Slowly Sophie and the witches raised their eyes to the Dean’s Quest Map, its names in red-alarm red, so different from the cool, serene blues Sophie had seen across her doctored one.
But one name was different.
Its ink was darker red than the others and dripping off its label, as if seeping blood.
A thin black line ran through the name, scratching it out.
The name was CHADDICK.
Sophie’s breath caught. In a single mark, a soul lost.
For a long while, no one spoke, the silence broken only by the festive buzz behind them and the snores of sleeping stymphs overhead, perched on the scaffolding shrouding the School Master’s tower. Dot wiped her eyes while Anadil focused on the ground. Even Hester looked unsteady.
Gazing across the lake at Good’s glass castle, Sophie thought of the burly, gray-eyed Everboy who’d once swaggered down those halls and been Tedros’ most faithful liege, just like Agatha had been her own. But Agatha was still alive, of course, even if she was somewhere far away. . . .
Tedros’ best friend was dead.
“H-h-how?” Sophie stammered.
“We don’t know,” said Professor Dovey emptily. “His body must be in Avalon. Otherwise his figure would have moved on the map.”
Avalon, Sophie remembered. On her Quest Map, she’d seen Chaddick’s figurine there when he should have been off seeking new knights for Tedros’ kingdom. What was Chaddick doing alone in Avalon, which was perpetually cold and uninhabited? It’s not like he could get into the Lady of the Lake’s castle—only Merlin or the King of Camelot could do that. And yet, she distinctly remembered seeing Chaddick’s figurine inside the castle gates. . . . Still, even if he did get in somehow, wouldn’t the Lady of the Lake have protected him? Chaddick was Camelot’s knight—
Dovey’s voice severed her thoughts: “He sent me a note by crow a couple weeks ago. He’d been hearing reports of attacks in the Woods and wanted to find out who was behind them. I ordered him not to make a move. To stay on his original mission. Clearly he disobeyed.”
Sophie looked at her.
“Whatever he found must have gotten him killed,” the Dean said quietly.
“And now you want me to go and get killed too?” Sophie asked.
“Unlike Chaddick, you will have friends at your side,” the Dean replied, eyeing the three witches.
“There’s that word ‘friends’ again,” Hester murmured.
Dovey ignored her. “I’d been looking into the news of attacks long before Chaddick wrote. The moment students’ names started turning red on my map, I’d asked Merlin to investigate. It’s common for students’ quests to go badly at first—we’ve certainly dispatched rescue teams before—but for all to be failing was unprecedented. At the same time, we’d been hearing reports of unrest in the Woods, prompted by seemingly random crimes against Evers and Nevers alike. And then there was the matter of Tedros’ sword, stuck in that stone. I thought Merlin could get to the bottom of all this. . . . Well, a few days ago, he finally returned to my chambers. He asked only one question: what fairy tale had the Storian been writing.”
“Nothing of substance. I’ve told you that,” Sophie said, glancing up at the School Master’s tower, now her private quarters, which was connected to Evil’s castle by a catwalk. She saw the Storian through the window, hovering over a stone table littered with crumpled paper. “Ever since it finished mine and Agatha’s fairy tale, it’s been starting and discarding tales of our classmates’ quests.”
“And whose story is it working on now?” said Dovey.
“It stopped writing completely last week, which after all that frantic scribbling and crumpling the past few months, is actually letting me sleep,” Sophie puffed. “But you said that the Storian often suspects a fairy tale will be a good one, only to scrap it midstory . . . that it’s perfectly normal—”
“To a point,” Professor Dovey replied. “The Storian only writes tales that we need: stories that will redress a balance between Good and Evil that is constantly in flux. But six months is a long time for the Storian not to put a new tale into the Woods. Perhaps it sees no story in your classmates’ failing quests worth telling. Merlin, however, believes all these failures are connected and that there is a bigger quest waiting to be undertaken. That this is the fairy tale the Storian needs to tell.”
“Yet you have no proof of this bigger quest or fairy tale?” said Sophie.
“And yet we still have to go with her?” Hester said, leering at Sophie.
“A student is dead, girls. I’d think at the very least you’d want to bury his body, let alone find out what killed him,” said Professor Dovey frostily. “I do.”
Sophie and the witches fell silent.
“There is also the fact that according to the map, you are all failing your quests too,” Professor Dovey said.
Sophie and the coven gawked at her before swiveling to the map.
They’d been so focused on their classmates that they hadn’t noticed their own names were in red.
“How can I be failing?” Sophie protested. “My quest is to be Dean of Evil. That’s the quest Lady Lesso gave me—”
“And how could we be failing?” said Hester, looking at her witch friends. “We didn’t do anything wrong on our quest—”
“Unless, of course, your quests no longer apply,” said Professor Dovey.
Sophie and the witches exchanged confused looks.
“You see, your names only turned red on my map yesterday. Within minutes of Chaddick’s death,” said Professor Dovey. “I highly doubt it’s a coincidence. The Storian creates a Quest Map every three years once the new class goes into the Woods. The fact the pen has stopped writing combined with your names turning red only strengthened Merlin’s and my conclusion: that a new, more important quest awaits each of you. Only then will the Storian begin its next tale.”
She paused, expecting questions, but Sophie and the witches still looked dazed.
“If it was up to me, Merlin and I would go into the Woods ourselves,” Dovey went on. “But teachers cannot directly interfere in a student’s quest just as we cannot interfere in a fairy tale. Which means you will represent the Nevers on this new quest, and Merlin will be sending an Ever contingent tonight to join your team. Given Chaddick’s demise, all of this was too sensitive to be transmitted in any way other than in person, so that’s why I brought you back to school. You must leave as soon as possible to prevent more casualties. But you’re not just a rescue team. You’re a detective team. Something out there is hurting our students and your new quest is to find it. . . . One quest to save them all.”
Sophie couldn’t focus, a single thought haunting her. “Has anyone told Tedros about . . .”
“No,” Professor Dovey answered, rising from her seat. “Telling Tedros will surely lead to him doing something rash, especially since we’ve yet to learn how his friend died. The island of Avalon, then, should be the first stop on your new quest. Even if you can’t get through the castle’s gates, you might find clues as to what Chaddick was doing there.”
Sophie’s mind went gauzy, as if she was trying to wake from a dream. Dead friends . . . bodies to be buried . . . a mysterious threat . . .
How quickly things change in a fairy tale.
A few minutes ago she was the host of a rollicking party that finally helped her turn the page and begin a new chapter. But now she was facing a new quest far away from school, where her life would be as much at risk as the friends’ lives she had to save.
Only she wasn’t ready to leave this place. After three years, she’d found her way out of a fairy tale and wouldn’t let herself be dragged back into one. And the best part about being Evil was that she could admit this without guilt. The new and improved Sophie could accept the selfish shades of her soul as much as the generous ones. Which meant that no matter how terrible she felt for Chaddick and the rest of her old friends out there in the dark Endless Woods . . . Sophie wouldn’t be the one to hel
p them.
“I’m afraid I’m Dean of a school just like you, Professor Dovey, entrusted with more than a hundred students. I can’t just abandon them,” Sophie decided. “I don’t care what your map says. Hester, Anadil, and Dot will do just fine on their own.”
The three witches blinked at each other, as if they’d telepathically made a wish and had it granted.
Professor Dovey tightened her silvery bun. “Sophie, you might be a Dean, but you are also a fourth-year student, which means I can change your quest just like you changed Hort’s. And once a Dean assigns your quest, you must accept it or be sent to the Brig of Betrayers—”
“Don’t you threaten me, Clarissa,” Sophie retorted, watching Dovey wince at her first name. “You can’t tell me what to do. I know you want to get rid of me, given how fond of Evil your ‘Good’ students are, and this gives you the perfect excuse.”
“You think this is about you. I should have known. Every time it seems you’ve changed, I’m reminded how selfish you can be,” said Professor Dovey. “Your first three years you trampled on students of both schools to further your own arrogant, often cowardly, goals. You punished them, tormented them, betrayed them . . . and yet they forgave you and even obeyed you as their Dean in the remaining months of their third year. They showed you the loyalty you never once showed them. Now these same classmates are in peril and need your help. Which means the story isn’t about you anymore, Sophie. It’s about them. But if you would like to make it about you, then think of it this way. This is no longer a tale about whether you will find fame or fortune or your perfect little happy ending. This is a tale about whether you are capable of growing from the snake of your own story into the hero of someone else’s. That is your new quest. That is the tale the Storian is waiting to write.”
Sophie went quiet, her emerald eyes fixed on the elder Dean. A dark crimson spread into her cheeks and for a moment, she looked less like Evil’s leader and more like a chastened child.
“She’s coming, isn’t she,” Hester mumbled, her demon making faces.
“Please tell me you can turn a person to chocolate,” Anadil asked Dot.
“I have enough trouble with lentil cakes, thank you,” Dot nipped.
Sophie wasn’t listening, her focus drifting to the party uphill. “But who will take over as Evil’s Dean?” she asked weakly.
“Professor Manley,” said the elder Dean, adding before Sophie could object, “and I suspect his unpopularity will only increase your status once you return.”
“If I return, you mean,” Sophie corrected.
She expected Professor Dovey to reassure her, but the Dean said nothing.
“And what about the new School Master?” asked Hester. “We spent the last six months combing the Woods for someone who would best serve the school—”
“New School Master? That was your quest? To find a School Master?” Sophie asked, whirling to Professor Dovey. “You left the choosing of the one person who has control over you and me to them?”
“And I still would,” Professor Dovey said. “But that’s not to say that part of their assignment is over. You may very well come across the right candidate on your new quest, girls. And if you do, I expect a full report so I can interview them myself.”
This seemed to appease both the coven, who wanted to see the job through, and Sophie, who fully intended to supervise the School Master’s selection now that she was along for the trip.
“In the meantime, I’ll keep tabs on the Storian with the rest of the faculty,” said Professor Dovey. “Though as Merlin pointed out, if there was one lesson in The Tale of Sophie and Agatha, it’s that the Storian does a rather remarkable job of protecting itself.”
“Speaking of Merlin, which Evers is he sending to be on our quest?” Hester asked.
“It better not be Beatrix and her rancid minions,” Sophie griped. “And how do you expect us to travel? On foot? I’m famous now; the whole world knows my fairy tale. I can’t be traipsing from kingdom to kingdom in a dirty dress—”
The clocks in both castles tolled midnight, drowning her out, while Professor Dovey peered at the bay. “Merlin assured me his Ever team would be here by now. Do you see them?”
Sophie and the witches exchanged glances, as if the old Dean had stayed up too long past her bedtime.
“Um, wouldn’t they be arriving at the South Gate?” Sophie said delicately.
Suddenly, a ripple burped at the midpoint of the bay, right in front of the School Master’s tower. The sound it made was low and croaky like a dyspeptic toad’s. Then more ripples formed, faster and faster, spewing bubbles of clear water and blue sludge into the sky, each burp more violent than the last, as if the bay was trying to expel something it’d swallowed. Then, in one willful spurt, the hull of a ship popped through the surface, only upside down, with the rest of the ship buried beneath the bay. It took a final cacophonous belch to send the hull toppling over and turn the ship right-side up, a glorious blue and gold, billowing with creamy white sails and the name “IGRAINE” painted along the bow near a masthead statue of a young, dark-haired woman dangling a lantern over the sea.
For a moment, as water and slime drained off the vessel and it propelled towards the shore, Sophie thought it must be a ghost ship, for there didn’t seem to be a captain. But then she saw a shadowy figure at the prow in a dark leather jacket and cut-off breeches, hair tied up in a bandana. And from what she could see, he was sharp-jawed, fine-featured, and handsome. . . .
Yet as the boat slid onto torchlit banks and stuttered to a stop, Sophie saw for the second time in one evening that the boy she’d been expecting was not a boy at all.
“Agatha?” she choked.
Her friend was already throwing a rope over the side of the ship and sliding down—
The two girls dashed towards each other and collided in a breathless hug, falling into the bay. Sophie’s white dress was slopped in sludge, but she didn’t care, gripping Agatha like she might never let go, both of them caught between giggles and tears.
On the shore, Professor Dovey was dabbing her eyes, as were Dot and Anadil, each of who knew what it meant to have a best friend. Even Hester was biting her lip.
“I missed you, Aggie,” Sophie whispered.
“Not as much as I missed you. They made Pollux give me wedding lessons,” Agatha said breathlessly.
“That little weenie? In Camelot?” Sophie squeaked. “Giving wedding advice?”
“A wedding you’re now in charge of planning,” said Agatha.
Sophie burst into laughter. “Good heavens, we have a lot to catch up on.” She kissed her dearest friend and nuzzled against her. “But now that I have you, I’m not letting you go. Even if you didn’t write me. Even if I thought you’d forgotten all about me. I love you, Agatha. I always will.”
Her friend held her close. “I love you too. And I never forgot about you, Sophie. I never could.”
Sophie hugged her tighter.
“I’m here!” a voice shouted.
The girls turned to see Hort bounding around the side of the bay, naked except for a tablecloth from the party wrapped around his waist. “I tried to follow you, but then my man-wolf started shrinking and it got really bad and then it took me forever to find you guys, so yeah . . .” He bent over, panting. “What’d I miss?”
He took one look at Professor Dovey and three witches goggling at him. Then at two girls embraced in the sand, gaping at him too, Sophie’s red lipstick on Agatha’s cheek.
“Not again!” Hort gasped.
Only the girls weren’t looking at Hort at all.
They were looking past him at a tall, silver tower rising out of the bay . . . an open window lit by the moon . . . a sharp, steel pen sweeping ink across a page . . .
The Storian.
Writing.
A new fairy tale had begun.
9
HORT
Who Would Want a Hort?
“Come, girls! We need to see what the pen is
writing before it turns the page!” Professor Dovey said, leading the group towards Evil’s castle. “Once it moves on, it won’t let us flip back—”
Hort was desperate to take a bath and put pants on, but he couldn’t let Agatha run off with Sophie unsupervised, so he followed them up the shore.
Every time he was free of rivals for Sophie’s attention, they always returned, more meddling than ever. Why couldn’t these toads mind their own business? Or die like Rafal did? True, he’d had Sophie to himself these past six months, but most of that was spent waiting out her I’m-an-Independent-Woman phase, which consisted of her doing a lot of yoga, reading poetry in her study, and hosting girls’ nights in the Common Room. But after what he just saw at the party, it was clear Sophie was slobbering after boys again. And not just boys.
Everboys.
Uggggh.
Did those preening stallions have any idea what it was like to be normal? Because that’s what being a Never was. “Normal” as in you woke up with smelly armpits and you broke out in pimples if you ate too many fried pig’s feet and you had to slave in the Groom Room gym for every ounce of muscle—time that you would rather spend learning spells or catching lizards or doing something useful; but if you didn’t waste half your day pumping Norse hammers and swinging kettlebells and doing one-handed pushups, then you’d be a skinny, oily loser for the rest of your life.
And yet, in the end, it didn’t matter how much work Hort did to improve himself. He still couldn’t find love. At least not the love he wanted. Not Sophie.
He thought about the anonymous fan letters he’d been getting these past few months. (“Dear Hort, I don’t know why you chase girls who don’t appreciate you. There are girls like me who’ve read The Tale of Sophie and Agatha and think you’re the real hero. . . .”) At first, he thought they were from a Reader in Sophie’s old town, but then he’d noticed that the letters were written on school parchment. Which meant Sophie was right all along. They were just a prank to embarrass him. Hort felt ashamed for getting suckered yet again. It was so obvious the letters were fakes. Who would want a Hort when there were Bodhis and Laithans running around?
Quests for Glory Page 10