Cinderella Is Dead(34)

“Is that a good thing?” I ask.

She gently nudges my shoulder with hers as she brushes past me and speaks in a hush, very close to my ear. “I guess we’ll find out.”

A rush of warmth spreads over me. In my mind, I see Erin’s face and again feel guilty. I step away from Constance, ashamed of how I’ve behaved. Constance wrings her hands in front of her and shakes her head as if she’s done something wrong.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” she says.

I nod. “If she was in the heart of the White Wood, I say we just head for the center and see what we find.”

“So we have no actual plan then? No map. Nothing.”

“Not true,” I say. “I know the general direction, and my plan is to make it to the center of the White Wood alive, with you at my side.”

“All in a quest to take down the king and bring his entire kingdom to its knees?” Constance asks.

“More or less,” I say, laughing.

She grins so wide I can see a chip in her bottom front tooth, her eyes creased at the corners. I want to spend the rest of the night talking to her, finding out every little detail about her.

“Well in that case, we’ll need some rest.” She strips off her trousers, and I fuss with the blankets to avoid staring at her.

Constance takes up a spot on a pile of blankets next to the fire, and I hear her breathing fall into a slow, steady pattern while I struggle to quiet my mind. As I lie awake, the moon with its mournful face shines its ethereal light down on me through the sitting room window. Liv will never again see something so perfect and beautiful.

I try to sleep. My body aches and my mind is tired, but every time I close my eyes, I see Liv lying in that ditch.

Sleep is something I can do without for a while.



I sit anxiously on the edge of my seat, watching Constance sleep. I want to get moving, but I don’t have the heart to wake her. She stirs and rolls over, eyes still closed, lips parted, her hair a tangle of tight ringlets spread out under her head like a crimson cushion. Her eyes flutter open.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning.” She rubs her eyes, sitting up. Her bare legs jut out from under the blanket. She gives me a once-over. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

I shake my head. “I’m eager to get going.”

She stands up and stretches. “We should go into town for supplies.” Constance lets her gaze pass over me from head to foot. I’m still wearing the pants and tunic she gave me in Cinderella’s tomb. She smiles. A little shudder of excitement pulses through me. “You’re already dressed. I just need a minute.”

Constance rummages through a large burlap sack in the corner, producing a wadded-up ball of clothing that she tosses onto a chair. She turns back to her bag and retrieves a pair of boots to add to the vests and tunics.

“Where did you get all this?” I ask.

“You know how people can be. They go swimming, want to show off a bit, so they strip down and dive in. They almost never put their clothing in a safe spot, and more than once, I’ve come across a perfectly good pair of britches.”

I raise an eyebrow and laugh. From the look of her stockpile, there are at least six or seven people naked in the woods somewhere. She picks out a pair of tan trousers very similar to mine, except hers can only stay up with the help of a pair of leather suspenders.

“Well, what do you think?” she asks.

I can’t keep from grinning. “You look lovely.” Her immediate frown makes me worry I’ve offended her. “No, it’s just— I meant you look good. You look just fine.”

“Not really what I was going for. Two women traveling alone would bring too much attention,” she says, pulling on a shiny black pair of riding boots. She tosses me a wool-lined coat.

“This clothing is our best shot at getting out of town without anyone noticing,” she says.

I look down at my chest. “I’m not going to fool anyone dressed like this.”

She doesn’t try to hide the little smile that creeps across her lips. “Just keep your shirt loose in the front, and don’t tuck it in.”

My cheeks flush hot.

“We’ll braid back your hair, and if you keep a hat on and your head down, we should be okay.”

Constance nudges me toward the chair in front of the fire. She stands behind me and pulls her fingers through my hair, parting it, and braiding the loose pieces so they lie flat against my head. My mother sometimes braided my hair this way when I was little, decorating the ends with little glass beads, singing songs to herself as she worked, and tugging at my scalp a little too tightly when I nodded off or tried to scoot away. The memory stings.

Constance repeats the process from ear to ear, gathering the tails into a tight bun at the back of my head. As she finishes up, her fingers brush over the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck and send a shiver down my back.

The final touch is an oversized wool cap, fitted snugly over my head. Constance produces a small mirror from her bag, thrusting it at me as she looks on, proud of her handiwork. I understand why she’s so confident in this disguise. Anybody passing me on the street might think I am just another young man.

“I may need your help getting my hair in order,” she says. She sits down and sections off a piece. “If you could just hold the rest back while I braid this part.” I stand and gather her hair, nearly a foot longer than mine, behind her shoulder. It’s soft and thick, smelling of rose water, and I let my hands linger in the tangle of curls. I’m drawn to her, and I keep waiting for her to tell me the same things Erin had—that I am longing for something impossible—but she doesn’t, and I’m dizzy with the excitement of it and torn by the guilt I feel.