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Chapter Text

Agatha stood in a ballroom of gold and glass, where chandeliers dripped light like molten stars and the air smelled of roses and something sharper—vanity, perhaps, or deceit.

She didn’t belong here.

The masks around her were exquisite: swans with diamond feathers, foxes with sly grins, lions with manes of spun gold. Hers was plain black, cracked at the edges, as if it had been chewed by rats. The others glanced at her, their eyes glinting behind porcelain and jewels, their whispers slithering past her ears like snakes. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew them all the same.

Ugly. Wrong. Evil.

Her fingers curled into fists. She wanted to scream, to claw the masks off their faces and force them to look at her properly. But her throat was sealed shut, her voice buried deep where no one could hear it.

Drowning.

Unbearable.

She walked forward anyway.

The crowd parted before her, silk and satin flinching away as if she carried the plague. A small, bitter victory. She didn’t want to touch them either.

Her dress grew heavier with every step, the fabric thickening into chains. The mask melted against her skin, hot as wax, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The walls pulsed like a living thing, the chandeliers dimmed, and the faces around her twisted—fear, pity, disgust, all painted in garish strokes.

Still, she walked.

Then—

A girl stood in her path.

Not stepping aside. Not shrinking back.

Agatha halted.

The girl was everything she wasn’t: golden hair coiled into perfect ringlets, a dress like frosted petals, a mask of delicate silver vines. She smiled— bright and stupid—and held out a gloved hand.

Agatha’s fingers twitched.

She nearly reached out.

She almost did—

But the girl didn’t wait. She grabbed Agatha’s hand anyway.

And they danced.

Clumsily, Agatha followed, her steps too sharp, her body too stiff. But the girl didn’t seem to care. She spun them through the crowd, laughing as if they were the only two people in the world. The weight of the dress lightened. The whispers faded. For a moment, Agatha forgot the masks, the stares, the way the air had clawed at her lungs.

For a moment, she almost believed it.

Then—

Her hand shot up, fingers hooking under the girl’s mask.

She ripped it off.

They were all the same. This was no different.

Agatha wakes up.

A sliver of light cut through the cracks of the battered wall, stabbing Agatha in the eyes as she groaned awake. Early. Too early.

She sat up, peeling her threadbare blanket away—black, like everything else she owned, though "black" was generous. It was more like the color of mud after a storm, faded and streaked with years of wear. The room around her was little better: walls splintered, floorboards warped, the whole place held together by what she suspected was sheer stubbornness. And yet, despite the rot, the house never collapsed. Like it was cursed to stand forever, just to spite her.

Agatha dragged herself out of bed, her bare feet flinching against the cold, uneven wood. The air smelled of damp earth and something sharper—herbs, maybe, or the lingering ghost of last night’s failed potion.

Reaper, her hairless cat, uncurled from a nest of moth-eaten scarves on the dresser, his wrinkled muzzle twitching as she passed. He blinked at her, slow and judgmental, as if he already knew where she was going.

She ignored him.

The living room was less a living space and more a den of alchemical chaos. Jars of pickled roots lined the shelves, their contents floating in murky liquids. Dried frog legs hung from the ceiling like grotesque wind chimes. A mortar and pestle sat crusted with remnants of yesterday’s work, and the scent of crushed mint and something faintly metallic clung to the air.

At the heart of it hunched Callis, her mother—a woman built like a storm crow, all sharp angles and inky shadows. Her hair, a greasy black helmet, framed a face that might’ve been beautiful once, before time and bitterness carved it into something gaunt and hungry. Her nose hooked over thin lips, her skin so pale it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. But her hands—steady, spiderlike—moved with the precision of a woman who’d spent a lifetime making poisons taste like medicine.

The town healer.

The village tolerated her because they had no choice. Broken bones needed setting, fevers needed breaking, and when the children whispered that Callis was a witch, their parents still came crawling to her door at midnight.

Agatha moved past her without a word. Callis let out a low, rasping chuckle.

When Agatha glanced back, her mother was grinning—all yellowed teeth and sharp amusement, like a cat watching a mouse trip over its own tail.

Agatha ignored her.

The bathroom was a cramped afterthought, the mirror cracked and warped, the sink stained with things she didn’t want to identify. She rummaged through the cluttered shelves until her fingers closed around a near-empty bottle of tonic. She sighed.

Back in the main room, Callis hadn’t moved, still grinding, still smirking. Agatha snatched a handful of dried lavender and a spare mortar, then set to work in silence.

The quiet stretched, thick and heavy, until Callis finally spoke.

“Looking for this?”

She held up a vial of crushed juniper berries between bony fingers, her smile widening. Agatha didn’t answer, just snatched it and dumped the contents into her mixture.

“You’re up early again,” Callis mused, stirring a bubbling cauldron. “Third time this week.”

Agatha grunted.

“Practically social of you.”

No response.

Callis cackled, the sound like dry twigs snapping. “Busy day ahead. The School Master’s favorite holiday.” She tapped a long nail against the rim of her brew. “Parents slopping mud on their precious darlings, wives begging for draughts to calm their nerves… though I suppose you don’t need to worry. He only takes the pretty ones.”

Agatha’s grip on the mortar tightened. She kept grinding.

“You’ve been so obedient lately,” Callis crooned. Then, without missing a beat: “Don’t forget the rosehip. Unless you want your hair to fall out.”

Agatha muttered something unintelligible and tossed in the rosehip.

“Used to throw a fit if I so much as looked at you. Now? Sitting by the door like a trained dog.” Callis’s grin was all teeth. “Waiting for something?”

Agatha shot her a glare. “Would you prefer I set the house on fire?”

“Oh, either would entertain me.”

With a sharp exhale, Agatha stalked back to the bathroom, tonic in hand.

The water was ice-cold, but she scrubbed anyway—her skin, her hair, the orange streaks stubbornly clinging to the black. A careless mistake, one she could’ve fixed months ago. The dye had been too bright from the start, slopped on with laughable enthusiasm by hands that didn’t know how to hold a brush steady. It should’ve faded by now. It should’ve. But the color held fast, like a stain she’d decided to live with.

She caught her reflection in the broken mirror. A face carved for scowls: sharp cheekbones, a nose too pointed for prettiness, lips perpetually pressed thin as if to bite back every word she couldn’t afford to say. Pale as a grub under a rock, save for the freckles splattered across her nose—faint, like someone had flicked mud at her and missed. Too much like her mother.

And the hair. Black as a witch’s cauldron, except for those idiotic orange streaks—streaks that, in certain lights, almost glowed. Like embers. Like the last stubborn sparks of a fire she’d tried to smother.

The only color in the room.

She dressed in the same clothes—black, always black—fabric coarse and fraying at the seams, as if even the threads knew better than to cling to her.

“Bread’s on the table,” she said, that same knowing glint in her eye. “Eat before you go.”

Agatha grunted.

Callis paused, halfway out. “And don’t be late for dinner.” Another cackle, like she’d told a joke only she understood.

The door clicked shut behind Callis, her cackling swallowed by the wind.

Agatha stood motionless for three heartbeats—long enough to prove she wasn’t rushing anywhere—then turned sharply and grabbed the bread from the table. Plain, but fresh. She chewed mechanically, crumbs dusting the front of her dress.

Waiting by the door? Pathetic.

She crushed the last bite between her teeth and stalked to the worktable, yanking open the drawer of dried ingredients. The wood screeched in protest. Reaper, sprawled atop a pile of moth-eaten herbal journals and tattered remedy logs, cracked one yellow eye open. Judging.

"What? " Agatha snapped.

The cat blinked slowly and tucked his nose back under his tail seemingly unbothered.

Agatha seized a mortar and pestle, then dumped in a fistful of bitterroot with more force than necessary. The grinding drowned out the silence. Good.

Outside, the wind howled through the cemetery gates. A branch scraped against the roof like skeletal fingers. Normal sounds. Nothing like footsteps.

Nothing like—

Crush. Grind. Breathe.

She worked through the stock like a soldier on a mission: feverfew for headaches, crushed moonpetals for sleep, a particularly vile-smelling paste of bogweed and crow’s bile (the village brats had learned quickly not to lob rocks at her windows after she’d lobbed a jar of that back).

The sun climbed higher, slicing through the cracks in the shutters. Dust motes swirled in the beams, lazy and golden.

Too long.

Agatha froze.

Too long since what?

She slammed another jar onto the table. The label peeled at the edges—Stinkhorn Tincture (Do Not Open Indoors). A relic from her more… creative phase. The less said about that particular summer, the better.

Reaper sneezed, then batted a dried beetle across the floor. It skittered into a sunbeam, and he pounced, kicking up a cloud of dust that made Agatha’s nose itch.

She ignored him and reached for the valerian root. The jar was half-empty—she’d used the rest last week to spike Old Man Hargrove’s tea when he’d limped in, swearing about his joints and cursing her mother’s prices. He’d never mentioned the sudden lack of pain. She hadn’t expected him to.

Her fingers closed around the pestle again.

Crush. Grind. Breathe.

The wind rattled the shutters. Reaper’s ears twitched toward the door.

Agatha’s shoulders tensed—

—but it was just the house settling.

Always just the—

Then she heard it.

A distant creak of the cemetery gates. Crows scattering from the birch trees. The rustle of plants being brushed aside—too deliberate to be the wind. And Reaper—ever the traitor—slipped out through his ragged hole in the wall, tail held high like a victory flag.

Agatha’s shoulders loosened, she continued grinding moonpetals into dust, her hands steady.

Ignore her. She’s always a bother.

The first knock came—soft, polite, almost hesitant.

Agatha sighed and shook her head.

The second knock, firmer this time—testing, unsure. Reaper meowed outside, his raspy voice muffled through the wood.

Agatha grimaced, abandoning her mortar. This would drag on forever if she didn’t answer. She halted mid-stride in front of the door, fingers twitching at her sides.

Then— tap-tap-TAP.

That stupid, infuriating cadence. Like a nursery rhyme. Like a secret.

Agatha rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Go away.”

A voice, muffled but bright, “You say that every time. And yet—!”

“And yet you never listen,” Agatha finished flatly.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Agatha didn’t answer. The door creaked as weight settled against it, the voice softening. “I brought lemon bread. And before you say ‘poisoned,’ I ate three on the way here. If I die, you’ll know.”

Agatha’s lips twitched. She stomped the impulse dead.

Silence.

Then, with theatrical despair, “Fine. I’ll just sit out here, then. Alone. In the cold.”

Rustling fabric, the exaggerated thump of someone settling onto rotting porch steps. A crow cawed. Reaper meowed again, closer now, his sandpaper tongue no doubt grooming the intruder’s outstretched fingers.

“So lonely…”

Agatha’s eye twitched. She slowly, so slowly, opened the door—

Sophie wasn’t sitting. She stood right there, grinning, basket in hand, her free arm already poised to knock again.

“You’re insufferable,”

Sophie beamed. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Agatha opened her mouth to protest, but Sophie was faster. She hooked her arm through Agatha’s and dragged her out the door with surprising strength. “We’ll be back before you know it!”

Sunlight caught Sophie in full then, and Agatha—against her will—noticed.

She wore pink, of course, but not the frilly, or overdone. This dress was simpler, the color of dawn-washed roses, with a high collar and sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her golden hair was braided back, practical but still painfully pretty. Her boots were caked with graveyard mud, the laces frayed from snagging on brambles every time she took the shortcut.

And that smile. Big. Dumb. Unshakable. As if the very act of existing beside her was a triumph.

And Agatha—

Agatha didn’t argue.

Reaper trotted after them, purring like a rusty hinge, as Sophie towed Agatha down the hill. The crows watched from the trees. The wind carried the scent of lemon cakes and stubborn hope.

And off they went, as they always did now, picking their way down Graves Hill's uneven slope where tree roots twisted like buried bones beneath their feet, and where the gravel gave way to cobblestones at the village edge.

Reaper was, of course, the first to go, having the benefit of not being laced around Sophie’s fingers, (Agatha shaking her off after three steps, muttering, "I’m not a child—I won’t run.") the cat paused to piss on the carpenter’s boot—earning a shout—before vanishing into the brambles.

Off to hunt. Or to traumatize the village. Hard to say.

The town square was a hive of frantic preparation.

Men sharpened pitchforks and set bear traps, though no one had seen a bear in Gavaldon in living memory. Women scrubbed homely children raw and slopped mud on pretty ones, while the priest led choruses of "Blessed Are the Ordinary " from the church steps. The butcher and blacksmith huddled in an alley, trading storybooks like contraband. Even the homeless hag danced before her fire, shrieking, "Burn the books! Burn them all!"

After four years, the dreaded eleventh night of the eleventh month had arrived yet again.

Agatha chuckled. The whole village had lost its mind over a fairy tale.

She glanced at Sophie, expecting to find her wide-eyed with excitement or trembling with fear. Instead, Sophie looked... calm. Unnervingly so.

"You don’t seem afraid," Agatha said, probing. "Like the rest of them."

Sophie smiled. "It’s just a legend."

Agatha snorted. "You’re the last person I’d expect to have a rational head about this. I’d have thought you’d be leading the charge to prove it real."

Sophie pouted. "How so?"

Without missing a beat, Agatha ticked off on her fingers: "Your pristine appearance—golden curls bouncing like you're starring in your own fairy tale, pink dresses pressed and perfect even for graveyard strolls. Your saintly reputation—lending farmers lemon bread you definitely didn't steal from your father's kitchen. All those obnoxiously good deeds—rescuing kittens, polishing the church candlesticks, probably whispering prayers for my wicked soul after dark." She leaned in, lips curling. "Almost like you're auditioning for the School for Good..." A deliberate pause. "Or Evil."

Sophie giggled, executing a mock bow "Why Agatha, I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said about me." She straightened up, eyes glittering. "But let's say I was auditioning—and let's say it's all true for a moment." She stepped closer, gloved hands clasped like a storyteller beginning a tale. "What, pray tell, could this legendary School possibly offer that would make Evil..." Her pinky finger hooked Agatha's black sleeve. "Half as tempting as Good?"

Agatha stared at the offending glove like it was a venomous spider "In Good,” she said coldly, plucking Sophie's hand away, “you'll learn to prance in glass slippers and sing to rodents. In Evil—" Her voice dropped, almost involuntary. "you could turn those rodents into wolves. Make the slippers melt into lava. Curse every prince in the kingdom to croak like frogs."

A flicker of enthusiasm slipped through before she could reel it back.

"Such vivid imagination," Sophie purred, "for a skeptic."

Agatha clicked her tongue and strode ahead taking a sharp turn.

Sophie stumbled after her, tripping on a loose cobblestone. Agatha stopped. Her hand almost shot out—but she clenched it at her side.

Sophie dusted off her dress, laughing lightly. "You could’ve told me we were changing directions."

"And ruin the highlight of my day?" Agatha said.

Sophie’s smile wavered.

Agatha instantly regretted it—but doubled down. "I’m going ahead," she snapped, marching off.

Sophie followed, undeterred. "You still haven’t given me an answer."

Agatha groaned.

"Soo~?" Sophie pressed, falling into step beside her.

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "If you think I believe in this dumb legend because of those stupid fairy tale books you’ve lent me—"

"So you did read them!" Sophie beamed.

"Ugh."

Sophie bounced on her toes. "But don’t you see? The missing children are in the stories! Jack, Rose, Rapunzel—"

"Impossible."

"Why not?!" Sophie squeaked.

Agatha blinked. A moment ago, she’d sounded more of a skeptic than she did, but now she was practically a zealot.

"Because," Agatha snapped, "it’s just two idiots sneaking into the woods to scare their parents, only to get lost or eaten by wolves."

Sophie laughed—bright, melodic, infuriating. Agatha couldn’t tell if she was mocking her or genuinely delighted. "But If the adults believed it once," Sophie mused, "and were convinced otherwise… couldn’t you be?"

"Just admit you want to be whisked away to that godforsaken school!" Agatha’s voice rang louder than she’d intended.

Silence fell. Sophie’s laughter died. Agatha’s gaze darted past her—the villagers had stopped to stare. Their eyes flicked between the pair: Sophie in her soft pink, Agatha in her ragged black. Good and Evil. The School Master’s perfect match.

Agatha gritted her teeth.

"Aggie...?" Sophie’s voice was small.

Agatha stormed off. Sophie followed.

For a while, they walked in silence, the weight of the stares prickling Agatha’s neck. Then Sophie spoke again, softer this time:

"I’m not that good, you know. There are others... better. Kinder."

Agatha’s chest tightened. Why did this feel like she was being comforted? She was the one who—

"Like Belle," Sophie added.

As if summoned, they passed a crowd near the church. There, on her knees in the dirt, was Belle—her golden hair hacked short, her lace collar torn and crusted with filth, fingers clawing mud from the ground to smear across her cheeks.

Sophie drew a sharp breath.

Agatha felt her fists clench, tight enough to bleach her knuckles white, "He only takes the pretty ones," The words slithered out before she could stop it.

They walked on. The silence between them grew teeth.

The sun bled into the lake as two girls—one gold, one shadow—sat side by side on the shore. Sophie’s reflection shimmered perfect and pink in the water; Agatha’s dissolved into ripples, fractured and fleeting.

Sophie plucked at her gloves. "Belle looked... different today." Too casual.

Agatha chucked a stone into the lake. "Mission accomplished, then. You’re the prettiest girl in Gavaldon again."

A flinch. Tiny, but there. "That’s not—" Sophie caught herself, twisting a loose thread from her sleeve. "Do you really think that’s all I care about?"

"I think," Agatha said slowly, "you’d trade every ‘good deed’ you’ve ever done for a ticket out of this town." She watched the words hit, watched Sophie’s fingers still. "And I think you’re using me to get it."

Sophie’s breath hitched. Agatha pressed on, voice sharp as a blade.

“Always trying so hard, always smiling.” A sneer. “Practicing your princess curtsy when you think no one’s looking. Baking pies for the baker’s brats just so they’ll sigh and say, ‘Oh, Sophie’s too kind for this world!’ ” She leaned in. “Tell me, did you rehearse that line about Belle in the mirror too? Or did it just come naturally?”

Sophie’s gloves ripped at the seams.

Agatha scoffed. “And the worst part is—” She flung another stone, watching it vanish beneath the water. “It’s working.”

That caught Sophie off guard. Her lips parted—confused, then oddly hopeful.

A lie so blatant only she’ll believe it, Agatha told herself.

“I thought you’d give up after a week,” Agatha continued, merciless. “Two, at most. But no. Day after day, you drag me out of my home like some… some project.” Her voice cracked. “And now? A whole year of your stupid, relentless—”

She bit her tongue. The words hung between them, too raw.

Sophie stared at her. The sunset painted her face in gold and fire, but her eyes—wide, wet—were the only thing Agatha could see.

“Go ahead!” Agatha’s voice tore through the quiet. “You win! Go to your fairytale land and leave me alo—”

SLAP.

Agatha’s head snapped sideways. The sting bloomed hot across her cheek. She touched her face, dumbfounded, as Sophie trembled before her, fist still clenched.

“You idiot!” Sophie shouted.

The lake seemed to hold its breath.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve put up with?” Sophie’s voice shook. “The first time I knocked on your door, you dumped a bucket of slugs on my head! The second, you rigged the porch to collapse! And the third—” She jabbed a finger at Agatha’s chest. “—you locked me in your cellar for three hours while you ‘forgot’ I was there!”

Agatha opened her mouth—

“And the stinkbombs!” Sophie barreled on. “The way you reeked of pickled frog legs and moldy herbs for months until I practically bathed you in rosewater myself! The Stinkhorn Incident—which, by the way, I spent days apologizing for! Do you know how many mothers called me a ‘bad influence’? How many brats cried because of you?” Her voice pitched higher. “And the glaring! And the growling! And that time you ‘accidentally’ spilled beetle juice on my favorite dress—”

Agatha recoiled. Sophie wasn’t just angry—she was furious, her cheeks flushed, her braid coming undone like a fraying rope.

“I didn’t ask for any of that—!”

“You didn’t!” Sophie agreed, so vehement it made Agatha blink. “But I’m still here, aren’t I…?”

The words hung in the air, soft and devastating.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Sophie was supposed to falter, to admit the ruse—but the girl in front of her, pink dress mud-splattered, wasn’t a liar. 

Just Sophie. And somehow, that was worse.

Agatha’s lips quivered. “Why…? ”

The question slipped out, small and broken.

Sophie looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, Agatha didn’t flinch away. The anger drained from Sophie’s face, replaced by something unbearably gentle.

“Why do you keep letting me in?” she whispered.

The lake held its breath. The sun hovered above the water, its light gilding the waves but already beginning to bleed into the horizon. Agatha stared at their reflections—two girls, side by side, edges blurred where the light touched the dark.

For the first time, she didn’t hate what she saw.

Agatha looked away. “That’s dumb.”

Sophie giggled, the sound bright as the ripples at their feet.

And for once, Agatha didn’t feel the need to argue.

The lake shimmered, the sun now half-submerged in the water, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading gold. The girls sat in comfortable silence, Sophie’s basket between them, its last lemon bread torn in half.

Agatha chewed slowly, eyeing Sophie. “So… you don’t want to be taken to the School for Good?”

Sophie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Agatha! I didn’t think you’d actually believe the legend!”

Agatha narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Sophie laughed, tossing a breadcrumb to a curious duck paddling near the shore.

“Are you kidding?” She leaned back on her elbows, voice softer now. “I can’t leave my dad.” A pause. “Or you.” She pointed her half-eaten bread at Agatha like an accusation.

Agatha rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

“Besides~” Sophie stretched, catlike, “I slapped you real hard back there, and that felt pretty darn good.” She tapped her chin. “Pretty evil, actually. Doubt the School Master wants children like that.”

“Assuming he’s even real,” Agatha muttered.

“Exactly.” Sophie grinned.

The water swallowed another sliver of the sun. Agatha picked at the basket’s lining, then—before she could stop herself—blurted:

“I don’t smell that bad, do I?”

Instant regret.

Sophie burst into laughter, so loud it startled the duck into flight.

“Forget I asked,” Agatha snapped, pressing her palms to her face like she could physically shove the words back into her mouth.

“N-no!” Sophie wheezed, clutching her stomach. “You actually smell nice now.” She wiped her eyes, suddenly thoughtful. “Don’t know when it happened, but… you’re all good.”

Agatha refused to react—though her cheeks burned.

“The only thing that’d make it better,” Sophie mused, “is if you tried on new clothes. I’d even lend you mine—”

“No.”

“Boo.”

Agatha reached into the basket again, fingers brushing empty linen—then paused.

That jar.

It had been there all along, tucked in the corner like a secret. She’d ignored it earlier, too busy scowling or stuffing her face with lemon bread to care. But now, with nothing left to distract her, she hooked a finger around its rim and dragged it into the light.

A ceramic jar, no bigger than her palm. The lid was sealed with a dab of pink wax—Sophie’s touch—and the sides were smudged with fingerprints, as if someone had gripped it too tightly on the walk here. Inside, something sloshed: thick, golden, and reeking of lemon peel and something aggressively floral.

“This is—”

Sophie’s grin was already triumphant. “Finally noticed it, did you?” She snatched the jar before Agatha could react, pried off the wax seal, and—

“No. Not again.” Agatha tried to swipe it back, but Sophie danced away, dipping her fingers into the golden glop.

“Come on!”

Agatha twisted off the grass, but Sophie—damn her and her stupidly quick reflexes—was already lunging. She flicked a glob of tonic at Agatha’s hair like a catapult launching siege fire.

“Get that away from me! ” Agatha batted at her, but Sophie just dodged, cackling, her fingers glistening with another dollop.

“Your hair’s days of looking like a half-chewed carrot are numbered!”

“I’ll never let you touch it again!” Agatha hissed, though the threat lacked its usual venom as she ducked behind the basket like a shield.

Sophie’s grin faltered. She stepped closer, wiping her sticky hands on her dress—ruining the pink fabric without a second thought—and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me fix my mistake. Properly this time.”

Her fingers hovered near the orange streak. “It’s grown out all patchy,” she murmured, as if she’d memorized every misplaced brushstroke.

Agatha opened her mouth—to snipe, to scoff, to lie—but the words dissolved on her tongue. She hesitated. A strand of orange-streaked hair fell into her eyes, and she didn’t brush it away.

“…I like it this way.”

Sophie blinked. For a heartbeat, Agatha braced for another onslaught of pleading.

Then—

Sophie took her hands. Not grabbing, not tugging. Just holding, her fingers still faintly sticky with tonic. “We’ll do it right this time,” she said, so quiet it was almost lost to the lapping waves.

Agatha stared at their joined hands. Sophie’s gloves were frayed, her nails bitten short. Not a princess’s hands at all.

She looked away. A grunt—neither a yes, or a no.

Sophie beamed like it was a vow.

The sun was nearly gone now, the first stars pricking through the twilight. Sophie stood, brushing crumbs from her dress.

“Want to eat at my house tonight?” The question hung between them, tentative.

Agatha frowned. Her mother’s smug face flashed in her mind—

Sophie backtracked instantly. “You don’t have to! I just thought—”

“N-no!” Agatha’s voice cracked. “I’d… like to.” The admission came out a whisper, but Sophie heard it.

She squealed, dragging Agatha upright with enough force to make them both stumble. “We’ll have soup! And honey cakes! And—oh!—I’ll show you the new ribbons I got, the blue ones that—”

Agatha let herself be pulled along, Sophie’s chatter weaving around them like a spell. The cemetery gates loomed behind, but for once, Agatha didn’t glance back at them.

So what if her mother was right?

She’d finally found a friend.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting Gavaldon in fiery gold. Around them, children were being herded indoors—some kicking, some crying, others eerily silent—while fathers, sisters, even grandmothers took up torches and pitchforks, their faces grim with determination.

Sophie, of course, didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she didn’t care. It was always hard to tell.

“—and we’ll have roasted chestnuts, the ones that crack open just right, and we should finally try making those little berry tarts you pretended not to like last time—oh! And you must see the quilt mother started before—"

Her voice hitched, before smoothing over. "—well. It’s almost finished. I’ve been adding to it. Blues and silvers, like the winter sky.”

Agatha let the words wash over her, half-listening, half-watching as the village twisted into a fortress. Barricades splintered under hammers, bear traps yawned open like iron jaws along the forest’s edge, and the air curdled with the stench of burning pitch. Around them, voices rose in a feverish chorus—'Lock the windows,' 'Hide the pretty ones,' 'Pray they take the other town this year'—but Sophie prattled on, her tone bright as a lark’s song at dawn.

A sharp twinge coiled in Agatha’s gut.

She didn’t think this through.

Sophie’s invitation had been impulsive—selfish. Of course she hadn’t considered the way her father’s smile would stiffen at the sight of a graveyard rat on his stoop. Of course she hadn’t noticed how the butcher’s wife clutched her child tighter as they passed, or how the blacksmith’s grin slid into a sneer when he thought Agatha wasn’t looking.

Agatha opened her mouth to say something—This is a bad idea, Sophie, your father will hate me, the whole damn village hates me!—then Sophie turned, her face alight with something dangerously close to joy, and the words withered in Agatha’s throat.

Damn her.

Agatha had lowered her guard so completely that she’d forgotten the rules of their world. Forgotten that the villagers would sooner welcome a rabid dog than her into their homes. Forgotten that kindness like Sophie’s was a luxury, one Agatha, still, can barely afford to trust.

And yet.

And yet, for a single, traitorous moment, it warmed her.

Then reality crashed back in.

“Sophie—”

Too late.

They’d arrived.

Sophie’s home was everything Agatha’s wasn’t—warm, inviting, alive. Sun-bleached beams framed the cottage, flower boxes spilling over with violets, their petals trembling in the breeze. Smoke curled from the chimney, scented with rosemary and bread; golden light spilled through lace curtains onto the cobbled path.

It was the kind of house where good things happened. Where families gathered, and laughter lingered—warm, bright, and cloying. Like a storybook page she’d been scribbled onto in black ink, a blot of darkness ruining the pretty picture.

Agatha’s fingers twitched at her sides.

Sophie beamed, “Home sweet home!”

And just like that, the spell shattered.

The door opened, and there stood the miller—Sophie’s father. His broad shoulders filled the frame, his once-golden hair now streaked with silver, mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it. Deep lines creased his forehead, his greenish-blue eyes—lighter than Sophie’s emerald ones, like a faded reflection of hers—darting past Agatha like she was a shadow.

“Dad?” Sophie blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “I thought you wouldn’t be home until—”

He cut her off, voice fraying at the edges. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The square, the schoolhouse—even checked the damn mill twice.” His calloused hands gripped the doorframe, knuckles whitening. “Do you have any idea what night this is?”

Sophie waved a dismissive hand, her laugh ringing just a beat too high. “Oh, we just lost track of time! Agatha and I were—”

“Plans, Sophie.” Her father’s voice sharpened, then softened, as if he’d caught himself. He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “We talked about this. You were supposed to be back before sundown.”

Sophie ducked her head, apologetic. “Sorry, dad. I forgot.” Then, with a breezy smile that almost flickered “But it’s fine! I’ll just make dinner for Agatha and me—”

The miller’s gaze finally landed on Agatha.

Agatha stiffened. This was it. The moment he’d notice the stray clinging to his daughter’s sleeve and slam the door in her face.

She braced for the sneer, the cold dismissal, the hissed warning to stay away from his precious girl. Instead, his brow furrowed, lips parting—not a sneer, not quite guilt, but something caught between.

“Didn’t see you there,” he muttered, scratching his stubbled jaw. “Sorry.”

Agatha blinked. Once. Twice.

Had the sky turned green? Had pigs taken flight?

Her head drooped sideways, mouth hung open like a confused crow—one she promptly snapped shut.

Sophie, oblivious to her existential crisis, hauled her inside like a stubborn cat. “Come on, Aggie! You’ll love—”

The scent hit Agatha first—rich, buttery pastry, caramelized onions, something herbal and warm beneath it all. Her stomach growled. Fantastic. Now even her insides were siding with the enemy.

Sophie froze.

Agatha collided onto her back with an oomph, barely catching herself before face-planting into Sophie’s stupidly perfect hair. “What the hell, Soph—?”

Then she felt it: Sophie’s grip, suddenly vice-tight around her fingers, knuckles pressing white against Agatha’s own.

Oh.

Her father sighed, shuffling his boots. “Didn’t want you to miss us if you came back late.” His voice was gruff but gentle, softer now. “It’s later than planned, but we’ve got time for a quick bite. Honora even made those honey-glazed turnips you—” He caught himself, cleared his throat. “Anyway. Eat fast. We’re needed outside soon.”

The miller nudged the door wider, ushering them inside with a jerk of his chin—even glancing at Agatha, like she was somehow included in this.

Sophie stayed rooted, her breath shallow. Agatha leaned around her, trying to make sense of her reaction:

The cottage’s main room was agonizingly inviting. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting amber light over a sturdy oak table already crowded with steaming dishes—honey-glazed turnips glistening like gold, a pot of herb-studded soup, and a loaf of bread so fresh it let out a sigh as one of the baker’s brats tore into it with grubby fingers. Bunches of thyme and rosemary hung from the rafters, their earthy scent tangled with the richness of butter and roasted garlic.

And there, by the stove, stood the baker—Honora, presumably. Agatha had seen her in the village, of course: a flash of flour-dusted skirts at the shop, the occasional braying laugh over the market crowd. Her arms plump, her black braids fraying at the temples like she’d been battling the oven all evening. A sheen of sweat dotted her forehead, and her round cheeks were flushed from the heat, but when she turned, her smile was bright as a polished copper pot.

At the table, the baker’s two brats (because of course they were hers—she’d seen them trailing after her at the market like ducklings, all corn-silk hair and sticky fingers) paused mid-food-fight. The younger one dangled a bread roll from his grip like a slingshot pellet, while the older one—cheeks bulging with half-chewed turnip—snorted dough flecks across the table. 

“Jacob. Adam.” Honora’s voice cut through, sharp as a pastry knife. “Eat properly, or I’ll tell Stefan you’re wasting his turnips.”

The boys exchanged glances—a silent, greasy conspiracy—before shoveling food into their mouths with exaggerated gusto, kicking each other under the table. Both froze, however, when they spotted Agatha, their eyes widening with the rapt fascination usually reserved for a half-squashed toad.

Sophie’s fingers now trembled, cold against Agatha’s—and before she could stop herself, Agatha squeezed back, tight as a sprung trap. Not comfort, not quite, but something wordless and urgent all the same.

Then Honora turned, spotting Sophie in the doorway. Her face lit up—genuine, almost relieved. “There you are! I told your father you’d be along soon. I’m glad you’re—”

Honora’s smile froze mid-sentence.

Her gaze slid past Sophie’s shoulder—past the golden braid, the pink dress, the too-bright eyes—and landed on the shadow lurking behind her.

Honora’s hands twitched against her apron, fingers kneading the flour-dusted fabric like dough. At the table, Jacob and Adam sat statue-still, their earlier fascination turned wariness. Jacob’s roll slipped from his grip, hitting the plate with a muffled plop.

Agatha arched a brow. There it is. The wide-eyed terror, the stiffened spines, the silent calculations of how fast they could bolt if she lunged. Even the baker, for all her earlier warmth, had gone rigid as a tombstone.

A sharp chuckle escaped Agatha’s lips. Honora flinched.

“Oh! Um—!” The baker’s voice cracked. Her eyes darted to Stefan, then Sophie, then the floor, as if searching for a script buried in the cracks between floorboards. “I—we didn’t—that is—”

Stefan cleared his throat, stepping forward. His calloused hand hovered near Honora’s elbow, not quite touching. “Sophie brought her,” he said, gruff but firm. “Can’t send her off without a bite.”

Agatha noted the way his thumb dug into his palm—not regret, but worry. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Good. His eyes flicked to the widow’s boys (too young to hide their gawping), to Honora’s white-knuckled grip on her apron, then back to Agatha.

Honora exhaled, her shoulders unlocking. “O-of course!” she trilled, scurrying to the cupboard. The dishes clattered in her haste. “Plenty to go around!”

Sophie beamed. “See? I told you they wouldn't mind!” She seized Agatha’s wrist, the faintest trace of that floral tonic still clinging to her. “Come on, the turnips are divine.”

Agatha let herself be dragged, but not before catching the look Sophie shot her father—triumphant, almost smug. That glint in her eye, the one that meant a plan was knitting itself together behind her smile.

For a heartbeat, Agatha hesitated. She opened her mouth—but what could she even say? 

Are you alright?

As if Sophie never was.

What are you plotting?

As if she’d ever tell her. 

Sophie was already chattering, already tugging her toward the table. And Agatha’s chance slipped away.

Before Agatha could so much as glance at the food, Sophie seized her wrist. "Ah-ah!" She waggled a finger, her smile sharp as a blade. "No bread until you’re civilized."

Agatha opened her mouth to protest, but Sophie had already steered her to the washbasin, humming as she lathered her hands with lavender soap.

Agatha rolled her eyes but complied—until Sophie noticed the dirt still under her nails. "Missed a spot," she said, already taking Agatha's hands in hers. Her fingers worked gently but thoroughly, scrubbing each nail until the water ran clear. Agatha scowled at the attention, but didn't pull away. Sophie smiled. "There. Perfect."

The moment Agatha sat at the table, one of the boys—Jacob, the smaller one—abruptly scooped up his plate and shuffled to the other side, cramming beside his brother like a crab into its shell. The empty space was immediately filled by Sophie, who plopped down beside Agatha without hesitation.

Then, with performative enthusiasm, Sophie patted the seat at the far end of the table. "Honora, you must sit here—best view of the garden!" She steered the flustered baker across from Stefan, forcing the full length of the table between them.

At first, the air hung thick as porridge. But Stefan’s gruff inquiries about the boys’ day—"No fires set today? No frogs in the schoolhouse?"—began to pry open the silence.

"None!" Jacob crowed, while Adam thumped his chest with a butter-smeared fist. "We even gave Widow Griggs’ cat milk instead of chasing it!"

Stefan’s eyebrows shot up. "And where’d you get the milk, then?"

A beat. The boys exchanged glances. Then—Honora chuckled, the sound warm and worn as her apron. “Lord help us.” She turned to Sophie, her smile warm. “And you, dear? What trouble did you two get into?”

Sophie's laughter bubbled up as she launched into their lakeside "adventure", Agatha flinching at the mention of the lake—until she heard the ridiculous fabrication of some absurd tale about chasing rogue geese through the shallows. Her mud-splattered dress and half-undone braid bore convincing witness to the fiction. A scoff escaped Agatha, halfway to a laugh before she rolled her eyes skyward.

The brothers dissolved into their usual elbow-jabbing chaos, but Honora’s chiding came halfhearted, her shoulders loosening as a familiar rhythm reclaimed her. A faint smile played at her lips despite herself.

None of it now, however, could've mattered to Agatha.

Her attention snagged on the utensils: fork, knife, spoon, each polished to a mocking gleam. She knew their names from books, but their weight in her hand, the order to use them—as foreign as the laughter slowly enveloping this table.

Agatha started with what she knew—the bowl for soup, the cup for water—confirming each by stealing glances at the others’ placements—just to be sure.

Sophie ladled soup into Agatha’s bowl. “You must try this,” she gushed. “Though mine would’ve had twice the rosemary. And a touch of saffron, just for color.” She sighed, as if lamenting the mediocrity.

Stefan’s spoon clinked sharply against his plate. His daughter met his warning look with saccharine innocence.

Honora, however, beamed. “How sweet of you to notice the seasoning, Sophie! I’ll remember that saffron next time.” She nudged the bread basket toward Agatha. “Though I’d hate for you to loaf around waiting for seconds.”

Stefan’s stern expression crumbled into a chuckle. One boy groaned into his palm, the other giggling. Sophie’s smile tightened like an overstrung bow.

Agatha only hummed, turning her attention to the serrated knife over in her hand. For… bread. Right?

Agatha palmed the bread, tearing into it bare-handed like the boys. Honora’s knife hovered mid-slice—then resumed, her smile unwavering.

Sophie’s knuckles whitened around her spoon. “Oh, I’d love to teach you my recipes, Honora.” She paused, gaze flicking to the boys’ licking their plates clean. “Speaking of recipes—did the boys save you any of those lard pies I made the other day? I baked them extra large, with you in mind.” Her smile stayed sweet as sugar.

Stefan opened his mouth—

“It was magnificent!” Honora clasped her hands, utterly radiant. “So rich even I couldn’t finish a slice! And that’s saying something!” She laughed, patting her stomach. Stefan snorted, then rubbed his neck, avoiding Honora’s eye like a boy caught smiling at a silly joke.

The boys nodded vigorously, their mouths full of bread. “We gave some to Old Man Hargrove,” one mumbled. “He cried,” added the other, reverent.

Honora leaned in. "Gunilda nearly fainted when I brought her a slice—said it was the richest thing she’d tasted since the last Feast of the Five! And Old Man Hargrove?" She chuckled, eyes sparkling as she counted off admirers on her fingers. "Bless him, he wept into his napkin. The cobbler’s wife begged for the recipe, and even the priest’s cat stole a nibble! Though Widow Griggs turned up her nose—claimed it needed more salt, the liar." Her voice softened, earnest. "Will you add it to the bakery menu? And—oh—did you mean it about sharing recipes? I’d cherish your guidance."

Sophie slumped a fraction, her poise cracking. “I… suppose we could… try.”

Agatha, meanwhile, blessed the long-winded discussion. She palmed the fork and spoon like stolen relics.

She’d seen them used a thousand times—through cracks in boarded-up windows, in glimpses of the village square. Now, the weight felt foreign, the motions clumsy. 

Jacob was currently attempting to balance a turnip on his nose, while Adam inhaled soup like a human vacuum. Honora, halfway through dabbing at a gravy smear on Jacob's cheek with her apron, murmured, "Slow down, my loves. There’s plenty for seconds—no need to race."

Across the table, Stefan’s spoon hovered near his lips, his gaze lingering on Honora instead of his meal as she coaxed the bread roll from Adam’s fingers, her laughter turning his protests into a game.

That left Sophie.

Agatha flicked her eyes up, studying Sophie’s movements with the intensity of a hawk tracking prey. But Sophie wasn’t eating. She was pouting. Directly at her.

Agatha’s fingers froze around the fork. Crap. Had she already messed up? Was it the way she’d sawed at her bread like it owed her money? Or the fact her bowl sat untouched, its contents congealing into a judgmental stare?

Sophie leaned in, her pout deepening to theatrical levels. Agatha flinched.

Wait—had Sophie said something earlier that needed a response? Agatha’s stomach sank. Sophie had been talking—sharp and honeyed in that way that meant something was happening—but she’d been too busy wrestling her spoon to notice. Now Sophie was staring, waiting. For what?

A sigh escaped Sophie’s lips—small, defeated—shoulders slumped “I really thought you’d have my back with—” she began to whisper, but stopped. Her gaze landed on Agatha’s untouched plate.

Damn it. She’d been so close—just a few more seconds, and she'd almost deciphered the spoon's secrets! But no, of course she’d gotten distracted. Again. Agatha braced for the inevitable: the smirk, the arched brow, the inescapable jab and subsequent laughter

But Sophie just... picked up her spoon. Fork tines down, spoon tilted just so. Knife angled away. Every movement precise, unhurried. A pause. A glance at Agatha. Then another deliberate bite. When Agatha didn’t move, Sophie nudged her knee under the table.

Agatha scrambled to mimic her, fingers fumbling like they’d forgotten their own joints. Sophie’s lips twitched—a smirk, yes, but not the scathing one Agatha had braced for. Something warmer. Something that, if she weren’t currently at war with cutlery, might’ve felt… nice.

It was unbearable. Sophie moved with the ease of someone who’d never doubted her place at a table, while Agatha felt like a gargoyle someone had propped in a chair as a joke. Yet bite by bite, the rhythm settled. The clatter of cutlery, the hum of conversation—even Stefan’s gruff chuckle at one of Jacob’s nonsense jokes—blurred into something almost… pleasant.

Agatha scowled. This shouldn’t feel so easy.

Back home, meals with her mother were battles of silence or snarled one-liners. How long had it been since she’d let her mother finish a story without rolling her eyes? Or sat through a meal without plotting an escape? The thought coiled, sharp and unwelcome—

—until a clatter of dishes snapped her back. Agatha blinked. Her plate was clean. Sophie's too. Around them, the table was already half-empty: Honora stacked serving platters by the washbasin, while Stefan nudged the yawning boys toward the door.

How long had they been eating?

"We're done!" Sophie chirped, thrusting both their plates toward Honora—who caught them without missing a beat, like this was some well-practiced dance.

Stefan exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Honora, boys—best we get you home before the little terrors turn into pumpkins." He glanced at Agatha, his voice quieter but firm. "Graves Hill is no stroll tonight. We’ll walk together."

The words snapped her back. Right. Tonight’s different. And her mother must be—

Agatha stood too fast. The room tilted, and she pitched forward—only for Sophie to catch her elbow with a startled laugh. "Whoa there, Stormface!"

Agatha shoved her away harder than intended. "I’m fine," she muttered, then after a beat: "...Thanks."

Sophie’s smirk softened.

Agatha didn’t wait to see more. She was already halfway to the door when Stefan cleared his throat. "Looks like we’re—"

"I'll walk myself," Agatha muttered, already sidestepping Stefan. But her usual quick stride faltered at the door—just for a second—

—enough for a whirl of pink silk to block her path. Sophie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, all false sweetness. "What’s the hurry, Aggie? Didn’t your mother teach you to thank the cook before fleeing into the night like a disgraced highwayman?"

Honora peeked around Stefan’s shoulder, wringing her apron. "Oh, it’s quite alr—"

"See?" Sophie whirled on her, then back to Agatha with pleading eyes. "Even she thinks you’re being rude."

Agatha exhaled sharply through her nose. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

"Thank you," Agatha deadpanned, turning towards Honora, "For the... marginally edible gruel." Her gaze flicked briefly to the empty dishes. She crossed her arms. "And... the company." The addition came grudgingly, but not insincere.

Before anyone could react, Agatha turned sharply—only for Sophie to latch onto her sleeve. "And you're not walking alone. It's dangerous. There could be a bear out there in the woods that will gobble you up gone!"

Agatha snorted. "One of Gavaldon’s legendary bears? The ones that no one has actually ever seen?" She waved a hand toward the forest. "Next you’ll tell me they’re blacker than night and burrow underground."

For a breath, they held their mock-serious stares—then Sophie’s lips quivered, and Agatha’s scoff dissolved into a grudging chuckle. Even Stefan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as Honora hid a smile behind her fingers.

"I’m sleepy," Jacob whined, rubbing his eyes against Stefan’s leg. "When’re we going home?"

"Soon, lad." Stefan hoisted him onto his hip with practiced ease, the boy’s head instantly drooping against his shoulder.

Sophie’s gaze flickered—just for a second—from her father’s tender grip to Agatha’s guarded face. Her voice softened, all jest gone. "Please. Walk with them." Her fingers tightened around Agatha’s sleeve. "It’d make me feel... better. Knowing you’re safe."

Agatha opened her mouth—another barb ready—but the words died at the look in Sophie’s eyes.

"...Fine." Agatha yanked her arm free—but not hard enough to break contact. "But if I hear anyone singing ‘Blessed Are the Ordinary’ on the way, I’m pushing them into the lake."

Sophie gave her a toothy grin.

Stefan adjusted Jacob’s weight on his hip and turned to Sophie. "Barricades first. Don’t open the door for anyone—not even the Elders." He ruffled her hair, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "See you tomorrow."

Sophie hugged him tight—too tight, her face buried in his shirt like she could imprint herself there. "Love you," she mumbled into the fabric.

Stefan’s breath hitched. "Love you too, little duck."

Then, without another word, they departed: Stefan leading the way with Jacob, Honora herding a drowsy Adam, and Agatha lingering just long enough to see Sophie’s smile waver as she waved.

"Tomorrow!" Sophie called after them, voice bright as glass. "I’ve got—so many things to show you! New ribbons, and the quilt I’ve been working on, and—"

Agatha hesitated. The night air prickled against her skin, thick with things unsaid. Then, just this once, she turned and yelled back, her voice cracking like a poorly tuned violin:

"Tomorrow!"

Sophie froze mid-wave. For a heartbeat, Agatha thought she might cry—but then her smile widened, radiant as the moon cresting the trees, and she kept waving until they vanished into the dark.

Sophie’s arm ached from waving, but she didn’t lower it until the last flicker of her father’s torch vanished into the trees. Her fingers curled into her palm.

She exhaled. The cottage was too quiet now. Even the fire had shrunk to embers, as if wary of the night.

Barricades first, her father’s voice echoed in her head.

She moved on instinct. Locks tested—one, two, three—each click louder in the silence. Door bolted. Candles snuffed. Her father’s checklist ticked itself off in her mind as she stepped back, surveying her handiwork. Ah—she crouched to sprinkle a line of salt under the windowsill (per the Elders’ superstition). A silly ritual, but one she wouldn’t skip tonight—just in case.

Not a single gap for even a mouse to slip through. Satisfied, she turned, and retreated into her room. 

The last rays of moonlight pooled like spilled honey across the floral wallpaper, gilding the chaos of Sophie’s room—the desk buried under fabric swatches and half-carved spindles, the bed’s gauzy canopy sheltering her threadbare childhood swan (left wing drooping, no matter how often she restitched it.). The air smelled of lavender and lemon polish, undercut by the tang of pearl dust from abandoned experiments.

She nudged a stray embroidery hoop back into place with her toe, her gaze snagging on the corkboard above. Dress designs jostled beside a yellowed diagram: "Optimal Braid Tightness (For Beauty & Combat Readiness) ", its edges frayed from years of consultation.

Her reflection in the vanity mirror interrupted the thought.

Oh dear.

The girl in the mirror barely resembled the pristine Sophie the village always knew. Mud streaked her hem from graveyard treks, grass stains smudged her sleeves like careless watercolor, and her right glove—split clean along the seam where she’d gripped it too tight at the lake. Her hair—her hair!—had begun its inevitable revolt, golden strands frizzing at the temples like dandelions caught in a gale.

Sophie’s fingers twitched toward the offending curls—then stilled. A laugh bubbled up instead. After everything today, the mess seemed… unimportant.

Then she leaned closer to the mirror.

Was that a split end?

"This won’t do at all," she murmured, and marched to the bathroom.

Sophie peeled off her gloves, tracing the torn seam with her thumb before tucking them into her mending basket. Tomorrow’s problem. Tonight demanded greater devotion.

She shook out her dress, sprinkling lemon salt and goat’s milk soap on the stains. The mud sighed under her fingertips as she hummed a half-remembered lullaby.

Then, the bath.

The bath steamed, just shy of scalding. She poured in violet vinegar and muslin-wrapped oats, the water blooming with rose and bergamot.

She massaged pearl-and-honey paste into her scalp, the foam sweetening the steam, then smoothed a strawberry-and-yogurt poultice over her face.

Her hair demanded devotion. She poured the blue bottle’s rinse over her head, combing through with her tortoise shell pick until every strand gleamed.

She stepped out, pink-skinned and fragrant, and toweled off with practiced pats—never rub—before the fogged mirror.

The braid came last—tight yet artfully loose. She tied it with a midnight-blue ribbon and padded back to her bedroom, floorboards creaking.

The mirror approved. Like a princess, she thought—then flinched. The words echoed in her mother’s voice, back when crowns were lace and wooden beads.

Sophie’s gaze drifted to the bookshelf, where Cinderella sat slightly askew between The Little Mermaid and Sleeping Beauty, its spine cracked at the scene with the tower.

Beneath the title, three inked letters glared back: S.G.E.—her own handiwork, copied last winter from the bookseller’s display. She’d meant to add the swans, but her quill had shaken, leaving only a ghost of a wing.

Her thumb brushed the letters. Outside, an owl hooted. Somewhere out in the village, Honora’s laughter must be tangling with her father’s—bright, easy, nothing like the wicked stepmother in this book.

She snapped the book shut hard enough to startle her reflection in the mirror. "Honestly." Her fingers lingered on the cover, tracing the dried ink before she shoved it back onto the shelf.

The drawer sighed open. Inside lay an unfinished quilt—a storm of indigo and sapphire, threads fraying at the edges like tired stars. Sophie lifted it gently, as if it might dissolve between her fingers.

She’d promised Agatha she’d show it tomorrow. "We could finish it together," she’d almost said. What if Agatha’s stitches were crooked? What if she used the wrong blue?

Now, alone, she spread it across her lap. The patterns—a swan with one unfinished wing, silver stars—felt like half-remembered dreams. 'So you'll never lose your way,' her mother had said. Sophie’s own additions lurked in the corners—a patch of midnight-blue velvet (too stiff ), a row of pearls (too heavy ), all abandoned when they failed to match the original.

Her thumb found the loose seam—the last her mother had touched. For a breath, she imagined unraveling it all, just to start over. Instead, she pulled it close, draping it over her shoulders as she curled beneath its weight.

She blew out the candle. In the dark, her fingers found the frayed edge—and she held on tight.

Chapter Text

The return home was a blur.

Agatha would’ve preferred being alone—it would’ve been faster that way. Instead, they’d stopped at the bakery first, the baker prattling about rye bread like the world wasn’t busy ending. A couple of villagers had nearly waylaid them, too, until they spotted Agatha lurking in the group and thought better of it. By the time they reached the foot of Graves Hill, the miller had the nerve to insist on walking her to the door.

She cut him off with a glare. As if.

The graveyard gates groaned as she shoved through them. Reaper coiled around her ankles, his raspy purr the only welcome she’d ever needed.

Home sweet damn home.

Upon reaching the door, Reaper still at her heels, Agatha heard Callis’ voice slither through the cracks—a tuneless croon that prickled her spine:

“In the forest primeval

A School for Good and Evil—”

Agatha nudged the door open with her boot. Inside, Callis hunched over a battered trunk, stuffing it with black capes and witch’s hats, their pointed tips jabbing the air like accusations. Bottles clinked as she added them to the pile: frog toes in murky brine, dog tongues curled like wilted petals.

Agatha narrowed her eyes. A brow arched.

“Two towers like twin heads,” Callis sang, flicking a speck of dust off a hat. “One for the pure, one for the wicked.”

Reaper hissed at a jar of newt eyes rolling across the floor. Callis didn’t pause.

“Try to escape, you’ll always fail— ”

Agatha kicked the door shut with a thud.

“The only way out is through a fairy tale. ”

The last note hung in the air, almost like a threat.

Callis turned, her grin wide as a scythe. “You’re late.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. Her mother’s theatrics hadn’t impressed her since she was six.

Callis chuckled—a sound like dry twigs snapping. “What’s your excuse this time?” Not accusatory. Not even curious. Just their usual script.

Agatha opened her mouth, ready to lob back some well-worn sarcasm—then stopped. Considered. “Sophie invited me to dinner,” she said at last. A pause. “I accepted.”

Callis’ hand froze mid-air, a vial of lizard legs dangling from her fingers. She turned, slow as a prowling cat, and studied Agatha with something dangerously close to fascination.

Agatha waved her off, exasperated. “It was fine. Not much different from ours.” She crossed her arms, glared at the ceiling. “...I’ll bring leftovers next time.” A grunt. “The food was good.”

She clamped her mouth shut, as if she’d already said too much.

For a heartbeat, Callis’ sharp expression softened—just enough to make Agatha’s skin prickle.

“That would be nice, dear,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically warm.

Agatha blinked.

Then—

“Not that you’ll get the chance!” Callis cackled, whirling back to the trunk with a flourish, as if the moment had never happened.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. What the hell does that mean? Her eyes darted to the trunk, then back to Callis’ face—but her mother was already holding up a second witch’s hat, tilting it in the lamplight like a jeweler appraising a gem.

“D’you think you’ll need a spare?” Callis mused. “First impressions matter, dear. Wouldn’t want you to be the only one without proper stitching on your seams.”

Agatha’s fingers twitched. Stitching? Her mother hadn’t cared about appearances since she’d sewn Agatha’s first dress from burlap sacks to “build character.”

Agatha kicked the leg of the worktable where the trunk sat, making the bottled ingredients clink inside. "Let me guess—this is your idea of spring cleaning?" She flicked the leather sling strap hanging off the side. "Or did you finally find a buyer for your 'special' tonics? Though last I checked, witches don't pack travel bags for house calls."

Callis didn't pause as she arranged vials in the trunk's padded compartments. "House calls? Oh darling." She held up a black cape, inspecting the silver-threaded seams. "We're far past house calls."

"Then what?" Agatha's voice edged sharper.

"What could be better than a fairy-tale witch?" Callis draped the cape over the trunk’s open lid, the fabric pooling like spilled ink. "I dreamed of it, you know. But no—" She slammed the trunk shut with a thud that rattled the table, "—the School Master took that lump Sven instead." Her long nail tapped the lid. "Ended up outsmarted by some princess. Roasted like a Sunday goose. 'The Useless Ogre,' they called his tale. Bet the School Master's still kicking himself over that one."

Agatha’s spine stiffened. The song. The trunk. The way Callis’ eyes kept darting to the window, like she was waiting for a carriage.

No.

She barked a laugh. “You’re actually serious. You think—”

“Think what?” Callis blinked, innocent as a knife.

“That some fairy-tale school’s going to kidnap me tonight because—what? I’m odd enough?” Agatha’s voice cracked, and she hated it. “If you wanted me gone, you could’ve just said so.”

Callis paused, her gaze lingering on Agatha’s clenched fists. For a breath, she just looked at her—before her face smoothed into its usual sharp amusement. “Oh, Agatha,” she sighed, reaching out to pinch her cheek. “You’ve always been so dramatic.”

Agatha slapped her hand away. “And you’ve always been a lying hag.”

Callis cackled, patting the closed trunk. “Pack the stinkhorn tincture, at least. First-day pranks are tradition.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Agatha’s voice was low, final.

Callis just watched her, fingers still draped over the trunk’s latch—amusement fading to something colder.

“Did you really think I’d just—” Agatha’s breath hitched. “Trot into the woods like some lamb for slaughter?” The lamp flickered as she stepped closer, her shadow swallowing the wall. “That I’d let your fairy-tale monster take me?”

Callis didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“I’d burn it down before it gets the chance.”

Agatha’s fingers curled into fists. The lantern light guttered, casting jagged shadows across Callis’ face—for a heartbeat, her mother’s smirk wavered.

A log cracked in the hearth. Reaper arched his back, hissing at nothing.

“I won’t go! ” The cry tore out of her, hoarse as a crow’s scream. “I won’t leave—Sophie, or Reaper, or—”

Her throat closed around the word. ‘You’. The unsaid syllable hung between them, sharp as a knife balanced on its edge.

Callis’ face went very still. Her hand twitched toward the trunk latch—not to open it, but to steady herself.

Agatha didn’t wait to see more. She turned on her heel and stomped down the hallway, her boots thudding against the warped floorboards. Reaper streaked past her, darting into her bedroom just as she slammed the door behind them both and twisted the lock with a decisive click.

The sound echoed through the house—final, furious.

Agatha pressed her back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Around her, the bedroom loomed—discarded black tunics, a half-melted candle stub, and the jagged remains of a porcelain doll she’d decapitated years ago (its glass eyes still gleaming in the dark). Reaper butted his head against her knee, his raspy purr the only comfort she’d ever admit to needing.

Stupid. Weak. She’d almost said it. Almost begged.

Callis’s shadow stretched beneath the door, elongated and wavering in the lantern light. Agatha buried her face deeper into her knees, arms locked around her legs like a barricade. She wouldn’t respond. Wouldn’t let her in. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing her voice crack.

Knock, she braced herself. Knock and I’ll scream. Knock and I’ll—

Silence.

The shadow didn’t move.

Agatha’s nails dug into her sleeves. Reaper pressed against her side, his ribs vibrating with a purr that felt too loud in the stillness. She counted the seconds—ten, twenty, a minute—until her neck ached from glaring at the door.

Just leave.

But the shadow stayed.

Callis had never been one to hesitate. She’d barged in, cackled through locked doors, left curses where kisses should’ve been. Yet there she stood, motionless, a specter with no words left to twist into knives.

Agatha’s throat burned. Coward, she thought, unsure which of them she meant.

Then—

“You won’t be alone.”

A whisper, raw and unadorned. No taunt. No lie.

The shadow dissolved.

Agatha lunged forward, hand slapping against the wood—too late. The floorboards creaked as Callis retreated, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Reaper meowed, nudging her limp fingers.

Agatha stared at the empty space under the door. The words coiled in her chest, thorned and heavy. Liar. Hag. Come back.

Outside, the wind howled through the graveyard, rattling the shutters like bones in a box. Somewhere beyond the hills, the villagers’ torches flickered against the dark.

And Agatha, for the first time in her life, felt the weight of a promise she didn’t dare believe.

Agatha couldn’t sleep.

She didn’t move from where she’d slumped against the door, didn’t so much as twitch when Reaper abandoned her to curl into a nest of torn blankets. The floorboards gnawed at her spine, the cold seeping through her clothes, but she barely felt it.

You won’t be alone.

A joke. Had to be. Her mother’s idea of a parting shot—twisting the knife after Agatha’s outburst.

(Except her mother never lied. Not about potions. Not about curses. Not even about the rot in the village’s well last summer, though no one believed her until the baker’s brats started pissing blue.)

Agatha gritted her teeth. The memory of Sophie’s cottage—warm bread, Honora’s nervous smile, Stefan’s reluctant kindness—flared behind her eyelids. Stupid. She’d let her guard down, and now even her own mother was mocking her for it.

A draft slithered through the cracks in the wall. Agatha shuddered, finally pushing herself up. Her legs prickled with numbness as she staggered to the window, fingers digging into the splintered sill. Outside, the graveyard sprawled under a moonless sky, the villagers’ torches flickering in the distance like dying fireflies.

Madness, she told herself. The whole village was steeped in it. Her mother too, if she truly believed in—

Then—

A shadow.

Not cast by any tree, any stone, any living thing.

Bony and hunchbacked, it floated across the sea of graves, untethered to a body. No footsteps. No rustle of cloth. Just a stain of darkness sliding beneath the cemetery gates, slow as spilled ink. It paused at the foot of the hill, as if sensing her stare—then rippled forward, slinking toward Gavaldon’s firelit square.

Agatha’s breath fogged the glass. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but she didn’t look away.

It couldn’t be.

A trick of the light—that’s all. Agatha’s lips twitched into a nervous smile, a feeble attempt to laugh it off. But the sound died in her throat, strangled by the gnawing suspicion coiling in her gut.

And then her body betrayed her.

She bolted.

Her bedroom door slammed against the wall as she barreled into the hallway, heart jackhammering against her ribs. What was that, if not a trick ? A bear? But bears didn’t float. A nightmare, then—she must already be asleep, her mother’s poison seeping into her dreams.

Agatha’s shoulder collided with the wall hard enough to bruise. Pain lanced up her arm.

Awake. She confirmed through gritted teeth.

She could call her mother.

The thought slithered in, unwelcome. Callis would only cackle, delighted to crow I told you so as the monster snatched her away.

Agatha lurched into the living room instead—then froze.

So what if it took two children? It wouldn’t be her problem. Her mother was wrong. That thing hadn’t even glanced at Graves Hill. It had slunk toward the village, toward the torches and the singing and the stupid, stupid people who’d spent all day praying to be overlooked.

Then—

A creeping dread, cold as grave soil.

What if one of them was Sophie?

Agatha gritted her teeth hard enough to taste iron.

She tore through cabinets and drawers, her fingers closing around anything sharp—an unused rusted fork, a bone-handled knife, half-empty vials of potions she’d never dared to touch. Moonpetal extract, stinkhorn tincture, a murky sludge labeled DO NOT OPEN in her own jagged script.

Then—Reaper’s meow, sharp as a blade.

He perched atop the worktable, tail flicking against the trunk Callis had left behind.

Perfect.

Her mother had packed it for mockery, for some twisted lesson about fairy-tale monsters. But Agatha would make it useful.

The trunk was unmistakably Callis’ work—sturdy black leather, the sling straps reinforced with witch’s sinew. A broom was lashed to its back, the bristles charmed to balance the weight. Agatha hauled it onto her shoulders, surprised by how light it felt, how the compartments seemed to shift to accommodate her stolen arsenal. The fork slotted into a sheath meant for a wand; the knife clicked into place beside vials of venom.

(For a heartbeat, she wondered if her mother had expected this. If every hidden pocket was a test.)

No time.

Reaper butted his head against her leg, his yellow eyes wide. Agatha crouched, ruffling the skin between his ears.

"Stay," she ordered, her voice rough but steady. "I’ll be back."

Reaper only blinked lazily in response.

Agatha straightened, her hand on the doorknob—then stopped.

Her mother’s room loomed down the hall, the door shut tight. No light seeped beneath it. No sound.

Agatha shook her head.

And stepped into the night.

Sophie flopped onto her back with a sigh, staring at the gauzy canopy above her bed.

Sleep. You need to sleep.

She’d already counted sheep (twice), recited poetry (badly), and even attempted her mother’s breathing exercises (which mostly made her lightheaded). But every time she closed her eyes, her mind buzzed like a trapped firefly.

It wasn’t the legend. Honestly! She’d told Agatha the truth—the School for Good and Evil was just a silly story.

(Though she had triple-checked the locks. And the salt line under the windowsill.)

No, what kept her awake was… well.

Sophie rolled onto her side, plucking at a loose thread in her pillowcase. Her father’s laugh echoed in her memory—warm and easy as he’d walked Honora home. The way he’d ruffled Jacob’s hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She huffed, kicking her feet under the quilt. Stop it. Honora was… fine. Perfectly nice. And if her Father smiled more around her, well. That was—

Good. It was good.

She shoved the thought aside as a grin tugged at her lips. Tomorrow. She and Agatha had plans! Ribbons to compare, and oh! She’d even teach her proper braiding techniques (not that Agatha would sit still for it—she’d probably hiss like Reaper at the first tug. The thought of Agatha tolerating hairstyling was almost laughable).

A year ago, she’d never have imagined this. Agatha, of all people, becoming her—

THUMP.

The sound came from the roof.

Sophie went still.

A heartbeat passed. Then—

Creak.

Slow. Deliberate. The groan of wood settling under weight. But the house never creaked that way. Not unless—

Creak. Creak.

Closer now. Moving toward her room.

Sophie sat up, fingers knotting in her quilt. “R-Reaper?” she whispered, then huffed a shaky laugh. Don’t be ridiculous. That lazy lump wouldn’t scale the roof unless bribed with a whole salmon.

Scratch.

The window.

Light at first—a teasing flick of claws against glass, like Reaper’s I’m-bored tap. Then—

Crunch.

Harder. Faster. The pane shuddered in its frame.

Sophie scrambled back, the quilt tangled around her legs. “D-Dad—?”

CRASH.

The window exploded inward.

Shards rained onto the floor like glittering teeth. Cold air rushed in, reeking of wet earth and something sharper—burnt sugar and rotting violets.

And there, silhouetted against the moonless sky, it stood.

A silhouette, hunched and too-long-limbed, hauling itself inside. Its fingers—too many fingers—scraped against the floorboards, splintering the wood. The shadows clung to it like a second skin, swallowing its shape, its face—if it even had a face.

Sophie’s pulse shrieked in her ears.

Not real not real not—

The creature lunged.

Agatha’s boot cracked into the creature’s side, sending it staggering back. Stefan didn’t hesitate—he barreled into it, tackling the thing hard enough to slam it through the wall. Plaster rained down like dirty snow.

Sophie’s breath caught. They came. Her father’s strong arms, Agatha’s snarl—she’d never been so relieved in her life, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Out. Now.”

Agatha’s voice was a whip-crack, snapping Sophie from her daze. Stefan opened his mouth to argue, but one glare from Agatha shut him down. Wordlessly, he hauled Sophie toward the shattered window, the quilt still pressed tightly to her chest.

Agatha stood silhouetted in the doorway, a torch in one hand and a murky potion in the other, its glass vial frothing like a storm.

Wait. Sophie’s stomach dropped. She’s staying?!

“Agatha—!” She writhed in her father’s grip, kicking at his ribs. He grunted but held firm, until Sophie gasped, “We can’t leave her!”

Stefan froze. Then, with a grim nod, he set her down.

Outside, villagers clustered in the street, pitchforks and lanterns raised. Stefan shoved Sophie toward them. “Stay here,” he ordered, already turning back to the house. “I’ll get her—”

BOOM.

The explosion shook the house to its foundations. Fire belched from Sophie’s bedroom window, the blast wave hurling splintered flower boxes into the street. The crowd gasped; someone screamed.

Stefan didn’t hesitate—he sprinted for the window, the only opening left in the barricaded house, and vaulted onto the sill—

—just as Agatha tumbled out, coughing, her sleeves singed. She hit the dirt rolling, barely avoiding Stefan’s boots as he nearly crashed into her.

“Agatha!” Stefan reached for her, voice ragged.

Agatha shoved herself upright. “Move.”

The villagers fell silent as she staggered into the firelight. Soot streaked her face, her hair was wild, and the remnants of the potion dripped from her fingers, hissing where it hit the dirt.

But Sophie didn’t care about any of that.

Her friend was alive.

It’s not dead.

Agatha knew it the moment she shoved past Stefan. That murky potion—a failed stinkbomb, too much oil, not enough sulfur—had at least been good for one thing: turning this home into a torch. But the creature? It hadn’t even flinched.

She’d seen it in the flames, just before she’d leapt out the window. A hulking shadow wreathed in fire, its too-long limbs twitching like a spider’s. No skin, no flesh—just something black and glistening, a carapace of hardened tar. And its face—if you could call it that—a yawning hole lined with needle-teeth, grinning as the fire licked over it.

Blowing it up had been her last resort. Callis’ blastpowder, tucked in the trunk with a label that read For Emergencies (or Tantrums), had done the job. But it wasn’t enough.

Agatha’s gaze snapped to the farmer beside her, his pitchfork glinting in the firelight. She seized the shaft, wrenching it from his grip before he could protest. The weight was awkward—too long, too heavy—but she leveled it at the burning house like a pike.

Behind her, Sophie called her name, voice fraying at the edges. Agatha snarled without turning, “Stay. Put. ”

The villagers held their breath. The only sound was the crackle of flames.

Where is it—?

Then—a scream.

“The fire’s spreading!”

Panic erupted. People scattered, shouting for water, for buckets, for anything—

CRASH.

The creature erupted through the wall in a hail of splinters, embers still licking at its carapace where Agatha’s fire clung. For one heartbeat, it blazed like a falling star—then the night air snuffed it out.

Agatha barely had time to pivot, the pitchfork’s tines aimed at its chest—

—as it rammed into her.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. The pitchfork bent, then snapped as the thing barreled past, shoving her aside like a ragdoll.

Agatha hit the dirt, rolling just in time to see it seize Sophie by the waist.

“NO—! ”

But the creature was already moving, its spindly legs carrying her toward the woods with unnatural speed. Sophie’s scream tore through the night.

Sophie felt the soft grass give way to stony dirt as the creature dragged her toward the woods.

She twisted in its grip, nails scraping against its tar-black carapace—

then a sickening rip.

Her breath caught. The quilt—her mother’s quilt—was snagged on the creature’s jagged spine, the embroidered swan’s wing splitting at the seam.

“No—! ” She grabbed for the fabric, but the creature wrenched forward, and another stitch popped. The silver stars unraveled like fallen wishes. Exhaustion burned through her arms, but worse was the hollow ache in her chest—she was losing it. Losing her.

If I’d known the legend was real—

She would’ve rolled in mud. Slapped more villagers. Let the butcher’s brats dump porridge on her dresses. Even cut her own—

…

Her hands fell limp. The village’s cries grew distant behind them.

Maybe this was better. Someone had to be taken. She’d be missed—mourned, even. Her father would… well. At least he’d finally be happy.

A pearl from the quilt’s border struck the dirt and vanished.

Flames towered over Gavaldon, a roaring beast swallowing homes whole. Sophie went slack, letting the creature carry her.

Agatha…

Regret coiled sharp in her chest. Of all the things she’d leave behind, Agatha was the one she couldn’t bear to—

A snarl cut through the crackling inferno.

Sophie’s eyes flew open.

Agatha leapt through the fire, her silhouette haloed in embers. Stefan was just behind her, shouting something lost to the roar of the blaze.

Sophie’s breath hitched. Her vision blurred.

No. NO!

The quilt—dead weight just moments ago—suddenly whipped against the creature's arm as Sophie twisted violently. One torn corner snapped like a war banner caught in a gale.

She writhed, kicking at the creature's spindly legs. "AGGIE—!"

The trees loomed ahead. Sophie strained to look back—just in time to see Agatha hurl herself onto the creature's back, clinging like a burr.

For one fractured second, their eyes met—Agatha’s glare sharp as the knife between her teeth, but something fiercer beneath. A silent scream of Hold on. Just as she scaled the creature’s hunched shoulders, poised to strike—

Then darkness swallowed them both.

An unnatural wind shrieked through the woods. The village’s flames snuffed out in an instant, as if doused by an invisible hand. Villagers surged forward, but the trees shuddered—branches knitting together, thorns erupting like claws to bar their way.

Gavaldon was locked out.

And Sophie and Agatha were gone.

The creature’s speed picked up, its spindly legs a blur against the dark. Sophie let out a yelp as it vaulted over a fallen log, and Agatha gritted her teeth, clinging tighter.

It wove through the trees like a shadow given form—ducking under branches, skirting thorny thickets, never slowing. Agatha bided her time, knife poised. Just one clean strike—

Then it looked at her.

Its eyes flared red, pupils slit like a viper’s, locking onto hers with mocking intelligence.

Agatha flinched—then snarled. “Let her GO!”

She drove the knife down with all her strength.

CLANG.

The blade glanced off its back—blackened and fused like the hull of a shipwreck—sparking uselessly. The creature let out a sound like grinding bones—a laugh, if laughter could be made of rust and rot.

A sudden, vicious twist of its body nearly flung Agatha loose. She scrambled for purchase, her boots slipping against its slick carapace—

“AGATHA!” Sophie’s hand shot out, seizing her wrist. But Sophie’s grip was already faltering, her fingers slick with sweat.

Agatha lunged blindly, grabbing for anything—

—and the creature grabbed back.

Its talons clamped around her forearm, yanking her against its bony flank. Needle-like claws pricked her skin, each joint too long, too wrong, as if assembled by something that had only heard of hands in whispers.

Damn it!

Frantically, she struck match after match. The tiny flames flickered to life in her palm, casting jagged light over the monster’s form: ribs like a cage of iron, eyes like embers in a face of shifting shadow, no mouth but that awful, grinding noise that filled the spaces between trees. And with each flare of light, the truth settled heavier in Agatha’s gut—This thing wasn’t alive. Not truly. You couldn’t kill what was already dead.

The forest around them warped as they raced deeper. Trees lunged like skeletal hands, branches snatching at their hair and clothes. The creature ducked and wove, but the woods turned against them—

CRRRAAACK!

Lightning split the sky ahead, and suddenly they were in the heart of a storm. Fire rained down, trees toppling like dominos. They shielded their faces as mud and splinters sprayed around them, dodged cobwebs thick as ropes, beehives exploding in their wake, vipers striking from the underbrush—

Then the creature dove into a wall of briars.

Agatha braced for pain—

—but there was only silence.

“Aggie…”

Sophie’s voice held no fear, not even a whimper—just… wonder.

Agatha opened her eyes.

Sunlight.

Golden, searing, spilling over them like liquid honey. She looked down—and gasped.

“It’s real.”

Far below, two castles rose from the forest, cleaving the world in half.

To the right, a vision of impossible beauty: turrets of pink and blue glass, their reflections shimmering across a lake so clear it seemed made of melted diamonds. Sunlight crowned every spire, every bridge, every petal-strewn courtyard.

To the left, a nightmare of jagged black stone. Towers stabbed through thunderheads like broken teeth, their peaks wreathed in lightning. A moat of tar bubbled beneath, swallowing the light whole.

The School for Good and Evil.

Agatha’s stomach lurched. Her mother had been right.

She gritted her teeth—then froze.

They’re going to split us apart.

Her head snapped toward Sophie, braced for shared horror—

—only to find her friend staring at the glittering castle, lips parted, eyes wide with something like rapture. The sunlight gilded her face, her hair, her trembling hands as they reached, just slightly, toward the towers of Good.

Of course.

A bitter laugh clogged Agatha’s throat. Sophie would go to the School for Good. A dream come true, wrapped in sunshine and song. And Agatha? Well. She’d always known where she belonged.

Strangely, the thought didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected.

Sophie deserves it.

The bony bird banked sharply, drifting over the glittering Towers of Good. Its claws loosened around Sophie.

Agatha swallowed hard. “I’ll see you around,” she whispered.

Sophie turned, as if finally registering her—

Agatha looked away.

“Ag—!”

WHOOSH.

The world upended.

Agatha’s stomach slammed into her throat as the creature dropped her—not Sophie—its talons opening like a trapdoor beneath her feet.

Time slowed.

She fell, wind screaming in her ears, watching Sophie shrink above her. The bird had her now, swooping away, toward the jagged black towers wreathed in stormclouds. Sophie’s face was a blur—not fear, not anger, just—

What? What is that look—?

But it was too late.

“SOPHIE! ”

The cry tore from Agatha’s chest, raw as an open wound.

The last thing she saw was Sophie vanishing into the hellish dark, a scrap of blue fabric from a quilt fluttering down like a fallen petal—just before the lake’s mirrored surface swallowed Agatha whole.

Chapter Text

Agatha clawed her way onto shore, dragging her trunk behind her like a corpse. Her boots sank into soft grass as she staggered upright, water heaving from her lungs in ragged coughs. Ratty strands of hair clung to her face—she shoved an orange streak aside. Her legs trembled, but she forced them steady.

It took Sophie.

She had to move. Had to—

A tiny, reedy shriek twittered through the air. Agatha looked down to find a red lily crushed under her boot, petals flapping like distressed hands. Its neighbor, an obnoxiously yellow lily, shoved uselessly at her heel.

Agatha barely registered the sight before her when a sharp pain shot through her ankle. She jerked her foot back instinctively, right off the crushed flower, just as something small and furious zipped past her nose.

She swatted blindly, her palm connecting with nothing but air. The creature—definitely not a fly—buzzed around her head with alarming persistence. Tiny teeth sank into her wrist before she could react.

"You little—!" Agatha hissed through clenched teeth, shaking her arm violently.

The thing held on stubbornly, wings vibrating like an over-wound music box. She swung again, harder this time, and finally sent it tumbling through the air in a dizzying spiral.

At her feet, the grass suddenly bulged unnaturally. Then, with a sound like unfurling petals, a human head breached the soil.

Agatha stumbled back, boots tangling in her sodden dress. Another head emerged nearby. Then another. Dozens of them, pushing through the earth like mushrooms after rain—first their crowns of gleaming hair, then slender necks, some adorned with pearls and jewels, then shoulders sheathed in pastel silks that somehow remained spotless. They rose with terrifying elegance, stretching limbs toward the sky as if greeting the sun after a long sleep.

For one breathless moment, Agatha could only stare. Her fingers dug into her still-dripping sleeves. Every rational thought screamed that this was impossible, that girls didn't grow from the ground. But here they stood, shaking soil from their slippers with practiced flicks of their ankles, their laughter tinkling like wind chimes.

Sophie. The towers.

Agatha was moving before the thought fully registered. She stalked toward the nearest cluster of girls, her waterlogged boots leaving dark prints across the pristine grass. A few heads turned, then froze. Whispers bloomed where she passed, but she paid them no mind.

Her gaze locked onto a slight figure in buttercup yellow, smaller than the others, fussing with her slipper strap like a nervous bird preening. The girl hadn't noticed the approaching storm, not until Agatha's shadow fell across her.

The girl in yellow nearly leaped out of her slippers when Agatha grabbed her, stopped only by the iron grip on her collar.

"How do I get to that tower?" Agatha demanded, the words sharp as broken glass.

The girl’s mouth opened. Closed. Her wide eyes darted from Agatha’s scowl to where she’d jerked her chin—the black spires across the lake—then back to Agatha’s own bared teeth.

"I said—" She shook her once, "—how do I get there?!"

"I-I don't—" The girl squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders hunched. Her voice shrank to a mouse's whisper. "I don't know..."

Tch.

Pain lanced through Agatha’s wrist. She recoiled with a hiss, catching a glimpse of glittering wings and an unmistakable humanoid shape before the creature darted away. Not an insect. A fairy. The same vicious little sprite that had bitten her before.

The girl in yellow didn't wait—she bolted, buttercup skirts fluttering behind her like a retreating flag.

"Wait—!" Agatha tried, but the fairy didn't let up. Teeth found her neck, then her backside. She spun in a furious circle, swatting at the air as two other fairies swooped in, their chiming voices overlapping—one pleading, one scolding—clearly trying to calm their rogue companion, but the spiteful sprite bit them too.

Agatha brought her hands together in a clap—only for the fairy to zip between her palms and plunge straight into her open mouth.

She gagged, quickly spitting the thing out onto the grass with a wet thud, wings fluttering weakly like a crumpled letter. The fairy was a boy.

Agatha wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—and went stone-still.

Silence.

A sea of pastel dresses had gone rigid. One girl clutched her necklace like it would protect her. Another hid behind her silk fan, peeking over the edge. A trio near the back stepped in unison toward the safety of their hovering fairies. Sixty different variations of beautiful girls gaped—at her.

Then—sweet bells chimed across the lake.

The fairies moved as one, seizing their charges by the shoulders. Girls in pastel silks rose into the air—swept towards the glittering castle, their slippers kicking gleefully relieved above the grass.

Two fairies lunged for Agatha.

"No—!" She twisted away, boots skidding on dew-slick grass. They didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—that every second wasted here was a second Sophie spent in that shadowed tower—!

Then she saw it.

The boy fairy hovered where she’d spat him out, wings twitching in erratic bursts. His tiny face was a portrait of disbelief—not at Agatha’s defiance, but at the fairies diving for her. As if the very idea of Agatha belonging there was absurd.

It understands.

She snatched him up, ignoring squeaks of protest. "Tell me how to get there!" She jerked her chin past the lake’s glittering half, where waters curdled into a slimy moat, choked by gray fog. "You know I don’t belong here."

For a breath, they glared at each other—girl and fairy, both battered, both stubborn. Then his wings snapped taut. A decisive nod. His finger stabbed upward, unwavering.

A bridge. Arcing high over the divide, its far end swallowed by thunderheads.

Agatha’s pulse leapt—

The other fairies swarmed. She dodged two, kicked a third off her boot, but they came in waves, their tiny hands plucking at her sleeves. She twisted toward the sprite, teeth bared. "How do I get there?!"

His finger swung—not toward the bridge, but towards the castle. Agatha’s snarl hadn’t even formed before the fairies seized her. Hands clamped under her arms, her feet lifted from the grass.

The castle loomed, its golden gates yawning like a beast’s maw. But Agatha’s eyes locked onto the distant bridge. This time, she didn’t fight.

Sophie hit the ground hard enough to taste blood. The quilt—her mother’s last work, already torn from the creature’s claws—cushioned the worst of the impact, though the force split another seam. She scrambled to gather the slipping fabric, but the wind whipped it from her fingers, leaving only a sodden scrap of blue linen, its edges frayed like a butchered wing.

Bony birds rained down, hurling shrieking children into the moat like discarded toys. Splashes became screams became a cacophony of flailing limbs as more birds came, more children fell, until the air itself seemed made of plummeting bodies.

Sophie staggered to her feet. "This is—this is barbaric—"

A girl nearby clawed at the bank, her fingers sinking into black sludge. Sophie didn’t think—she tucked the quilt scrap high above her elbow then lunged for the girl’s wrist—

—and immediately gagged. The moat wasn’t just water. It was a stew of rotting things—moldering meat, rusted iron, and the metallic tang of old blood. The sludge clung to Sophie’s skin like a curse, seeping into the seams of her nightgown. But the girl was slipping, so Sophie tightened her grip, heaving with all her strength—

"You think I need help?! "

The girl wrenched free, shoving Sophie so hard she nearly toppled back into the muck. Up close, she was all edges—greasy black hair streaked with venomous red, a nose ring glinting like a barb, and a tattooed demon snarling across her throat.

Sophie’s hands rose, palms out. "I only—"

A meaty shoulder slammed into the girl from behind. "Move, maggot!" He jeered, his belly jiggling beneath a stained tunic.

Only for her to spin and slam him face-first into the mud. "Try again, worm," she purred, grinding his cheek deeper with her boot.

The boy whimpered. The girl smirked.

Sophie was left aghast—but before she could react, a voice slithered into her ear:

"They don’t usually make villains with princess hair."

She jumped. A shirtless boy loomed beside her, his frame all angles and pallor, like a weasel stretched into human shape.

"Maybe we could be bunk mates," His breath reeked of the moat. "Or best mates. Or—" His beady eyes dropped to her hair. "Can I touch it?"

His fingers twitched toward her golden curls. Sophie recoiled—

CRACK.

A whip snapped between them. Sophie yelped as a wolf—towering on hind legs, its muzzle curled in a snarl—yanked her into line by the scruff of her nightgown. Around her, children were dragged from the moat, shoved into formation. the tattooed girl (now grinning as she was shoved forward), the shirtless boy (whimpering as a wolf seized his arm), even the pudgy child who’d face-planted earlier (hauled up dripping and sullen).

No one protested. No one dared.

Sophie stumbled forward, her bare feet slipping on wet stone. The other children dragged weathered trunks behind them, their latches rusted.

Then she froze.

The gates loomed ahead: iron spikes woven with what she'd thought was barbed wire, until it moved. Vipers. A seething mass of them, their hisses rising to a chorus as the line shuffled forward. Bodies pressed too close together as Sophie caught the sour stench of unwashed skin.

"We're actually here!" The shirtless boy bounced behind her, jostling Sophie's shoulders like they were queuing for a carnival. His excitement was so ordinary that Sophie—despite the wolves, despite the moat—felt her breath steady. At least he smelled faintly of mildew and wet dog, which was almost tolerable—until he grinned, and she caught the rotten-egg stink of his teeth.

Sophie turned away, nearly puking—but managed.

Over rusted iron and carved black swans, the inscription hovered above her:

THE SCHOOL FOR EVIL EDIFICATION AND PROPAGATION OF SIN

The tower rose before them like a gutted cathedral, its black stones weeping rust-colored vines. Two jagged spires speared the smoke-choked sky—wings, Sophie realized with a chill, though they looked more like bones jutting from a corpse.

The wolves herded them toward a tunnel shaped like a crocodile’s maw, its stone teeth grazing Sophie’s shoulders as she was pressed deeper inside. The air thickened with the stench of rotting fish and wet iron. Torch smoke coiled around her, carrying the acrid bite of burnt hair, and when Sophie’s bare foot slipped on the stones, she realized they weren’t just wet—they were slimed with something sticky, strands of it stretching between her toes like spider silk. Above, gargoyles leered from the rafters, torches clamped in their jaws, their flickering light painting the walls in feverish streaks.

N - E - V - E - R.

The columns spelled it out in crumbling letters, each one crawling with carved monsters—imps scaling the N, goblins swinging from the E. A statue of a hag brandishing an apple dominated the foyer, her iron grin promising nothing sweet.

Then the line shifted, and Sophie saw them.

The other children.

A girl with a single eye blinking mid-forehead. A boy whose furred shoulders hunched like a bear’s. A chorus of sneers, limps, and twisted limbs—children who wore their harshness like armor. And every last one of them was now staring at her.

Oh.

Sophie shrank into herself—or tried to. The wolves’ presence might be the only thing keeping them from lunging at her, but their glares still prickled over her skin like hot needles. Every sneer, every twisted smirk, carved into her the same silent verdict.

She swallowed hard, eyes burning. Then a voice—sharp, familiar—hissed in her memory like a struck match: Show weakness and they’ll ravage your corpse like a murder of crows.

For a heartbeat, she almost bared her teeth. Almost let her hands curl into claws. But what good would snarling do? She’d seen how that ended—how the villagers recoiled from the shadows, how kindness melted suspicion faster than rage ever could.

Is this how it felt for you? The question flickered, unbidden. To walk into a room and watch faces twist before you’d even spoken?

No. She wouldn’t let them see her flinch.

So Sophie did the only thing that made sense.

She beamed at them, bright as a summer morning, as if they’d just complimented her dress. A few flinched, glancing away like she’d spat in their soup. Others scowled deeper, lips curling as if they’d bitten into something rotten.

Then the wolves cracked their whips, and the crowd lurched forward into a cavernous hall where three staircases coiled and spiraled upward. MALICE. MISCHIEF. VICE. The words curled along the banisters, each carved with its own horror: monsters, spiders, snakes. But it was the walls that stole every child's breath.

Frames. All around the three staircases, each housing a portrait of a child beside a storybook painting of what they’d become.

A golden frame showcased an elfin girl, her painted future self looming over a sleeping maiden with a poison apple:

Catherine of Foxwood | Little Snow White (Villain)

Next to her, a smirking boy with a unibrow morphed into a man pressing a knife to a woman’s throat:

Drogan of Murmuring Mountains | Bluebeard (Villain)

Then—bronze. Tarnished, almost forgotten. A tiny bald boy Sophie recognized: Bane, who’d bitten every girl in Gavaldon until he vanished one night.

She still remembered the day he’d lunged at her—the hot pinch of his teeth on her wrist, the way she’d yanked her arm back, more startled than hurt. The other girls had shrieked, called for the Elders, but Sophie had just stood there, clutching her skirts, unsure what to do.

Now, his portrait held no glorious future. No storybook ending. Just a plaque, stark as a headstone:

FAILED.

Sophie’s stomach churned. What happened to him ?

The boy in the frame didn’t look like a villain. Just small. Scared. Had he cried when they dragged him here? Had he asked for his mother?

Her fingers curled into her palms. She hadn’t helped him then. She hadn’t even tried.

But Bane’s face blurred as her gaze skittered to the walls.

Frames—thousands of them—crammed into every inch of the hall, glinting gold, silver, and tarnished bronze. Witches mid-spell, their fingers curled around princes’ throats. Giants with bloodied teeth, children dangling from their fists. Demons wreathed in fire, ogres with skull-crushing clubs, gorgons frozen mid-scream. Even the ones who’d died gruesome deaths—Rumpelstiltskin torn in half, the Beanstalk Giant with an axe in his skull—were painted in their moment of triumph, as if their stories had rewritten themselves.

The fairies’ grip slipped—Agatha’s boots hit marble, and she didn’t just move. She lunged.

A black streak against the School’s glittering façade. The air whistled past her ears, drowned out only by the thunder of her own pulse. Ahead, mirrored words arched over golden gates, taunting her in reflected fragments:

THE SCHOOL FOR GOOD ENLIGHTENMENT AND ENCHANTMENT

Behind her, the last of the girls clung to the gates, pastel hems fluttering like startled moths—still frozen, still wide-eyed, as if Agatha’s thrashing had turned them to glass. The fairies’ tiny hands plucked uselessly at her sleeves, their chimes frantic.

The frosted doors stood wide open, swan-carved and gaping. Agatha tore through them—but froze.

Mirrors.

Hundreds. Thousands. The corridor stretched long, tight, and gleaming—its polished surfaces creating an endless illusion of depth. What should have been a moment of wonder for the girls—seeing their inner goodness mirrored outward—became something else entirely when Agatha entered.

Her image multiplied endlessly—wild black hair streaked with garish orange, sharp cheekbones dusted with faint freckles, lips curled into a sneer so vicious it seemed to crack the glass. Every inch of it made her sick.

The girl at the back turned first. A yelp escaped her perfect lips as she came face-to-face with that razor-edged glare.

Agatha leaned into it. Her mouth twisted into something slow, deliberate, primal. The kind of snarl that said she knew exactly what she was—

You should smile more often. It suits you. A memory. A voice. A dumb grin that had once pressed a mirror into her hands. One still propped above a chipped washbasin back home. The only mirror she’d ever allowed herself…

Agatha snarled, ripping the thought away—as the girl pressed herself against the mirrored wall, hands flat against the glass like she might melt into it. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts.

Agatha kept moving forward, her monstrous image following in every mirror. A hundred Agathas with that same vicious expression, multiplying the terror with each heavy footfall.

A whimper from the next girl in line. Then a gasp. Then a cry that turned into a scream as the horror rippled down the corridor, each reflection more terrifying than the last.

The fairies swarmed in a shimmering panic, their chimes ringing like frantic lullabies as they darted between the girls who scrambled from Agatha's path. Pastel silks hissed against marble, sleeves yanking clear of her shadow.

Agatha surged forward. The corridor opened before her like a wound.

Until—

Near the front of the line, a girl stood in her path.

Gold hair like spun sunlight. Topaz eyes wide as saucers. Lips parted in a perfect, practiced smile.

For one fractured second, Agatha’s stride faltered.

"Hello, I’m Beatrix," she chirped, voice syrup-sweet. A rehearsed lilt. "I didn’t catch your name. Are you—are you lost?"

Agatha scoffed—a dry, mirthless sound.

Pathetic.

The girl’s hands trembled. Her breath hitched. But she held her ground, chin lifted like she’d practiced in some princess handbook.

"Move. "

A single word, low and guttural. Agatha leaned in, close enough to see the girl’s pulse fluttering in her throat. Close enough to smell the rosewater on her skin, the fear beneath the perfume.

Beatrix’s façade cracked.

Agatha didn’t wait for her to crumble. She shoved past, shoulders slamming hard enough to send the girl sprawling.

Sophie’s faked bravery had at least been convincing.

"You’re not worth my time."

Agatha was already moving—when a voice rang out in a bright chime, echoing through the cavernous foyer.

"Welcome, New Princesses to the School for—"

The Nymph's greeting choked off as her seven-foot frame drifted backward. Her luminous eyes widened at the scene before her: girls huddled like startled doves, fairies chiming in frantic circles, and at the center of it all—Agatha, a stormcloud in a sea of pastel silk.

No more delays.

Agatha barged past the nymph—into a foyer so bright it burned. Four staircases speared upward, two blue (VALOR, HONOR) and two pink (PURITY, CHARITY), their carvings a vomit of virtue: knights charging, maidens weeping, all frozen in glassy perfection.

Confetti rained upon… no one. The glittering cascade fell onto empty marble, the school’s grand welcome meeting only silence.

Female professors in high-necked swan gowns hovered mid-gesture, their welcoming words hung unspoken. Male professors in rainbow-hued suits half-rose from their seats, poised to intervene—but hesitated.

The Nymph paused, her gauzy dress a swirling veil to the corridor, as her luminous eyes flicked—from Agatha, to the professors, to the cowering girls behind her. A few peeked out, fingers clinging like wisps to her side—until Agatha’s glare snapped their way.

Then she turned sharply, grip vise-tight around the sprite. It squirmed, wings fluttering against her fingers like a trapped moth.

“Directions.”

The fairy went rigid. His tiny fingers curled—for one breath, the air hummed with the possibility of teeth sinking into flesh.

Then Agatha’s voice lashed:

“Now.”

The fairy’s glare locked onto hers—defiant, unyielding—before his hand jerked toward the blue staircase: HONOR.

Agatha lunged. The sprite’s directions had better be right—or she’d pluck its wings one by one.

The foyer’s gleam sickened her. To her left, a crystal obelisk speared upward, smothered in portraits of simpering princesses and preening princes, their gold and silver frames winking under the sunlit dome. Even the bronze ones near the bottom—maids and stable boys, still smiling through their servitude—looked blessed.

Tch.

Agatha's boot slammed onto the first step—

—and collided with a shamrock-green suit. A silver-haired professor staggered back, hazel eyes crinkling with a smile too gentle for the snarl she shot him. She was already past, boots pounding up the stairs.

Her gaze flicked beyond the obelisk—the far wall blazed with a pink E, its curves swarmed by painted sylphs. The other walls completed the word: E - V - E - R in saccharine script—Eternal lies.

A hot, damp breath hit the back of Sophie’s neck.

“D’you think they’ll paint us like that?”

She whirled to find the weasel-eyed boy practically pressed against her, his gaze fixed on the portraits. His grin wide in wonder. “All bloody and famous?”

She recoiled—only to slam into the boy in front of her. A guttural snarl ripped from his throat as he shoved her back, his elbow jutting like a blade. “Watch it, Princess.”

The wolves’ whips cracked. The line lurched forward, but not before Sophie caught the other students’ faces: not horror, but something hungry;

Admiration.

Her stomach twisted. They wanted this. They saw those portraits—those children—and envied them.

Her unwanted shadow seized her elbow, steadying her with a grip like a bird’s claw. “We should be next ahead!” His voice fizzed with excitement, utterly oblivious to her stiffening.

Sophie’s pulse roared. She shouldn’t be here. Couldn’t—

But the line lurched around a corner into a wider corridor. There, a red-skinned dwarf perched on a stepladder, hammering frames into the last bare patch of wall.

The portraits here were fresh. The doughy boy from the moat—BRONE OF ROCH BRIAR—glowered beside a one-eyed girl, ARACHNE OF FOXWOOD. And there—

HORT OF BLOODBROOK.

Sophie’s gaze fell to the weasel-faced boy still hovering at her elbow—so that was his name. Sophie’s breath hitched. They looked so young—just children, their future selves not yet painted. But then her focus snapped to the older frames lining the hall, to the witches and giants and demons they’d one day become—

No. They’ll change too.

Panic clawed up her throat. She had to move, had to—

Then the dwarf’s hammer struck again.

The new frame settled into place.

And Sophie’s own face smiled back at her.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Her portrait was beautiful.

Not monstrous, not cruel—radiant. Her painted self stood serene in a gown of blushing crimson and petal-pink, like a rose dipped in sunset, her hands cradling a bouquet of lilies. The other students’ frames twisted with sneers or snarls, but hers…

She almost looked like her mother.

Sophie’s fingers twitched toward the frame, almost reaching—

“‘Ey, that’s you!” Hort’s voice cut through her daze, too loud, too close. His beady eyes darted between her, her glowing portrait, and the others’ gnarled ones. “Why’s yours all… shiny ?”

A snicker rippled through the line. Someone spat at Sophie’s feet. “Freak.”

Sophie wrenched free of Hort’s grip.

Before she could do more, a dark-skinned hag with a boil like a second mouth thrust a parchment into her hands.

SOPHIE OF WOODS BEYOND

EVIL, 1st Year

Malice Tower 66

Session Faculty

1. UGLIFICATION Prof. Bilious Manley
2. HENCHMEN TRAINING Castor
3. CURSE & DEATH TRAPS Lady Lesso
4. HISTORY & VILLAINY Prof. August Sader
5. LUNCH
6. SPECIAL TALENTS Prof. Sheeba Sheeks
7. SURVIVING FAIRY TALES Yuba the Gnome

(FOREST GROUP #3)

Sophie looked up, lips parting—

“See you in class, Witch of Woods Beyond,” the hag croaked, as an ogre dumped a ribbon-tied stack of books into her arms and shoved her out of line.

She stumbled, barely catching her footing. The titles glared up at her:

Best Villainous Monologues, 2nd ed.

Spells for Suffering, Year 1

The Novice’s Guide to Kidnapping & Murder

Embracing Ugliness Inside & Out

How to Cook Children (with New Recipes!)

Just as Sophie thought it couldn’t get worse, the ribbon moved.

Sophie shrieked, dropping the books as the live eel slithered between her fingers. A spotted satyr snickered and shoved musty black fabric at her. The moment it unfurled, her pink nightgown melted into a tattered tunic, sagging like rotten curtains.

Around her, other children cackled, tugging on identical uniforms, comparing schedules like it was the first day of school.

The first day… of school…

Sophie's fingers brushed the coarse fabric of her new robes—black as tar, already speckled with what she hoped was just mud. The grime from the moat still crusted her arms, stark against the foul fabric. A girl nearby scoffed, adjusting her bracelet made of... are  those… f i n g e r b o n e s ?

Sophie reeled backward, her vision jumping from horror to horror—a boy strangling his own shadow, twins comparing jagged teeth, something skittering across the ceiling on too many legs—until suddenly catching on blue. Just a scrap. Just the frayed remnant of her mother's quilt still knotted above her elbow.

Barely a shred now. Barely recognizable.

Barely there at all.

“So where’s yer bunk?”

Hort's voice startled her—he was already peering at her parchment, his sharp nose practically smudging the ink. “Aw man! I was hopin'—!” but the rest of his words started melting together, warped—echoing like she’s underwater. Sophie's vision tunneled, the parchment in her hands trembled violently. Her lungs refused to fill completely, each breath a shallow sip of air. The stone walls seemed to pulse inward, the ceiling dropping lower—

Thiscantberealthiscantberealthiscantberealthiscantberealthiscantbereal—

Then the world tilted violently as Hort seized her shoulders, shaking her like a ragdoll. "Hey! 'EY !" His fingers snapped inches from her nose—or tried to, producing only a damp, pathetic sound. "Quit the wheezin’! So what if we ain’t bunkmates?"

Then Hort’s face lit up, chest puffed like a proud pigeon. "Tell ya what—You can be my first mate! That’s the best kind of mate." He grinned like he'd bestowed the greatest honor imaginable.

Sophie gulped in air, too stunned. Too dazed. Trying to process his—

“See?” He scooped up her books and thrust them into her arms, the eel-ribbon now tied into a lopsided bow around the stack. “Problem solved!”

Before Sophie could protest—CRACK—the whip's snap left her ears ringing.

A wolf slammed students into formation, its muzzle flecked with spit. Hort yelped as claws raked his bare shoulder; Sophie's gasp died as another’s grip bit into her wrist, dragging her into the seething mass of children.

“D’you think our rooms’ll have bone chandeliers?” Hort’s whisper slithered past her ear between jostling elbows. “Or—ow!—a cursed mirror? My unc’s got a cursed teapot. Just mold, really, but same diff—”

A guttural snarl silenced him as the wolves drove them forward. Sophie flinched as the eel-ribbon lashed her skin, its thrashing body cold against the books she clutched like a shield. Her foot caught on a jagged tile; the crowd swallowed her stumble, shoving her forward without mercy.

The MALICE staircase yawned before them, its obsidian steps glistening like wet teeth. Shadows writhed in the torchlight, the banister’s carved imps licking their lips as she passed. Each step scraped her soles raw—the wolves’ snarls leaving no choice but up.

The fairy thrashed. But Agatha didn’t slow, her boots pounding up the blue Honor staircase, each step met with gasps from the faculty below.

Liar, she thought, glaring at the sprite. The bridge wasn’t this high.

The higher she climbed, the more the School twisted into something sickeningly pristine—sea-green halls lined with gilded portraits of simpering princesses, classrooms with walls made of spun sugar that reeked of childhood lies, a library of gilt-edged books that probably contained just as much substance. None of it mattered. Only the sprite’s tiny, traitorous finger, still pointing up.

A chorus of chimes erupted behind her. Agatha glanced back—fairies, fewer than before but still swarming, spiraled up the staircase. Golden webs shot from their mouths, glinting in the sun. She ducked, weaving through the threads as they stuck to the walls like glue.

"You’re wasting my time!" Agatha hissed to the sprite.

His only answer was to twist violently in her grip, wings flaring like an insult before he wrenched his body toward a frosted glass door ahead.

Agatha slammed through the door—onto the tower roof.

The world opened up, sudden and vast. A sprawling topiary garden stretched before her, its hedges carved into towering figures—knights mid-duel, princesses with outstretched hands, all frozen in leafy perfection. At the center stood the tallest sculpture: a muscular prince, his sword raised high above a shimmering pond.

The fairy writhed in her fist, his tiny face contorted in a sneer—mocking. His wings buzzed with vicious triumph, as if he’d led her exactly where he wanted: a dead end.

Agatha’s stomach clenched. This little—!

The fairies surged through the door, webs glinting. Agatha dove into the hedges—thorns ripped her sleeves, but she didn’t slow. Up the prince’s statue she climbed, boots scrabbling at its tunic, fingers clawing up the sword’s prickling edge. The fairy squirmed in her tightening fist, wings a frantic blur.

Below, the pond gleamed, deceptively still.

The fairies closed in, their nets spinning wider—

Agatha’s grip slipped.

The fairy suddenly wrenched free of her fingers and sank his teeth into her wrist.

"Ghk—!" Agatha recoiled, but the sprite clung like a burr, its tiny fingers digging into her skin as it pushed her toward the edge.

The first web grazed her ankle, threads sticking fast.

Tch.

Agatha wrenched the sprite back into her fist—

—and jumped.

When Agatha opened her eyes, it was as if the pond had never been. Her clothes clung exactly as they had before she jumped—still damp from the lake.

The sprite thrashed in her grip, wings buzzing like a trapped hornet. Agatha’s fingers tightened, ready to crush it—but it went rigid.

Agatha followed his gaze, her eyes widening—

The tower roof had vanished. Now she stood in a crystal archway, its blue veins pulsing with light. Above her stretched the narrow stone bridge—the one she'd seen from the lake, its far end dissolved into the rotted tower’s silhouette.

The bridge between schools.

Agatha's chest tightened. A hot sting pricked her eyes—she blinked it back hard—then she was moving.

Not running. Hurling herself forward. Boots cracking against stone, lungs searing, the sprite’s meaningless struggles ignored. The fog swallowed the tower ahead, but she didn't slow—

—until the world stopped.

Agatha's face smashed into nothing. The impact snapped her head back; palms scraped raw against stone. She blinked, stunned, blood dripped from a split lip—copper sharp on her tongue.

A numb tremor in her hands. A ringing in her ears.

No. No!

She was already on her feet before the taste faded.

Shoulder-first into the invisible wall—crack. Elbows, a battering ram of bone and rage. Then fists, her knuckles splitting against the unseen wall. Shockwaves juddered up her arm, but she barely felt them.

Again. Again.

Until her blows weakened. Until fists uncurled into a palm, slapping weakly at the air. Until her knees hit stone, and all that remained was the shudder of her breath, the slow trickle of blood down her wrist.

It hadn’t budged.

The fog shifted—and suddenly, she was staring at herself.

A warped reflection from its sheen, now shimmered in midair. Agatha’s breath hitched. Not at her mirrored image. But from the sheer mockery of it.

Her gaze dropped to her empty hands—torn, trembling, useless. The sprite was gone.

But—

A flicker of wings.

The fairy hovered just beyond her reach—beyond the barrier—untouched, but far from unscathed. His wings stuttered mid-beat, tiny chest heaving.

Agatha's teeth bared in a silent snarl. Her fists clenched, trembled, fell slack. Her breath quivered through lips pressed white.

"Please... "

The word barely made it out. A whisper. A crack.

The sprite stilled. No triumphant buzz, no mocking chime—just wings locked mid-beat, as if “please” were a word she had no right to speak.

Then—

"Good with Good,

Evil with Evil. "

Agatha spun—instincts screaming, muscles coiled to lunge or flee.

“Back to your tower before there’s serious upheaval. ”

The voice was syrupy, singsong, as if scolding a child for tracking mud on a rug.

"Meaning cleaning plates after supper, or losing your Groom Room privileges—" A pause. "—or both, if I have anything to say about it!"

A loud, huffy humph.

Agatha lurched upright, fists raised, her breath ragged as she searched the empty air—

—until her own reflection in the shimmering fog pouted, lips pursed in a petulant frown.

Chapter Text

The wolves herded them up the tower, floor by floor, the air thickening with the stench of wet iron and burnt hair. The boys had been dumped into their rooms first—Hort’s yelp of protest from the second floor cut short as a door slammed like a bone cracking. Then the girls, their snarls and shoves never wavering, even as the stairs grew steeper and the torchlight guttered.

The girls had spent the climb needling Sophie—a hissed Princess here, an elbow jab there, their laughter curling like smoke up the stairwell. But now, on the sixth floor, the jeers died mid-breath.

Silence.

Not from fear. From reassessment.

Their sneers froze, then thawed into something slower, sharper. The realization slithered between them like shared poison: The freak wasn't just passing through. She'd be sleeping beside them.

No more taunts. Just the weight of stares, heavy as a blade being drawn.

The whip cracked. A cluster of girls fought the shoving wolves, clawing at doorframes until they were pitched into Room 63, curses melting into smug laughter. The next group turned defiance into theater—the wiry one with serrated teeth went limp mid-lunge, forcing wolves to drag her into Room 64 while others spat and scratched over their shoulders. The final batch strode in chin-up, sneering at Sophie until the wolves' shove sent them sprawling across Room 65 in a tangle of spiteful giggles.

A snarl cut through Sophie's daze—claws bit into her shoulder, and suddenly she was stumbling forward. The door of Room 66 yawned open, then swallowed her whole.

Behind her, the remaining girls fought in a flurry. One raked her nails down a wolf's arm—only to be hurled inside with a snarl. Another sidestepped the shove entirely, gliding in like smoke. The last tripped over her own feet, crashing into Sophie with a muffled Oomph!—something sticky smearing across Sophie's back as they collided. Instinct made her catch the girl's hand, steadying her.

"You alright?" Sophie whispered.

The girl nodded, squeezing Sophie’s hand with a sticky squelch before flashing a grin. "Better now."

Sophie flinched as warm chocolate oozed between their clasped fingers. She managed a weak smile in return just as her gaze landed on her new room.

It might’ve been a nice, cozy suite—before someone set it on fire. Cinders flaked from the brick walls. Black scorch marks clawed across the ceiling, and the floor was buried beneath an inch of gritty ash. Even the furniture looked charred and skeletal.

"Of course we'd get stuck with you."

The growl was familiar. Sophie's eyes snapped up to meet a flint-black stare—the tattooed girl from the moat. There was no gratitude there. Only contempt.

Agatha stared. Had her reflection just… spoken ?

Its pout deepened, then shifted as it noticed the fairy’s flickering form mirrored beside it. The reflection in the barrier twirled toward the sprite, its features sharpening with prim disapproval. “Luring a student from Good to the Bridge is grounds for punishment, you know?”

The fairy’s tiny face flushed crimson. It chimed in frantic, pleading bursts, wings buzzing a panicked rhythm.

Her reflection shook its head. “The Welcoming has yet to even begin and already—”

A guttural snarl ripped from Agatha’s throat as her clenched fists slammed against the solid air. The barrier shivered. “Let me through!” Her eyes were flint, but they wavered when her own face reflected back—no malice, only pity.

“I—There’s been a mistake!” The words tore from her throat, raw and fractured. “Sophie—she—my friend—she's in there!”

“Good has no friends on the other side,” her reflection states, devoid of all inflection.

Agatha’s breath hitched. The air vanished from her lungs. Her nails dug into her palms, her teeth bared in a soundless snarl. That familiar fury surged back—

A sugary chiming hummed behind her.

She turned. A glow of fairies gathered at the Good end of the Bridge. Her attention snapped back—her reflection had only cleared its throat, ready to resume its decree.

Damn it all. She had no time!

Agatha’s mind raced. Break the barrier? It didn’t work. The sprite? Useless.

“Good with Good,"

Convince it then? Reason—it won’t listen. Lie—too late! Beg—I’d rather die.

"Evil with Evil,"

Agatha’s head shot up.

“Back to your tower before—”

She drove a fist into the barrier. The invisible wall rippled like disturbed water; her reflection’s mouth snapped shut, its image stuttering.

She pressed her forehead against the cool, solid nothingness, glaring into her own eyes in the shimmering divide.

“Look at me.” Her whisper, raw and dangerous.

Her reflection seemed to shrink.

“Now look at you.” A statement of fact, a weapon.

“There’ll never be a fairytale where I am seen as good.” Her voice dropped to a vicious growl. “If that’s what makes me who I am… what would that make you ?”

Her reflection’s lips quivered. It contorted not in anger, but in a profound, heartbreaking sorrow. A single, silver tear traced a path down its mirrored cheek.

“Evil,” it breathed, its voice barely a whisper, a chill that went deeper than skin. “We’ll always be.”

It gave a solemn nod. Its form, beginning to dissolve. The anguish in its eyes, the last thing to vanish.

And Agatha, fist meeting no resistance, lunged forward.

Sophie nearly stumbled. That same girl shoved past her, not even glancing back.

"She smells like an Ever," a voice slithered, already weary. The albino stood by the window, not bothering to look in Sophie's way. A black rat perched on her shoulder scurried down her arm as her fingers idly twisted on—

That bracelet.

Sophie’s stomach lurched. It wasn’t just finger bones. Smaller ones, too—fragments strung together into a ghastly—

"The fairies should retrieve it soon enough," the tattooed girl added, leaning against a scorched bedpost she'd already claimed as her own.

"Pity," the albino murmured, her focus on the cauldron she’d set with practiced ease. A second rat peered from her collar, whiskers twitching. "We may yet slit its throat and hang it as a hall ornament."

Sophie staggered from the casual horror of it.

"How rude," chirped a voice beside her. The plump girl she'd helped earlier held twin chocolate ice pops that dripped over her fists. "Besides, it's against the rules to kill other students."

The albino's lip curled. "How about we just maim her a bit?"

"I think she's refreshing." She took a loud bite. "Not every villain has to smell like a graveyard and brood in corners."

"She's not a villain." the others snapped in unison.

“And I believe we’ve yet to introduce ourselves!” the girl chirped, blithely changing the subject with a soggy, sticking clap. “I’ll go first. The name’s Dot.” She gestured to the tattooed girl, who only gave a sharp glare in turn—but relented.

“Hester.” The name was a blade on the tongue.

Dot’s expectant gaze swung to the albino, who didn’t even look up from the grim ingredients arrayed beside her. A long, deliberate pause stretched before she spoke. “Anadil.” She finally said it like a sigh, as if the very act of sharing was a tedious chore.

Dot nodded, a smirk of satisfaction, then turned a sugary-sweet smile on Sophie. “What about you, love?”

Sophie blinked. The question barely registered, “I—”

“Let me guess.” Hester was suddenly inches from her face, smelling of sulfur and iron. “It’s Bella. Or Ariel. Or something painfully precious like Anastasia.”

“It looks more like a Buttercup.” Anadil struck a match, sharp as a snapping bone. “Or a Sugarplum.” A third rat dropped from her sleeve to join the others at her feet. “Or a Willow-by-the-bloody-Sea.”

“Oh, don’t be such beasts,” Dot chimed around a mouthful of chocolate, licking a drip from her wrist. “We haven’t even—”

“S-Sophie…!” she finally managed to squeak. “M-my name is—”

“Sophie!” Hester gasped in mock horror, slapping her thigh. “It’s worse than we’d imagined!”

“Anything named Sophie doesn’t belong in a school,” Anadil wheezed, dabbing at dry eyes. “It belongs in a cage.”

Hester’s braying laugh led the charge, sharp and cruel. But then, something in Sophie’s posture straightened. Her chin lifted.

“My name,” she said, voice slicing through their laughter, “is Sophie.” Her fingers brushed the frayed, blue scrap of quilt still tucked above her elbow. “And it is lovely.”

Hester’s laughter cut off, then roared back, twice as vicious—a sound so harsh it finally broke Anadil’s composure, wrenching a dry, rattling snicker from her.

Sophie opened her mouth, ready to defend the name her mother had chosen so carefully but—

“Princes must be so confused when they see you, love,” Dot mused, licking chocolate from her thumb. “Most villains don’t look like princesses.”

Sophie felt a pang of hurt—but one look at Dot’s guileless, sticky face, and she sighed.

“She’s not a villain,” Hester and Anadil groaned in unison.

Hester turned her back, stalking to her bed, the scorched wood groaning as she dropped onto it. “I don’t even know why people think princesses are pretty. Their noses are so small.” She pinched her own nose between two fingers. “Like little buttons you just want to pop off.”

“And their hair is always so long,” Anadil’s voice was a low monotone. She dangled a dead mouse by its tail, watching her rats dance on their hind legs. “Makes for excellent nooses. Or just… pulling. Hard.”

“And those phony smiles,” Hester spat, staring at the ceiling.

“And that nauseating obsession with pink,” Anadil added, finally dropping the mouse. A frenzy of squeaks and tearing fur erupted at her feet.

A strange, defensive heat flared in Sophie’s chest. “But what’s so wrong about that?” The question slipped out, soft and unbidden.

“T-they can’t help it if they have small noses…” Sophie began, her voice small but gaining strength. “Their long hair makes them elegant, strong—and do you know how long it takes to groom it to perfection?” Her eyes lit up. “The effort! The time! The egg-and-rosewater mixtures, the nightly braiding to prevent tangles, the almond-oil pastes for shine! All so you could give your absolute best self to the world.”

She practically swooned at the thought. “And the smiles,” she breathed, shaking her head as if the very notion of them being false was incomprehensible. “They can’t possibly be phony. It’s hope. It’s joy. It’s kindness… personified!” She looked between them, her passion a blinding light in the gloomy room, utterly oblivious to the twin masks of revulsion staring back.

“And pink?” She stopped, planting her hands on her hips. “It isn’t the only color that can make you shine bright, you know?”

And as if to prove it, she swept into a full, graceful twirl, the ragged hem of her black robes swirling limply around her. And yet she beamed a bright, radiant smile, like a polished diamond, directly at them.

Hester made a sound like a cat choking on a hairball. Anadil looked physically ill, her gaze dropping to the squealing frenzy at her feet as if to reassure herself that something truly vile was still within reach.

Hester sat up slowly, her demon tattoo seeming to sneer in the flickering light. Her voice was a low, sharp blade. “Can’t wait to kill my first one.”

Sophie’s smile vanished, her heart sinking at the casual cruelty.

They didn’t even look at her.

“Why wait?” Anadil offered, her hooded red eyes glinting. She nudged the squealing mass at her feet with the toe of her boot. “Today’s as good a day as any.”

A heavy silence fell, punctuated only by the sound of Hester’s slow, deliberate breathing. Sophie took a dry gulp. For a fleeting second, the heated exchange had almost felt familiar, like arguing with—

The thought slipped as her gaze refocused on Hester’s predatory glare. 

“I-it’s against the rules to kill other students, remember?” Sophie offered a nervous smile, her eyes darting to Dot for support—only to find her busy inhaling a chocolate frog, legs and all.

Her only answer, a slow, sticky smile.

The fairies didn’t matter. Not the ones swarming behind her, nor the sprite frozen in shock. The wolves standing on hind legs were a surprise, but not enough to make her slow. She was so sick of this fairytale garbage, this endless parade of talking lilies and shimmering bridges and—

The thought died the moment her boot hit the stone of Evil’s foyer.

Crouched behind the statue of a bald, bony witch, Agatha scanned the cavernous hall. Cracked ceilings. Singed walls. Serpentine staircases coiling into shadow. A slow, fierce smile touched her lips.

I couldn’t have designed it better myself. The thought slithered—before she ripped it away.

It didn't matter—shouldn’t matter.

She lunged into a run, blowing past the wolves—their surprise, a brief luxury—until their confusion curdled into rage in a heartbeat. The foyer became a thunderous cage of barks, snarls, and the sickening crack of leather whips.

Agatha plunged into the main corridor—and immediately cursed. It was a rat's warren. A chaotic web of paths, villainous faces smirking from frames, and staircases leading to any number of cursed nightmares.

She breathed in the foul air—mold, blood, despair—and her pulse hammered, not with panic, but with nostalgic recognition. The wolves circled, saliva dripping from their jaws. The threat of a bloody end was suddenly, perfectly clear, and yet—

Agatha felt no fear. Only a wild, defiant thrill.

She'd never felt more alive.

A wolf lunged. Agatha ducked under its jaws and stomped down—hard. A pained yelp. Another charged; she kicked the first wolf’s legs out from under it, sending it crashing into the second. A satisfying thud of muscle and bone.

More came—a blur of claws and teeth. Agatha weaved through them, an elusive target, her movements sharp and desperate. A claw ripped through her sleeve, grazing skin—

And that’s when she realized it. The snarls were just for show. The lunges were half-hearted. They were trying to subdue her, not shred her. They were holding back.

The condescension of it—the sheer, patronizing mercy—burned hotter than fury. They thought she was some helpless thing to be cornered and caged!

They’d regret underestimating—

Sophie.

The name hit her like a slap. Teeth gritted to a halt. How could she have—?

CRACK. A whip's tip seared a red-hot line into her skin.

A soundless snarl ripped from her throat.

A second whip snapped through the air, leather curling viselike around her arm. She pulled against it—once, twice—a futile strain against the white wolf anchoring her. The grip only tightened.

And as the pack began to close in, a snarl of converging shadows, she stopped fighting the pull—instead, surged forward.

She ducked under a lunging wolf, using the whip's tether to trip it, and yanked the white wolf off-balance. In the same motion, she ripped a jar of murky liquid from her trunk and smashed it square into the white wolf's muzzle.

The jar exploded into a hazy, brown fog that reeked of rotten eggs and spoiled meat. The white wolf recoiled, gagging on the point-blank stench. Dazed, it stumbled back but held fast to its whip.

So Agatha sank her teeth into its arm.

She bit down until copper blood flooded her mouth, until the grip loosened in shock. Then she was running, a shadow through the foul-smelling haze. The smoke stung her eyes—a minor annoyance—but the repugnant air only sharpened her focus.

Then she heard it. Not just barks and snarls.

Voices.

Grating, guttural barks that shaped themselves into words. The beasts could speak.

“—find her!”

“Fan out!”

“Who let a first-year out of the towers?!”

“Doom room for this one.”

An idea struck.

In a deep, grating imitation, she snarled into the chaos, “The towers! She’s fleeing back to the towers!”

The lie worked. A chorus of snarls answered her, followed by the thunder of heavy footfalls shifting toward the MALICE staircase.

She’d bought herself a few seconds' head start.

“So where in the Woods do you come from, love?” Dot asked, seemingly oblivious to the tension she’d just derailed.

Sophie looked momentarily confused. “I—don’t come from the woods?”

Hester’s eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “What do you mean you ‘don’t come from the Woods’?”

“Well… I come from Gavaldon.” Sophie nodded slightly, as if to reassure herself. “It’s a lovely—”

“Is that near the Murmuring Mountains?” Dot leaned forward with sudden interest.

“Only Nevers live in the Murmuring Mountains, you fool,” Hester groused.

“Near Rainbow Gale, I bet.” Anadil didn’t even look up from the foul-smelling brew she was stirring. “That’s where the most insufferable Evers come from.”

“Evers? Nevers?” Sophie asked, her head tilting.

“A sheltered Rapunzel locked-in-a-tower type,” Anadil sighed. “Explains everything.”

“Evers are what we call Good-doers, love,” Dot chimed in. “You know, all their nonsense about finding Happily Ever After.”

Sophie nodded, a passionate defense of Happily Ever Afters blooming on her lips—but it was choked off by a deep, guttural growl building in Hester's throat.

“So… that would make you ‘Nevers’?” The carved letters on the stairwell banisters finally clicked into place as she spoke.

“Short for ‘Nevermore,’” Hester’s stance relaxed slightly. “Paradise for Evildoers. We’ll have infinite power in Nevermore.”

“Control time and space,” Anadil hummed.

“Take new forms,” Hester reveled.

“Splinter our souls,”

“Conquer death!”

“Only the wickedest villains get in.”

“And the best part—!” Hester paused, a triumphant grin spreading across her face, “—no other people. Each villain gets their own private kingdom.” She leaned back, the picture of smug satisfaction.

“Eternal solitude,” Anadil whispered, almost reverently.

“That sounds so… lonely.” Sophie’s voice was soft.

“Other people—!” Hester snapped, standing abruptly. “Are misery.” Her fists curled, arms crossing tightly over her chest.

Sophie held Hester’s furious glare. A part of her wanted to look away, let the challenge be left unsaid.

But she'd heard of this rebuttal before. Down to that stubborn look.

“But it doesn’t have to be.” The words slipped out, her smile so soft and gentle it seemed to melt against the air between them. A warmth that would have reached Hester—had she not been utterly shocked into silence.

Then, her composure shattered. Her face flushed a mottled, furious red. A low, guttural snarl ripped from her—

“Gavaldon!” Dot’s voice rang out, “Is that by Pifflepaff Hills?”

Sophie let out a small chuckle, startled at first, yet tugged into a smile when she spotted Dot slurping on a new chocolate wand. “I don’t think so.” She held up her schedule, her finger tracing the words engraved at the top:

SOPHIE OF WOODS BEYOND.

“I suppose, in a way, Gavaldon is beyond the woods. But really, the woods surround us on all sides.”

A silence fell, so complete that the room’s attention snapped to her—even Anadil glanced up from her cauldron.

“Woods… Beyond ?” Dot blinked, head cocking slightly to the side. “Who’s your king?”

“We don’t have a king.” Sophie shook her head, then hesitated. “Do… Elders count?”

“Who’s your mother?” Anadil’s voice sliced through.

Sophie’s hand traced unconsciously up her arm but stopped just as she reached her elbow. “She passed when—”

“And your father?” Dot piped up.

“O-oh! He’s a mill worker. And—”

“And what fairytale family is he from?” Anadil pressed.

“I—” Sophie took a half-step back, overwhelmed by the sudden barrage. “He’s from a normal family with a loving mother and a caring father.” She nodded, affirming the truth to herself. “Nothing glamorous, but wonderful all the same.” She offered a hopeful smile.

“I knew it,” Hester spat, her voice a low growl.

“Knew… what?” Sophie’s stomach clenched.

A slow, weary sigh escaped Anadil. “Only Readers are this painfully stupid.”

“I’m sorry?” Sophie felt her cheeks burn. She crossed her arms, lips pursing into a pout. “Aren’t all families like this?”

For once, they looked at her not with anger, but with a pitying understanding that felt infinitely worse.

“Don’t any of you care for your moms and dads?” The words tumbled out, edged with a desperation she couldn’t hide. “We’ve all been whisked away from home! Don’t you miss them—?” Her voice cracked. She shook her head, a futile effort to clear the obstruction of grief and frustration in her throat. “Maybe your village doesn’t mean anything to you, but I—!”

Then it hit her.

Not one child since her arrival had looked even remotely homesick. They’d fought their way toward the wolves from the moat. Carried weathered trunks, as if packed for years. Even knew the school’s factions, its language, its purpose.

Her eyes darted around the room until her gaze snagged on Hester’s open trunk. There, propped against a pile of musty black clothes, was a knurled wooden picture frame. Inside was a child’s clumsy painting of a grotesque witch standing before a house.

Hester slammed the trunk lid shut with a crack. A flicker of hesitation—shame? Was it sadness?—etched her face, only to be consumed by that familiar look of anger. “Mother was naive,” she spat. “An oven? Please. Stick them on a grill. Avoids complications.” Her jaw hardened. “I’ll do better.”

“The Witch of the Gingerbread House from Hansel and Gretel !” Sophie bursts in excitement. Hester jumped.

She whirled toward Dot’s bed, where a wanted poster lay unrolled against the headboard. It depicted a handsome man in green, his face frozen in a scream as an executioner’s axe was about to cleave into his neck.

“Robin Hood,” she gasped, her eyes snapping to Dot. “Your father’s the Sheriff of Nottingham!”

Dot blushed under the sudden attention, her voice dropping to a proud, confidential murmur. “Daddy promised to let me have first swing.”

Then Sophie’s eyes found Anadil’s bed. A storybook lay sprawled open atop her rumpled black cloak, its illustration showing a witch being rolled in a barrel of nails—a fate Sophie recognized from a dozen Grimm tales! All that remained in the drawing was a bracelet made of little boys’ bones—the very same bracelet now clasped around her roommate’s wrist…

Sophie’s stomach lurched.

“Does know her witches, doesn’t she,” Anadil leered, a thin, cold smile on her lips. “Granny would be flattered.”

A weak, strained laugh escaped Sophie before she could choke it back.

“A princess and a Reader,” Hester groaned. “The two worst things a human can be.”

“Even the Evers don’t want her,” Anadil concluded. “Or the fairies would have come by now.”

The words hit their mark with the force of a physical blow. Her fingers curled into the rough fabric of her dress, knuckles turning white. The truth of it was a cold knot in her chest.

They were right.

She wasn’t the kind of damsel fairies wanted to save… let alone princes.

A small, broken chuckle escaped her.

Hester surged forward, stopping inches from Sophie's face. "You're not stuck here with us!" She jabbed a finger hard into Sophie's chest, making her stagger back. "We're stuck here with you."

Her hand shot out, fisting in Sophie's collar to yank her close. "And you will get no sympathy from ANY of us. So if you want to stay alive," she snarled, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper, "you will learn to fit in. Blubber even once, and I'll give you a real reason to cry."

Sophie's cheeks flushed with furious heat. I wasn't even—! The thought fractured as she felt a tear trace a hot path through the warmth of her blush. Huh?

With a disgusted click of her tongue, Hester threw Sophie aside. She landed hard, scattering a cloud of soot into the air as Hester spat in her direction.

Stunned, Sophie could only stare as Hester turned her back and walked away.

Then, anger cut through the shock. Sophie pushed herself up. “Fit in…?” Her voice was small but laced with a venom they hadn’t heard before. “Fit in with murderers ? With cannibals ?!” Her fists clenched at her sides. “Why do you all insist on becoming like them—!”

Her voice broke, vision blurry. “Life is precious! Why waste yours being a—a joyless, miserable, wretched—”

Hester’s hands coiled around Sophie’s neck before she could finish. “You know, Anadil,” Hester mused, her grip tightening. “No one’s told us the rules yet.”

Anadil grinned. “So they can’t punish us for breaking them.” She gave a casual shrug.

Sophie struggled, her feet kicking uselessly as she was lifted from the ground. She clawed at Hester’s arms, but her strength was fading. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

“A…ggie…”

It was funny. Sophie had always thought her last words would be something grand and dramatic. A whispered promise to a prince. A final curse on a witch. Not a choked, gasping name…

But this was fine, too.

She closed her eyes, one final tear tracing a path through the ash on her cheek.

Vex & Brone, Hort & Ravan, Flynt & Titan—Agatha’s eyes scanned the nameplates on the doors as she flew past. The Boys’ floor.

Tch.

Snarls erupted behind her—closer. Too close. She spun to retreat back the way she came—only to skid to a halt. Then, new barks echoed from the staircase ahead—wolves pounding down towards her. Trapped between them, the air chimed with a sickening sweetness. Fairies.

No choice. Agatha veered for the narrow door to the back stairs, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut behind her, plunging into near-total darkness. The air hit her immediately—thick with dust, mothballs, and the pungent, chemical reek of preserved things.

A storage attic. A dead end.

Damn it!

The door shuddered under the first impact. Wood splintered. Agatha threw her shoulder against it, her eyes frantically scanning the gloom. They adjusted fast, picking out shapes in the dark: rickety chairs, a toad-like statue of some forgotten hag, long tables cluttered with jars. Dozens of them. Through the murky glass, she recognized the forms instantly: frog’s toes. Lizard legs. Dog tongues.

Agatha gritted her teeth. Her mother was right. The School was a pack of amateurs. How long had these been sitting here? What a waste of good—

The door shrieked, bulging inward—its hinges screaming. She moved, boots kicking up clouds of dust. Chairs, the statue, the heavy tables—she piled it all into a chaotic barricade. The vials on the tables clinked together in frantic warning.

CRRAACK. The door groaned, but the barricade held. For now.

Her gaze snapped to the single grime-caked window. She rushed to it, wrestling with the rusted latch—

A familiar, sharp pain bit into the side of her neck.

She didn’t even flinch. Her hand shot up, wrenching the spiteful sprite from her skin and back into a crushing fist. “Start spitting those webs.” She finally forced the window open with a shriek of protesting metal. The storm roared in, drenching her anew. “Or I’ll see how well you fly with broken wings.”

She hauled herself out onto the narrow ledge, not waiting for a reply. The sprite in her fist let out a frantic, reedy shriek, quickly swallowed by the thunder cracking overhead. Across the lake, the Good towers basked in oblivious sunshine. Here, the rain fell in icy sheets.

Her eyes locked onto the gutter—a long, twisted ribbon of slick brass shooting rainwater through the mouths of three massive stone gargoyles. Not ideal. But it was a path.

She climbed into the slippery channel, fingers locking white-knuckle tight on the rail. In her other fist, the sprite thrashed in frantic, furious struggle, its sounds devoured by the wind.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering wood and grinding furniture came from inside. Agatha craned her neck. The white wolf was silhouetted in the broken window, hairy arms folded over his red jacket. He made no move to follow. He just watched, eyes glinting in the storm-light. The hand she’d bitten was wrapped in a crude bandage, dark with blood.

Agatha let out a ragged, triumphant cackle. “What’s the matter, mutt ? Afraid of a little height?”

“There are worse things than wolves up here.” His voice was calm, a low growl that somehow cut through the storm’s roar.

Then he turned. And he was gone.

The other wolves at the window lingered for a moment, a low growl rumbling in their throats before they too fell back. The fairies chimed a cold, gleeful melody and zipped away without a backward glance. Just like that, the pursuit was over.

The hairs on the back of Agatha’s neck stood on end.

“Webs.” Her voice was a low, deadly whisper.

The sprite didn’t even look at her. It strained toward the broken window, chiming a desperate, pleading note.

Agatha’s voice sharpened. “Now!”

It shuddered—then obeyed, spewing a thick golden thread that stuck fast to the wet brass.

What? What could possibly be worse than—

A low, grinding shudder ran through the gutter beneath her. Not from the wind. From within the stone.

Agatha shielded her eyes against the stinging rain, peering through the downpour. Stone ground against stone. Then, one by one, the gargoyles turned. Not toward the sky or the castle, but toward her. Eyes glinted in the storm-light—vicious, bloody red—and locked onto their target.

With a collective shriek of grinding stone, the gargoyles launched from their perches. The gutter tore free from the wall, and Agatha plunged with it, a tidal wave of rainwater slamming into her. The only thing stopping her fall into the abyss was the sprite’s golden thread, lashed around her waist and screaming taut.

Two shadows swooped from the storm before she could brace. Agatha twisted her body, using the first gargoyle’s claws to sever the straining web. The thread snapped. She was falling again, the second beast’s talons missing her face by an inch as she crashed onto the now-vertical gutter and slid down its treacherous length.

Through harrowing turns and sheer drops, Agatha drove the sprite relentlessly. “More!” she roared over the wind. The fairy obeyed, spewing frantic gobs of web into her waiting hands despite its exhausted, chiming protests. The diving gargoyles, a worse threat than her wrath.

High above, the third gargoyle—a horned demon—blasted fire from its nostrils. Agatha scowled, grabbing the gutter’s rail just as a fireball seared a giant hole in the brass beam ahead. She skidded to a stop at the precipice, teetering over the drop. Not wasting a second, she hurled a wad of web straight into the demon’s face. That should buy us time.

She’d barely formed the thought when a crushing force tackled her from behind. Massive claws closed around her leg, hoisting her into the air. Her trunk swung wildly, its strap straining against her shoulder—one wrong move from plummeting into the drop. The dragon-winged gargoyle’s jaws yawned wide. Agatha answered by cramming three balls of web down its throat. It flailed, gagging, jaws locked open. Seizing the moment, she wrenched the broom from her trunk and smashed its handle down on the creature’s stone fingers. They crumbled. A muffled snarl was the last thing she heard as she fell, landing hard on a balcony below. A jolt of white-hot pain shot through her leg.

Gritting her teeth against the agony, she stumbled upright. Another one was coming. She ripped open her trunk, shoved the protesting sprite inside. “Spin! Stop for even a second and we’re dead!” She slammed the latch.

An ear-piercing screech ripped through the air. The snake-headed gargoyle tore through the flooding cascade and snatched her up. Its massive jaws unhinged to devour her whole. Agatha jammed the broomstick crosswise into its mouth. Jaws smashed down—splintering the wood with an explosive crack. The monster recoiled, dazed by the impact, and dropped her.

For a terrifying second, there was only freefall and the roar of the storm. Then the flooded brass gutter rushed up to meet her back. The impact was a cold, brutal slam that sent her skidding down the sluiceway. Water blinded her, her body jerking and heaving toward the final spout. There, the horned demon waited, its jaws wide open over the drain like an infernal tunnel. The last of her webbing sizzled and burned away on its lips.

She lunged for her trunk, scrambling for more web—

The horned demon blasted fire. A rocket of flame shot up the pipe, searing her hand. She screamed, recoiling from the pain, webs incinerated instantly. With her good hand, she jammed the splintered broom into a seam, the wood groaning as it wedged against the torrent. The relentless rush began to tear the broom from her grip, inching her closer to the waiting mouth. The sprite inside the trunk wasn't nearly fast enough.

Her grip slipped another inch, the broom handle screeching against the brass. She scanned the flooding pipe for a foothold, a handhold, anything to leverage against the pull—!

Nothing.

Her eyes darted to the trunk—no time. To the sprite—too slow.

Then her gaze locked on the gargoyle itself, water cascading from its jaws. A memory flashed—the gutters, the downpour. These things weren't just stone; they were drains.

What goes out must come in.

Agatha grit her teeth. For once, she hoped this fairytale logic would hold.

She heard the next colossal wave building behind her. The gargoyle’s smoking jaws were poised in a mocking grin, waiting sadistically for its meal to arrive. Agatha’s eyes hardened.

She wrenched the broom loose and dove into the current, using its speed to propel herself forward. Poising the splintered end like a lance, she shot straight into the demon’s open maw. Stone teeth shattered around her. For a heart-stopping second, there was only darkness and heat.

Then—

Weightlessness. Silence. She was launched into the gray sky, free-falling through the fog.

The wind screamed past her ears. The fog parted—to reveal a spiked wall rushing up to meet her, and just below it, an open window. Agatha twisted in mid-air, curling her body into a desperate, protective ball. The lethal spikes grazed her back as she tumbled through the opening. She landed on her stomach on a cold stone floor, dripping wet, coughing up gutter water.

Every breath was a ragged wheeze as she hauled herself upright against the cold stone wall. Her legs buckled; she caught herself, palms scraping on rough-hewn rock. Pushing off, she took a step. Then another—and froze.

A nameplate at the end of the hall. A familiar name. One unlike the rest.

A step. A stumbling rush. Then she was running, boots stomping through puddles on the stone floor, a full sprint towards the door.

Sophie. Sophie—!

A choked gasp from behind the door, cut short. The sound of a struggle.

Agatha’s heart stopped. Then it hammered against her ribs.

She slammed her shoulder into the door and—