I saw his face. There was a light …”
Constance looks nervously toward the pool as she pulls me up and drapes my clothes around me. The ground seems to move under my feet, and the sky tilts. She lifts my arm and puts it around her neck. “Come on. Let’s get you dried off.”
Once inside, she helps me into a chair and wraps me in a blanket as my head clears. Amina follows us in and locks the door, a troubled look on her face. Constance kneels beside me, tracing circles on the back of my hand.
“You frightened me,” she says softly.
I’m struggling to process what just happened. I saw something out there in the water. It was like a dream, but I was wide awake. A vision? A hallucination?
“What did you see?” Amina asks as she moves to a chair by the fire.
I can’t think clearly. Constance answers first.
“I was sitting, reading a book,” she says.
“What book?” Amina asks.
“Cinderella’s story,” she says.
“That’s it?” Amina asks.
“No,” Constance says, her voice low. “There was a hallway. It was dark and filled with smoke. I saw someone lying there.”
“Who?” I ask.
Constance shrugs. “I don’t know.” She turns to Amina. “What did you see, Granny? A vision of you and Manford skipping off through the White Wood, hand in hand?” Constance is shaken and seems to be trying desperately to take her mind off whatever it was she saw.
Amina turns to me. “I saw my own death.”
My heart ticks up. “You’re going to die?”
Amina shakes her head and stares down into her lap. “Death comes for us all, doesn’t it?”
“Not to Manford,” Constance says quietly.
“What did you see, Sophia?” Amina asks.
I take a deep breath and try to think straight. “I felt like I was falling. I saw the king and I saw Cinderella, and there was a pull at the center of my chest and a drop in the pit of my stomach at the same time. His face was smooth but blurred around the edges, and he was just standing there. He—he smiled at me. And then he changed into a rotting corpse, and then a light engulfed me.” I hold myself around the waist to keep from shaking. “It felt like—like dying.”
The corners of Amina’s mouth turn down and her lips part. I saw this look on her face the night Manford came here. It is terror.
“What does it mean?” Constance asks.
Amina stares into the fire, composing herself before speaking. “I cannot say. I do know that the meaning will make itself clear to you in time.”
The images replay in my mind over and over. “I’m scared.”
“You’d be a fool not to be,” she says. She puffs away on her pipe, a wreath of earthy-smelling smoke encircling her head.
Anger and fear bubble up inside me. “I want to stop Manford. I don’t want him to hurt anyone else, but how can I do that if he is the monster you say he is? Who am I to stop him?”
“I don’t know if I am,” I say. “Constance has been fighting for what’s right her entire life. And you, you’re the fairy godmother.”
“Do I look like a fairy to you?” Amina smiles a wicked little smile. She sets down her pipe, takes my hand, and presses it between her palms. “Do you know how many old witches are running around in these forests?”
I shrug. I don’t know the answer to that question, but, I wonder, if there are other witches and fairy godmothers out there, what are they doing with their powers? Are they hiding? Are they at all concerned with what’s happening in Mersailles?
“There’s a woman in Lille who runs a shop called Helen’s Wonderments. She claims to have all of your recipes, all your potions and powders. Says she’s as close to a fairy godmother as most of us will ever get.”
“Helen is a liar and a cheat and sells cow piss in fancy glass bottles to unwitting, often desperate people,” Amina says disapprovingly. “The only reason she’s allowed to continue is because Manford knows she’s a fake.”
I swallow hard. I drank a half vial of cow piss and gave Erin the rest. That is a secret I’ll be taking to my grave.
“Aside from the pretenders, there are more than a few conjure women in this land. I’m not special. I’ve made mistakes and used my power to hurt people, to do unspeakable things. I am not a saint.”
“But you are special,” I say. “You have a gift.”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to be special or have a gift or anything of the sort. Some people think they are chosen, destined to be great, and do you know what happens while they are basking in the possibility of their own greatness?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
She narrows her eyes at me. “What happens is that someone with no particular preordained purpose puts their head down, works hard, and makes something happen out of sheer will. That’s where we fall.”
“And you? You’ve had your doubts. I wasn’t even sure we could convince you to help us.”
Cinderella Is Dead Page 17
