The Last Ever After

by Soman Chainani

  The stage began to rattle, as if shaken by an earthquake, and Sophie teetered against Rafal in surprise. All at once the stone stage tore apart at the crack, cold-blue mist spewing through the widening gap, until it cleared over a deep chasm and Sophie could see beneath the stage.

  Hidden in the bowels of Evil’s old castle was a cavernous frozen dungeon, with hundreds of bodies encased in ice. The first face Sophie saw was Professor Emma Anemone, eyes shocked wide under manic, blond curls, sealed in an ice tomb cut into the dungeon wall. Next to her, Dean Clarissa Dovey had her own glacial grave, her silver bun and rosy cheeks blurred by the ice—though Sophie noticed a shattered hole at the edge, where Anadil’s rat must have burrowed through and borrowed Dovey’s wand the night Agatha and Tedros broke in.

  “The Brig of Betrayers holds all those who’ve shirked their loyalties to Evil throughout the history of our school—including the old faculty of the School for Good, who were each given the chance to teach for their new school and all refused,” said Rafal.

  Pollux sniffed grievously from the back of the stage, expecting acknowledgment.

  Rafal ignored him. “And lucky for you, today we have three fresh inmates to the Brig . . .”

  Shrill squeaks echoed above him and the audience craned up to see Hester, Anadil, and Dot, bound together with rope, lowered over a pulley from the rafters by giggly Beezle.

  “These three so-called Nevers conspired to let our enemies through our gates, while one even mutilated our own Dean with her Evil-given talent,” said the School Master, leering at Hester and her demon as both writhed against the suffocating binds. “Yet even the most guilty betrayers deserve a fair trial, before they’re condemned to the Brig for an indefinite sentence . . .”

  The three witches were hardly paying attention now, for they’d caught sight of Sophie, returned to the School Master’s side with her menacing crown.

  “So I leave their fate to my queen, who, in addition to being intimately familiar with the accused, once even shared a room with them,” said Rafal, turning to Sophie. “So what do you say, my love? Spare them? Or condemn them?”

  Sophie saw the witches hone in on her, silently pleading for mercy. Even Hester, who’d rather pluck out her own eye than show weakness, looked scared out of her wits.

  How much we’ve been through together, thought Sophie, she and the Three Witches of Room 66. For all their tempestuous ups and downs, she’d almost come to think of them as friends.

  Almost.

  For these were the friends who’d always believed she’d end up alone . . . friends who pushed Agatha to side with her prince over her . . . friends who’d spied on her inside her own school . . . friends who’d never been there for her when she needed them most . . .

  And now they expected her to be their white-knight hero when they needed her.

  Sophie’s face went cold. If there was one moral to her fairy tale, it was that the witches were right all along. Nothing good ever came of her trying to be Good.

  “Condemn them,” she said.

  “No!” cried Dot—

  Rafal smirked at the terrified witches. “Then I’m afraid this is goodbye.” He raised his finger to sever the rope over the Brig—

  “Never was fond of goodbyes,” piped a voice above him.

  Rafal looked up.

  Merlin smiled down from the rafters, holding Beezle by the throat. “Mama!” the dwarf shrieked—

  Rafal stabbed out his finger, but Merlin shot first and a blast of fire exploded down the rope, hurling Rafal and Sophie off the stage and rocketing Beezle like a cannonball into the pews. From the ground, Sophie’s eyes fluttered open and she saw zombie villains stampeding the stage, Rafal lurching to his feet, the smoke over the rope clearing . . .

  But Merlin and the witches were long gone.

  The young School Master roared his fury and led the crush of villains from the theater to hunt the fugitives—

  Sophie scrambled up from the floor to join them, only to stall in her tracks. For there was something in the lap of her dress, something that wasn’t there before.

  A small five-pointed star, smoking bright white against black velvet . . . like a wizard’s reminder of Good left behind.

  As the sun ascended over the moors, Agatha leaned against an oak tree in a baggy brown shirt she’d borrowed from Lancelot, her hair greasy and bedraggled, her stomach groaning with hunger. She glanced down at a diadem of silver and diamonds, shimmering from a small wooden box in Guinevere’s hands.

  “Did Lance give you that? It’s lovely, I think, but I’m clueless about jewelry and clothes and anything that involves, you know . . . girls,” she said groggily. After being up half the night with Tedros and scavenging a few hours of sleep, the prince’s mother had dragged her from the house this morning, insisting she had something to show her. If Agatha had known it’d be about frilly headpieces, she would have stayed in bed.

  “It is a bit formal, though. The type of thing you’d wear to a Ball or a wedding, so not exactly practical for gallivanting on the moors . . .”

  Agatha’s voice trailed off. Where out here would Lancelot get silver and diamonds? Did he go spelunking into gem mines between shoveling horse poo and milking goats?

  Half-asleep, she peered at the diadem and its loops of diamonds dangling off the silver circlet. It didn’t seem new at all, for that matter. And the closer she looked at it, the more a squeezing feeling rose through her throat, because suddenly she was sure she’d seen this piece before . . .

  In a pond’s moonlit reflection . . .

  Shining bright inside a Wish Fish painting . . .

  Fixed atop her very own head.

  Slowly Agatha raised eyes to Guinevere, who looked regal and imposing despite her weathered face and grubby housedress.

  “This is . . . this is your . . .”

  “I’m afraid it’s yours now,” said Guinevere. “Formal and impractical, as it may be.”

  “Mine? No, no, no—not mine at all—” Agatha croaked, backing into the tree.

  “When Lance and I spotted you and Tedros together last night on the moors, I was so cross with myself,” Guinevere sighed. “I should have known Merlin had the names right that Christmas, if only from the way you stared at me during supper when I got it wrong. How could I be so daft? I suppose sometimes it’s easier to see the simplest answer instead of the truth. That has always been hard for me.” She smiled sternly, holding out the box. “But now there will be no more mistakes.”

  Agatha gaped owlishly at the crown and flicked the box shut. “Look, I can’t take this! I’m not queen yet! I’m not anything yet—I haven’t even taken a bath—”

  “Good cannot wait anymore for its queen, Agatha,” said Guinevere, hardening. “Last night, your friend Hort went searching for Sophie and discovered she’d vanished from our safe haven and magically returned to the School Master.”

  For a moment, Agatha thought she’d misheard or that this was all a sick joke, but nothing in Guinevere’s face suggested either. “What? Sophie went back to h-h-him? But that’s impossible—there’s no way to leave this place—”

  “The Lady of the Lake can only protect those who ally themselves with Good. All your friend had to do was wish to rejoin the School Master and he could break through the lake’s enchantments and rescue her,” Guinevere replied. “Poor Hort was gutted after he found her missing. Said he’d do anything to kill the School Master and get her away from him. So he stayed up with me and Lance and told us as much of your and Sophie’s story as we needed to know. And from what I’ve heard, Agatha, I have no doubt that your friend has committed to be Evil’s queen with all her heart. You must take your place as Good’s queen with the same resolve and belief. Or you and my son will not stand a chance.”

  Agatha said nothing, the words “my son” hanging between them.

  A long moment passed. Slowly Agatha’s fingers crept into Guinevere’s palm and cracked open the wooden box just a sliver. “You, uh, kept your cro
wn all this time?”

  “Arthur’s crown remains at Camelot until Tedros claims it,” the former queen replied patiently. “But I rode with mine the night I fled the castle, hoping the guards would assume I was on official business and wouldn’t wake Arthur from his sleep. All these years I wanted to destroy the crown so that Lance and I could forget that part of my story ever happened. . . . But the truth is, I’m still a queen and I’m still a mother, Agatha. Nothing can change that, even if I hide away from the world. And as the holder of the crown, one of my duties to my kingdom, my son, and myself, no matter how much I’ve failed all three, is to pass that crown on.”

  Her voice faltered and she composed herself. “I know I can never have a relationship with my child. I don’t deserve to. But I still have to protect Tedros as best I can. And the only way I can do that is by making sure he has the queen that Arthur never had. A queen who isn’t just sure of her crown, but is ready to fight for it when the time comes.”

  Her hand slipped down and lifted the diadem out of the box. Agatha could feel her heart throttling as Guinevere raised it into the sun.

  “And that time is now.”

  Agatha expected more protest to sputter out of her and her body to pull away . . . but instead she stayed in place, something changing inside. Looking up at Camelot’s crown, Agatha felt fear and tension melt away, as if the queen’s words had called up a part of her deeper than herself. Fire and purpose ripped through her, like armor beneath her skin, usurping the old Agatha and steeling her shoulders and chest.

  Guinevere was right. This wasn’t about her anymore.

  This was about two sides, warring for love.

  She and Tedros fighting for Good. Sophie and the School Master fighting for Evil.

  Once upon a time, she and her best friend tried to find a happy ending together. Now only one of them could come out alive.

  Right then and there, Agatha knew why she couldn’t have an ordinary life.

  She was never meant for one.

  Because as long as her story was about her—her worth, her love, her future—she resisted her fate, as if living for herself was too much responsibility.

  But the moment she saw her fate was bigger than her . . . as big as Good itself . . . she finally felt free to embrace it.

  Slowly Agatha lowered her head to the queen as strands of light silver sprinkled over her forehead and a glare of red sun exploded against diamond edges.

  Agatha looked up to see Guinevere clasp her hands to her mouth, fixed in a dazzling smile.

  It was the only mirror Agatha needed.

  Suddenly Guinevere paled, her smile gone—

  Agatha spun to see Tedros across the field, watching them.

  “I’ll go—” Guinevere started.

  “No . . . stay,” her son ordered.

  He moved towards Agatha in a grass-stained shirt and rumpled breeches, his eyes on his princess. “Everyone just . . . stay.”

  As he approached, Agatha could smell dew and sweat on him and see the sleepless circles under his eyes. He ran his fingertips over the diadem, remembering its every bump and crevice, but his focus was still on her, his hand drifting down from the crown to her cheek to her mouth. Without a word, he bent and kissed her, long and slow, as if to make sure it was still the old Agatha inside and out.

  “You’re not allowed to take it off,” he whispered.

  “Not even a ‘good morning’ before you start bossing me around,” said Agatha. “Besides, are you trying to give orders to a queen?”

  “Oh, so today you’re a queen,” Tedros said, pulling her closer.

  “Late bloomer if you haven’t noticed,” said Agatha.

  “Well, even so . . . a king is still a king.”

  “Which means that your queen is beneath you?”

  “No, only that you should do as you’re told.”

  “Or what?” Agatha chortled. “You’ll put a death sentence on my—”

  She saw Tedros’ face and her whole body went cold.

  Both of them turned to Guinevere, still there, white as a ghost.

  “What’s this?” Lancelot’s voice blustered, as the knight galumphed into the grove with Hort. “A coronation we’re not invited to?”

  “I’m never invited to anything,” Hort muttered.

  Neither Tedros, Agatha, nor Guinevere acknowledged them.

  “Well, it’s about time that blasted crown came to some use after all the trouble it’s caused us,” Lancelot added. “Though you might want to give the girl a proper dress while you’re at it. Diamonds don’t go well with that shirt.”

  Nobody laughed.

  “A swimming start to the morning,” the knight cracked. “Well, make your wish, Agatha, and be done with it. Time for lunch and there’s still chores to be done.”

  Agatha looked at him. “Wish?”

  Lancelot frowned. “At a proper coronation, you make a wish for your kingdom once you’re anointed with the crown. It’s the closing rite of the ceremony. Surely Gwen told you that much.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve done a poor job, then,” Guinevere said softly, looking at her son.

  Tedros held her gaze for a moment and turned away.

  “Then I should make my wish, shouldn’t I?” said Agatha, studying her prince. She stood up straighter. “I wish that all of us can sit down and have lunch together.”

  Tedros’ eyes snapped to her.

  Guinevere froze to stone. Lancelot and Hort both held their breaths.

  Agatha stayed locked on her prince, waiting for his answer.

  Tedros said nothing, staring back at Agatha in her new crown.

  The grove was quiet.

  Tedros turned to his mother.

  “Well, what are you making?” he asked.

  Guinevere went apple red. Then her face crumbled and she shook her head, flooding hot tears. “It’s—it’s Monday—I-I-I don’t have any food—”

  “Hear that, boy?” said Lancelot. “Mum ain’t got any food. That’s what the death sentence was really for, wasn’t it?”

  Everyone gaped at him in horrified silence.

  Then Agatha burst into cackles.

  Seeing her, Tedros tried to resist, but started snickering too.

  His mother was sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe, years of pent-up emotion pouring out of her. “It’s not . . . not funny—”

  The prince hung his arm around her and held her tight as she heaved into his chest. “We’ll handle it, Mother,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Watching Guinevere and Tedros together, Agatha felt overwhelmed with emotion. They needed time alone, without anyone else—

  “Leave making lunch to me and the boys,” she said quickly, eyeing Lancelot as she took Hort’s hand.

  “Me?” Hort blurted. “Why can’t the pampered prince do it? I didn’t get a wink of sleep and then spent half the morning wrangling hogs while you and him spent last night snuggling in the barn, doing God knows wha—”

  Agatha dug her nails into his wrist, making him yelp. “We’ll be back with food soon,” she said, dragging him off.

  “You’ll need a lot more than you think,” a voice called.

  Agatha turned to see a parade of silhouettes striding out of sun flare over the moors.

  Merlin led them, followed by Hester, Anadil, Dot, Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Cinderella, Pinocchio, Jack, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel, Gretel, Red Riding Hood, Yuba, the White Rabbit, and Princess Uma, all filthy, weary, and gawking around the magical moors as if they’d crossed through a portal from hell into paradise.

  “I’ll take care of the lunch menu,” said Merlin, “though we’ll have to endure some grumbling from my hat. He’s only just recovered from serving breakfast. But we have a lot to discuss and there isn’t much ti—”

  The wizard stopped hard at the sight of Agatha in her crown. So did everyone behind him, a rapt silence overtaking the moors.

  Merlin smiled, his eyes big and blue. “In darkness comes a queen,�
�� he whispered.

  Slowly the old man bent down to one knee before Agatha and bowed his head. So did all his charges behind him, young and old. Then Guinevere, Lancelot, Hort . . . until Tedros gazed at Agatha squarely and sank to his knee too.

  In that moment, beneath a dying sun, with an army of heroes kneeling before her, Agatha made a second wish. That she would be the queen that Good needed her to be.

  “I don’t see the big deal,” Cinderella mumbled so everyone could hear. “Looks like a giraffe in her granny’s crown.”

  But as they all walked towards the house together, the League’s heroes sniffling quietly, Agatha could even see a tear in the old princess’s eye.

  27

  Rebel Hearts

  “What if Merlin marshals the Ever kingdoms against us?” Sophie heard Professor Manley ask.

  “For the last time, Bilious, Good defends, not attacks; the Ever kingdoms will not fight us if we do not fight them,” Rafal’s voice growled. “Besides, they know better than to risk their people for a few decrepit heroes. Not that this will save them, of course. Once Sophie and I prove that Evil can win, we’ll destroy the Ever kingdoms one by one.”

  “And what if more of our students turn out to be spies for Good?” asked Professor Sheeks.

  “What if Princess Uma brings an animal army?” pushed Pollux.

  “If you’re worried about our students’ ability to fight animals, then I wonder what business you have being a teacher at all,” the young School Master fired. “As for spies, Sheeba, I believe the threat of imprisonment in the Brig will deter any further rebellion.”

  “’Cause that worked real well tonight,” Castor murmured.

  Sophie wasn’t paying attention to them as she inspected the food laid out at the back of Lady Lesso’s old frozen classroom. Rafal had promised they’d serve lunch at the faculty meeting, but all she’d found was a stinking heap of cold mackerel, burnt potatoes, and crusty cheese.

  She glimpsed her reflection in an iced wall and almost didn’t recognize herself. Gone was the panicked, needy girl who’d chased a prince to Avalon and in her place, an imperious queen in a spiked crown and maleficent gown. Ever since yesterday’s coronation before famous villains and former classmates, standing in homage to their new leader, Sophie had begun to feel like her old self. She glanced down at Merlin’s white star, which she’d buried in her pocket. No doubt he’d left it to make her rethink her allegiance to Evil. Instead it had only recommitted her. Because like Agatha, that hoary, two-faced wizard had used her all along. He’d pretended to rescue her because he wanted to see her happy—when he’d just needed her to destroy her ring. Like Agatha, he didn’t care if she ended up alone. She was nothing but a means to an end. A gullible stooge. A cog in Good’s wheel.