My heart feels like it’s trying to escape my chest as Amina fills a cup from the cauldron and drinks the mixture, a slight look of disgust on her face. She stuffs her pipe and smokes like a chimney until her eyes close into slits.
I retreat to the kitchen. Amina grumbles to herself as Constance follows me and slides down to sit on the floor. My heart is still racing as my attention is drawn to the book that lies open on the counter.
I lean close to it. It smells like burned paper and rotted meat. I cup my hand over my mouth as I read the words. It looks like a recipe, but the ingredients are things I’ve never heard of: the crowning of a rooster, High John the Conqueror, freshly shed snakeskin. I glance at Amina and then reach out to turn the page. Each one is filled with recipes and spells, all hand-lettered with notes scratched in the margins. There are papers and notes stuffed between the pages.
Near the back of the book is an entire chapter that is bound with red ribbons tied in a series of intricate knots and topped with a wax seal. The title reads Necromancy.
“What is necromancy?” I ask.
Amina turns her head and looks at me out the corner of her eye but says nothing. Constance looks over my shoulder at the book.
“It’s when you communicate with the dead,” she says.
Amina chuckles. “You know everything now, don’t you?”
“That’s not what it is?” Constance asks.
“No,” Amina says. “It’s not. You can’t communicate with the dead. They’re dead.”
Constance pushes her hand down on her hip. “No. I’ve heard of this. It’s for communicating with the dead. I’m sure of it. She’s lying.”
Amina stands up and marches over to us, and for a split second I think she’s going to pull out a wand and curse us herself. Even Constance looks like she regrets saying anything.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Amina snaps. “You have to call the spirit back to communicate with them.”
At the edge of my thoughts, an idea emerges. I push it aside, but it has already taken root. It blooms and stands in my mind’s eye, fully formed.
And terrifying.
“Can we—can we do that with Cinderella? Can we communicate with her to find out what she was trying to tell Gabrielle?”
Constance stares blankly at me.
Amina scowls. “Cinderella has been dead nearly two hundred years. A necromancy spell for her would require—” She stops and stares directly at me, and I worry she has somehow sensed the idea that floods my mind. So horrid and unimaginable I don’t want to speak it aloud.
“Require what?” I ask. I wait to see if what’s required is as gruesome as I think it might be.
“A corpse.” Amina takes a long draw on her pipe; the smoke encircles her head. “Her corpse.” I stare back at Amina. I mean to ask her to elaborate, but her expression stops me. Her features harden to a mask of stone as she shakes her head and mumbles something to herself. Constance is lost in thought. She raises her head to look at me but doesn’t speak. I hope she won’t think me a monster for what I am about to say.
“Cinderella is the only one who might know how to stop him,” I say, measuring my words. “The only one who might have known what his weakness was.”
“I won’t help you,” Amina interrupts. She glares at me as she speaks through clenched teeth. “How dare you ask me to do such a thing.”
“Wait,” says Constance, glancing between Amina and me. “Are you suggesting we raise Cinderella from the dead?”
“You don’t understand,” Amina says. “They don’t come back as the people they were. They are living corpses, changed. I won’t do it.”
“We need to talk to her,” I say. “Everyone else who may have been useful is dead. Cinderella was there with Prince Charming in the castle. This is how we find out what she meant to tell Gabrielle. You owe it to us.”
“I don’t owe you anything.” Amina’s fingers tremble as she grips her cup and shuffles back to her chair.
Constance walks over to her and bends low to look right in her eyes. “You helped put Manford on the throne. You’ve seen what he’s done, what he’s become, and now you have some kind of conscience? Where was it when you were helping Cinderella fall in love with him against her will?”
“I made a mistake!” Amina yells, her voice cracking. “A mistake that cannot be made right because I can’t—” She stops and gathers herself. “I can’t make it right.”
“You haven’t even tried,” Constance says angrily.
“Stop.” I scoop up the book and take it over to Amina. I look her right in the face. She is pained. “We all make choices that we wish we could take back. But we can’t change what has already happened. The only thing we can do is try to make things better now. People are still suffering.” I hand her the book. “You can help them and us.”
A silence overtakes us. Amina stares into the fire for a long time before getting up and closing the book, placing it on the shelf. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath like she has resigned herself to something. “We will need to gather and prepare the supplies. The ritual is complicated.”
“You’ll help us then?” I ask.
Amina nods and my heart leaps.
“Necromancy can be very dangerous, more than you can imagine,” she says, her voice low. “We open ourselves up to another realm where spirits and other inhuman beings dwell. Every precaution must be taken. When you open the door between this life and what comes next, well, I’m sure you can imagine what horrors could arise. And some spirits are not so easily dismissed. We must be cautious.”
“Why did you change your mind?” I ask.
“You, Sophia,” says Amina. “You’re a damn sharp sword. A wildfire.”
That catches me by surprise. I don’t see myself that way at all. If anything, those words describe Constance better than me.
“She’s not wrong,” says Constance, nodding like she sees those things in me, too.
“So you two agree on at least one thing,” I say.
“Don’t go putting too much weight on that, dearie,” says Amina. “I don’t care for this one too much.” She waves her hand at Constance.
“The feeling’s mutual, Granny,” says Constance.
24
Our preparation for the ritual begins that same evening. Amina leads Constance and me to her garden. Maybe these plants thrive on shadow or moonlight, because even in the late autumn there are blooms and green leaves. She strolls through, counting out what she needs and making a list of the things she doesn’t have.
“Do you recognize this?” Amina asks, pointing to a waist-high plant with dozens of amethyst-hued, thimble-shaped blossoms all bunched together like the honeycomb of a beehive.
I shake my head, taking a seat on the little steps that lead down into her garden. Constance sits next to me.
“Foxglove,” Amina says. “Helpful for raising the dead or, in the opposite case, stopping the heart. Deadly poisonous. What about this one?” She points to a short bush with small trefoil leaves and sunny yellow blossoms.
“That’s rue,” I say, excited that I know at least one of the plants. “My grandmother would make a tea from it if she had a cough or an upset stomach.”
Amina seems highly amused with my answer. “Your grandmother was a wise woman. It’s also used for protection and divination.” She looks thoughtful. “We’ll harvest what we need the first night of the full moon. There are some things that we’ll need to gather from elsewhere, but I must warn you, it won’t be a pleasant task.”
I look at her quizzically. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“The spell requires a still-beating heart. It can be from something small. A rabbit, perhaps. We’ll have to open its chest while it’s still alive.” Amina makes a cutting motion with her hand, and my stomach turns over.
“On that cheery note, I’m going back inside,” says Constance. She runs her hand over the small of my back as she ge
ts up. A warm shudder courses through me. I watch her as she walks toward the front of the cottage. The feeling stays with me in the chilly nighttime air.
“I don’t like her one bit,” Amina says.
“I like her very much,” I say. I bite my tongue, feeling that familiar stab of shame. I hate that I still feel this way even this far from Lille.
“Obviously.” She leans over into a bush and readjusts a tendril of small shoots snaking up a latticework. “She’s annoying. You, on the other hand, seem like a sweet girl. How did the two of you come to be allies in all this?”
“She helped me after my parents put me out. It was only a few days ago, the night of the ball, in fact. It still doesn’t feel real. It’s hard to explain.”
“Well, you don’t have to explain it to me.” Her way of speaking is rough, unapologetic. She and Constance are alike in that way, and I appreciate every bit of it. Too many people have lied to me, spouting the same rehearsed lines over and over. “And there’s no sense in feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t. I feel sorry for them. My parents, that is. They only know how to follow the king. They’ve lost their way when it comes to knowing how to help me.”
“And you’re not lost?”
I think for a moment. “Maybe I am. But the difference is that I want to be found. I’m not happy pretending everything is fine when I know it’s not.”
“And just who is it that you suppose will find you?” Amina asks.
“It’ll be me,” I say. “I will find myself.”
She closes the gap between us and sits down beside me. She studies me, looking into me, like she can see every single one of my flaws, my weaknesses, and I am afraid.
“It is so much easier to forget the world when you’re alone in the forest. There are fewer opinions, less to consider.”
“That sounds like something I could get used to,” I say. “But I don’t really want to forget what’s going on in Lille. I can’t turn my back on all the people who are still there, fighting to survive.”
There is a rustle in the trees. I jump up and look around frantically. Amina laughs.
“It’s all right,” she says. She holds her hand out, and from the tree line the crow emerges, swooping down and landing on her shoulder. “He’s a friend of mine.” The bird nuzzles her and then flies up and settles on the roof. “He’s what we call a familiar. He keeps an eye on the path that leads here, lets me know if anything is amiss.” A bit of her rough exterior softens. She pats me on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s go inside.”
Around the front of the cottage, I find Constance sitting on the narrow front step. Amina walks straight past her without so much as a downward glance. I sit next to her.
“This must be hard for you,” I say. “Being here, knowing she played a part in what happened to your family.”
“It is,” Constance says. She sighs heavily and presses her leg against mine. “I knew she was involved, but it was so deceitful. She led a lamb to a slaughter. I’ve always known that Cinderella would never have stayed with Charming—with Manford—if it hadn’t been for the fairy godmother.”
“It doesn’t change what happened, but she’s willing to help us now, and I think she knows exactly how much pain and suffering she’s caused. That’s why she’s out here.”
“Hiding is why she’s out here.” Constance is unmoved.
“Yes, but why?” I ask. “She’s exiled herself as a form of punishment. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do. You heard her say she doesn’t think he can be stopped. Maybe she’s given up.”
“I think a part of me had given up, too.” Constance heaves an exaggerated sigh and turns to me, smiling. “I’m not going to forgive her for what she did, but I won’t kill her.”
“I guess that’s good enough for now.”
She looks at me in that way again, and I never want her to stop. She makes me feel seen. Alive. Hopeful.
“You know, if we can stop Manford, you could come back to Lille. You wouldn’t have to stay away.” Imagining all these new possibilities helps me push away the thoughts of what will have to come first.
“I’d like that,” Constance says. “It’d be nice to stay in one place after all this time.”
Under the glinting moon, her hair is like a smoldering ember, her face so much like the splendor of the stars in the sky above us that I wonder how she can be real.
“But if we can find a way to end his reign,” Constance says, “it doesn’t mean that everyone will suddenly change. The people of Lille don’t know anything other than Manford’s laws and rules. It will be hard to make them see a new way.”
We sit in silence for a moment, a swell of sadness rising in me, and Constance seems to sense it. She lays her head gently on my shoulder, and her hair brushes against my cheek. I breathe in the flowery scent that always clings to her.
“If this doesn’t work,” she says, “we can run away together. Maybe get our own decrepit little shack in the woods.”
She is joking, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I feel my face grow warm. “You might get tired of me.”
“I might get tired of your cooking,” she says, smiling. “That gruel was—”
“Terrible? I knew it!”
She reaches down and runs her fingers over the back of my hand. For a moment I think she might turn her face up and press her lips against mine, and while I want that more than anything, I can’t bring myself to slip my hand under her chin and bring her mouth closer. My feelings for Constance grow with each passing second, but my feelings for Erin hang heavy on my heart. I feel terrible for caring so deeply about Constance while Erin suffers.
She shouldn’t be suffering, and neither should I. It is this feeling that strengthens my resolve to do whatever must be done to make sure Manford’s reign comes to an end, even if that involves raising Cinderella from the dead.
25
The next night, the moon is just a sliver of silver in the black sky, and Constance, Amina, and I have gathered by the fire as a wicked wind gusts through the White Wood.
Constance sharpens her dagger on a flat stone as Amina puffs away on her pipe.
“There’s something I’d like to ask of you,” Amina says.
Constance scowls, and I nudge her with my shoulder.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We’re heading into an unknown future. I’d like to see if, perhaps, we might illuminate our path.”
Constance is exasperated. “You clearly have something specific in mind, so why don’t you just get on with it.”
Amina rolls her eyes and stands up, stuffing a piece of parchment into Constance’s hand. I lean over and read it. It’s a list of the herbs we need from the garden, and underneath it is a schedule with little drawings of the phases of the moon and the word “divination.”
“Divination?” Constance asks. “Like fortune-telling?”
“It is a tool,” Amina says. “For looking ahead.”
“You can see the future?” I ask.
Amina sits back down and takes up her pipe. “In a way, yes. Don’t you think a little peek into the events to come might be helpful?”
“How do we do that?” I ask, intrigued.
Amina settles into her chair and crosses her legs. “After the harvest, on the full moon, we’ll see what can be seen.”
“Can you ever just give a straight answer?” Constance asks, throwing her head back and looking at the ceiling. “I’m exhausted trying to decipher your riddles. See what can be seen? What does that mean?”
“It means shut up and stop asking so many questions,” Amina snaps.
Constance sits forward and opens her mouth to speak, or more likely to share some choice words with Amina, when the winds whip themselves into a strong bluster.
The roof rattles, and the floorboards creak under Amina’s rocker. A stiff draft moves through the room, and the flames of the roaring fire lap at the blackened bricks of the fireplace. A noise is carried in on the wind.
“This place is going to get blown away with the next strong gust,” Constance says.
“And hopefully you with it,” Amina says without even looking up.
Constance raises an eyebrow. “Listen—”
“Shh!” I say, scrambling to my feet. “Did you hear that?”
“The wind, Sophia,” Constance says.
“No. No, there’s something else.”
There is another sound in the wind. The whinny of a horse. As the wind gusts again, we all hear it. Amina leaps from her chair and stands listening in the middle of the room. She goes to the threadbare rug that takes up most of the floor, grabbing it by its edge, revealing a small door underneath. When she lifts the hatch, I see the unmistakable glint of fear in her eyes. “Get inside. Now. Don’t say a word. Don’t even breathe if you can help it.”
Constance moves to my side, and we crowd into the little opening, which leads to a root cellar. With its low ceiling and dirt floor, it is nothing more than a hole in the ground. We crouch down while Amina drops the hatch and covers it with the rug, knocking a shower of dust onto us.
“What is it?” Constance asks. Her voice is magnified in the small space, and Amina stomps hard on the floor above.
“Shh,” I say. “Someone is coming.”
I still my breath and try to hear over the rush in my ears. Horses, men’s voices, and then a bang at the door. Amina’s boots knock against the floorboards as she makes her way to the front of the house. The groan of the rusted hinges rings out as she opens the door. A heavier set of steps enters the cottage and stops just over our heads.
“Still living in squalor, I see,” says a man’s voice. It’s familiar.
“It suits me,” says Amina.
“Indeed it does,” says the man. “And tell me again why you’ve chosen this life? You certainly aren’t out here on my orders.”
“I prefer it to the city or the palace.” Amina’s tone is condescending, and the man shifts from one foot to the other just above us. “Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here.”
Suddenly I recognize the voice, and fear washes over me. My heart sputters, and I hold my breath. King Manford.
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