The School for Good and Evil #2: A World without Princes

by Chainani, Soman

  Squinting closer, her nose practically to the book, she touched the first dot, and a small two-dimensional portrait melted into yellowing mist, small as a postage stamp. A ravishing, gap-toothed woman smiled through the portrait frame, with flowing chestnut hair, bee-stung lips, and forest-green eyes.

  Agatha’s pulse quickened and her fingers raced on—

  “There is one more member of the Sader family that deserves mention. As a condition to the School Master for answering his question, August Sader asked that he teach history at the School for Good—and that his half-sister Evelyn teach history at the School for Evil. However, as the illegitimate daughter of Constantin Sader, Evelyn Sader is not considered part of the Sader line, nor possessed seer powers.

  “Evelyn Sader taught for two months before she was evicted from the school forever by the School Master for crimes against students.

  “August Sader took over teaching her classes in the School for Evil until his death.”

  The Dean’s portrait hovered in mist as Agatha’s hand shook on the last dot of the page, her old professor’s words ringing in her ears.

  Crimes against students.

  Crimes so terrible, so unforgivable that an Evil School Master had banished a teacher from his own side.

  Agatha’s heart stopped.

  What had Evelyn Sader done?

  Suddenly the Dean’s phantom portrait glowed hot red over the book and her face spun sharply to Agatha—

  “UNAUTHORIZED BOOK!” she hissed. “THIS BOOK IS UNAUTHORIZED—”

  Instantly the page turned razor sharp and flew shrieking out of the book, slicing Agatha’s chest with a vicious paper cut. Terrified, Agatha tried to make her finger glow, but more screeching pages sharpened and tore from the book, cutting her from every direction. Agatha backed against a hedge, batting pages away, trying to focus on her fingerglow, but there were dozens of pages now, slicing at her arms, belly, legs, until her whole body was on fire. Gasping, she tried to scream for help—only to see hundreds of pages rip from the book and fly at her face, turning knife-edged for the kill. With a cry, Agatha finally felt her finger burn gold and stabbed it at the pages—

  A thousand white pages turned to white daisies in midair and fluttered down into the pond.

  Panting, Agatha stared at the floating flowers, flecked with her own blood.

  A booming crash exploded from the Library of Virtue below, sending the doves in the hedges scattering. Agatha’s eyes flared wide. She swept on her invisible cape and staggered out the frosted door, stumbling down the stairs, and lurched into the library—

  But its keeper was gone from the desk, his feathered pen left behind with a half-eaten lunch dripping off his log. In the center of the room, Mona and Arachne sat white-faced at a library table, parchment and books strewn in front of them, gaping up at the second-floor window.

  Agatha slowly tracked their eyes to the giant smashed hole in the glass . . . shaped like a tortoise.

  Soft scratching sounds etched behind her, and Agatha turned to see the feathered pen magically writing in the log, dragging and sputtering with each stroke as if in pain, before collapsing to the desk, dead still.

  Heart skittering, Agatha stepped closer, until she could read the tortoise’s last words.

  BEWARE THE TRIAL

  Hurry, Sophie, Agatha prayed.

  Sitting in her window, she looked out at the School for Boys as the sun set, her blue bodice splotched with blood, her arms and legs scraped and bruised. Next to her, a green flame glowed inside a circular lantern she’d made out of parchment.

  Sophie would flash her lantern back any minute now, green if she was safe too, red if she wasn’t.

  Agatha watched the clock: 7:15 . . . 7:30 . . . But still no glow came from the Boys’ school.

  Agatha could still feel her heart beating, the tortoise’s warning tattooed in her skull.

  Two days until the Trial.

  Two days.

  She and Sophie had to get out of this school now.

  Her eyes darted back to the clock—7:45 . . . 7:50 . . .

  No light from the boys’ castle.

  . . . 7:55 . . .

  Sophie was alone in there with her prince. . . .

  Her Evil prince . . .

  Her Evil prince who she dream-kissed this morning, not looking Evil at all. . . .

  Shut up, Agatha berated herself, whipping back to the clock.

  . . . 8:00 now . . .

  She heard swelling buzz in the halls, girls returning from supper. . . .

  Agatha broke into a sweat. Wherever Sophie was, she was in trouble! She lunged towards the door, panting with pain—she had to rescue her friend!—

  Agatha froze. Slowly she turned back to the window, eyes wide.

  High in the sky, across the bay, a green flare flashed behind thin clouds. Agatha stepped closer, squinting as the mist broke apart. The green glow wasn’t coming from a balcony or a boy’s castle spire.

  It was coming from the School Master’s tower.

  Agatha’s breath left her. She waved her hand in front of her lantern, flickering the flame.

  Far away, Sophie did the same.

  Agatha’s eyes popped, relief crashing over her. Sophie was already in the tower! She’d free the Storian any minute!

  Breathless, Agatha slung on her cape and raced out of the room, leaving symptoms, dream kisses, and Evelyn Sader behind. As she rushed down steps, she could feel the pen getting closer, “The End” spilling from its nib. She’d hover by the shore for Sophie’s return, a wish waiting on the tips of their tongues. The tower would chase her, the boys mobbing behind for war, only to see two girls splinter to light and vanish hand in hand—a Trial thwarted, a happy ending restored, two friends home, stronger than before—

  But the night came and went in gusts of cold, and Sophie didn’t come back.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  19

  Two Days Left

  The boys in line for breakfast gave Filip a wide berth when he shoved by, covered in dust and ash, eyes bloodshot and bruised, smelling like a barn in summer.

  * * *

  Art to come

  * * *

  As the enchanted pots in Evil’s Supper Hall slopped scrambled eggs and a mountain of bacon into her rusty pail, Sophie blinked back tears, reminding herself that boys don’t cry. She should be home by now—back in her own skin, Agatha at her side, The End written and sealed. And yet here she was, with her elephant shoulders, hairy legs, and hormonal rages, letting pots heap greasy bacon that the boy hijacking her body couldn’t wait to eat.

  Last night, Manley had been waiting for her when she climbed in for Storian duty. “Already searched a thousand times,” he scoffed. “Castor thinks we need young eyes.”

  Sophie grimaced at the plundered mess once he left, a heap of broken bricks, fallen fairy tales, dust and soot—but still had hope she’d succeed where they failed. She spent the entire night scouring the School Master’s chamber, tearing up loose bricks, muscling behind bookshelves, shaking out fairy tale after fairy tale, while her and Agatha’s storybook seemed to leer at her from atop the stone table. In the end, when Castor appeared at first light, she faced him empty-handed, like the rest.

  “A useless prince. What a surprise,” the dog snapped, kicking at a few loose silver bricks with his paw. “Pen has to be in this room, or the tower wouldn’t still be here.” He looked out the window at the glass castle across the bay. “Pollux would have loved a good game of hide-and-seek. Two heads better than one for this kind of thing.” His big black eyes seemed to mist up. . . .

  “Let me keep looking,” said Sophie quickly, shaking out The Ugly Duckling—

  “You had your chance, Filip,” Castor growled, shoving her towards the window.

  Sophie nodded and slumped onto the blond-haired rope, knowing she’d failed her mission.<
br />
  “Tell Tedros we better pray we find it,” Castor said behind her. “Storian falls into the Dean’s hands and all of us are doomed.”

  Sophie slid quietly down the sunlit hair.

  Now she dumped herself at a small round iron table, sore from crouching and digging, and wolfed down fistfuls of bacon and eggs, no longer in control of either her hands or manners. Had Tedros lied to Manley and hidden the pen to keep it from her and Agatha? Or was he telling the truth—that someone else had found and hidden it? In which case, who? And where?

  “Storian ain’t your problem, mate,” Chaddick said, plopping down at the table, his eggs doused in chili sauce. “Teachers tried for a week. Just using boys as slave labor now.”

  “Why’d you think the new princes helped you cheat too?” chimed dark-skinned Nicholas, chomping crispy bacon as he sat down. “No one wants Storian duty.”

  “Worth it though to see Aric’s face when you won first day,” Ravan smirked, squeezing in with Vex and Brone. “Lucky he’ll be on your team. Already planning on murdering the girls in the Trial instead of making them surrender.”

  Sophie stiffened, seeing Aric at the head table with his henchmen, all eating triple portions. Two days until she and Agatha went into the Trial against those brutes. She had to find that pen tonight.

  “Bet Tedros didn’t expect a tag team yesterday,” Vex said to her, pointy ears wagging. “All of us makin’ sure you beat the stuffin’ out of him.”

  “How about an encore today?” Sophie simpered anxiously—

  Chaddick snorted. “First off, an encore? Never heard that out of a boy’s mouth who wasn’t an apple tart. Second, think it’s about time you handled your own self. Don’t want you in the Trial if you don’t deserve to be there—slavery on the line and all.”

  Sophie reddened. How could she get back on Storian duty if she didn’t have help? She shoveled eggs into her mouth, trying to avoid any further blunders—

  “Hi Filip!”

  She looked up to see Hort try to sit next to her—

  “No room,” said Chaddick, scooting over and blocking him.

  Drowning in his oversized uniform, his pouty lip quivering, Hort looked like a child spurned from his own birthday party. He gave a weaselly whimper and trudged away.

  Sophie’s eyes flared. “Hort! Sit here!”

  Hort turned, beaming, and plunked next to her, ignoring all the other boys’ grumbles and scowls. “Do you want my bacon?” he yakked, sliding his pail to Filip. “Can’t touch the stuff. Dad gave me a pet pig once and said I’d have to kill it someday—it’s what most Evil parents do, make their kids eat their pets—”

  “Tedros might beat me today, Hort,” Sophie whispered, trying to sound guileless. “What do I do?”

  “That’s what best friends are for, Filip,” Hort whispered back mischievously. “Um, and to tell you that you cross your legs like a girl—”

  “You’ll help me?” Sophie brightened, breathing relief.

  “Just like you’ll help me when the time comes,” said Hort, suddenly looking very serious.

  Sophie smiled tightly and dug into his bacon, praying she and her real best friend would be long gone before she ever found out what this weenie expected in return.

  I must have missed a corner last night, Sophie thought, hastening through the sewers as she bit into an apple. The Storian was so thin and sharp it could be stashed in the cracks between silver bricks or even in the cloth of a book spine. And yet, wouldn’t she have heard it thrashing and struggling somewhere?

  Temples throbbing, Sophie turned the corner past the churning red moat. Tonight she’d look harder. She pulled open the door to the Doom Room, desperate for a few minutes of sleep before class—

  Tedros looked up from his bed, stopping her in her tracks.

  His eyes were puffy and red, dark bags beneath them. His skin had gone from tan to ghostly pale, the veins showing through, and Sophie could see his shivering, starved muscles taut over jutting bones. There were no bruises on him. No wounds or welts. And yet, everything in his eyes said he’d been tortured beyond what a boy could handle.

  “What did Aric do to you?” she said softly.

  Tedros bent over, face in his hands.

  Sophie walked up to him and held out her half-eaten fruit. “Please—”

  Tedros smacked it out of her palm, and the apple skidded to a filthy corner. “Get away from me,” he whispered.

  “You have to eat someth—”

  “GET AWAY FROM ME!” he screamed into her face, his cheeks red as blood.

  Sophie fled the cell as fast as she could, his echoes chasing her all the way.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t cheat,” Sophie whispered to Hort as they headed into Evil Hall for Weapons Training. “Not if it means he’s tortured again.”

  “Well, do you want Aric to torture you?” Hort shot back.

  Sophie fell quiet, looking back at Tedros clutching his own arms, barely able to walk. Guilt rose into her throat—

  What’s wrong with me! she scolded, turning back. Why was she caring about Tedros? Why was she worrying about a boy who wanted her dead?

  “Fine, stick with the plan,” she gritted to Hort.

  “There’s my best friend,” Hort smirked chummily. “We’ll make a great pair in the Trial, won’t we?”

  Sophie frowned. “Hort, you’re not even close to making the Trial tea—”

  But the weasel was already whistling and motoring ahead.

  For the first three Tryouts, Hort’s deftness at cheating and Sophie’s skills as an actress helped her win first rank each time, without any of the teachers or boys noticing. Hort magically moved her arrow to the phantom princess’s heart in the Archery tryout, charaded answers during a Do You Know Your Monsters? oral quiz, and tasted her plant leaves during a Poisoned or Palatable? survival challenge so she’d emerge unscathed. By lunch, Sophie caught all the boys eyeing Filip of Mount Honora with newfound respect, as if he surely deserved a spot on the Trial team. Even Aric’s glares looked less baleful, as if a teammate like Filip was the reason he’d brought the new princes through the shield in the first place.

  But Tedros knew Filip was still cheating. He didn’t say a word to the boys or to the teachers, but Sophie saw him glowering darker at her after every new tryout, as if he’d never seen anyone so Evil. By the third tryout, he wasn’t even trying. And by the last, when Mohsin, the hairy Giant leading Forest Groups, threw Tedros and Filip into a ring for a Magical Sparring Tryout, a one-on-one bareknuckled brawl with no rules . . . Tedros simply dropped to his knees and conceded before they began, cutting into Filip with a withering glare.

  The boys cheered raucously, anointing the new boy the winner for a second day. But as Sophie looked into Tedros’ cold eyes, seeing right through her, she felt not even a shred of victory.

  Why isn’t Sophie back yet? Agatha thought, scuttling through the purple breezeway to Charity under her invisible cape. Last night, Sophie’s lantern had glowed safely from the School Master’s window—and yet she hadn’t returned with the pen. Which could only mean one thing . . .

  She couldn’t find it.

  Agatha’s breath shallowed. Every second brought her and Sophie closer to the Trial. If Sophie couldn’t find that pen . . . Agatha’s gut twisted, remembering the tortoise’s warning.

  She had to find out what the Dean was planning.

  She’d spent the morning hiding under her cape and waiting for Evelyn outside Good Hall, hoping to follow her between her History sessions. As each class began, Agatha peeked through the doors to watch her take a new group of girls inside Bluebeard—a gruesome tale of a husband who murdered all eight of his wives, which left the girls looking nauseous.

  “I show you this story not to frighten you,” the Dean said to close class each time, “but to remind you how vicious boys will be during the Trial. Do not expect them to wait for you to drop your kerchief or to settle for your surrender.” She smiled thinly. “Nor should you give t
hem the same courtesies.”

  As the Dean sashayed out of the ballroom between sessions, Agatha tried to follow her, but maneuvering invisibly through crowded hallways required agility and grace, neither of which were a strength. After losing the Dean four times, Agatha slackened against the wall, discouraged.

  “Really, Pollux, I’m fully capable of getting lunch by myself,” huffed Professor Dovey’s voice behind her—

  Agatha looked up to see Pollux’s furry head attached to a rickety old owl’s body, flapping after the green-gowned professor.

  “Strange business of late,” Pollux panted. “Voices in sewers, butterflies eaten by rats, ghosts bumping girls in the halls . . . Dean’s advised me to keep a close eye on both you and Lesso until the Trial.”

  “Perhaps if Evelyn hadn’t taken my office, it would be easier to find me,” Professor Dovey snapped, and hurried down the steps, Pollux’s owl sputtering behind her.

  Agatha’s eyes bulged wide.

  With thirty minutes left in class, she scurried up Charity’s spiral glass steps to Professor Dovey’s old office, the lone white-marble door on the sixth floor, once inlaid with a single emerald beetle, now a blue butterfly. Agatha peered down the stair gap and made sure no one was coming up.

  She tried the silver door handle, but it was bolted shut. She shot a shock spell at the keyhole with her glowing finger, then an even more useless melt spell, then a desperate freeze spell—

  The lock caught.

  Agog at her luck, Agatha grabbed the handle, only to see it opening from the inside. Panicked, she ducked against the stairway banister as the door flung wide—

  A girl poked her long-nosed freckled face through, eyes darting right and left before she hurried out the closing door and nimbly slid down the banister to the floor below.

  Crouched on the ground, Agatha gaped at the girl’s red hair flowing out of sight.

  What was Yara doing in the Dean’s office?