Cinderella Is Dead(46)

“I’ve never understood why people follow along so blindly,” she mumbles. “Even when they know something is wrong, they do it anyway. Maybe you all should start thinking for yourselves.”

Constance moves toward the door. “This was a mistake, coming out here. She can’t help us.”

“Wait,” I say. I kneel at the woman’s side. “What’s your name? Your real name. None of that fairy godmother nonsense.” I haven’t been almost devoured by wolves to walk away with nothing.

She looks away from me. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I say. “As hard as the king tries to make us nameless, we aren’t.”

A faint smile flits across her lips. “My mother called me Amina, but I’ve not heard that name spoken aloud in many, many years.” Something softens in her. Her defiant attitude is just a mask. Even out here in the darkest part of the White Wood, this woman is fearful.

“Please, Amina, we need to know anything you can tell us about Cinderella’s true story, the kings who have ruled over Mersailles—especially Prince Charming, his past, where he came from, anything.”

“And what would you do with this information?” she asks.

“We would use it to end the reign of men like Manford,” says Constance, whose tone remains firm. “Forever.”

Amina sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. She runs her hand over her forehead and allows her fingertips to rest on her lips. “Even if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. Do you truly think men like him can be stopped?” Her tone suggests she has thought long and hard about this very question.

“Yes,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true, but I want it to be. “Maybe if you tell us what you know, you can help us.” While Amina is icy with Constance, I see a softness in her eyes, a willingness to open up to me.

“I will never be free from this burden, no matter how honest I choose to be,” Amina says, looking me directly in the face. “I will carry it with me into the next life as penance for what I have done.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than what the kings of Mersailles have done.”

“You can’t be certain,” Amina says. Her eyes bore into me, and a primal rush of fear sweeps over me. This woman, delicate as she seems, is powerful, but she takes great care to mask it in our presence. “I have done things you cannot fathom. I have been more wicked than you can imagine.” This is not a warning. This is not a threat. It is an admission.

“Tell us what you know,” Constance urges again. She moves to a chair and sits down.

Amina leans forward and sighs, resigning herself to something. “Very well. But I will not be held responsible for the hopelessness, for the emptiness that you will feel when I’m done.”

Her warning echoes Constance’s. And if Amina’s revelations are anywhere near as life changing as the ones Constance shared with me, there will be no going back. I sit down on the floor and wait for her to continue.

She laughs lightly. “Foolish girl.”





22





“The king who sits on the throne today is not a normal man.” Amina pulls her shawl around her and walks to the shelves at the rear of the room. She plucks a short glass jar with a cork stopper from the shelf, shuffles back over to her chair, and sits down. She leans forward and takes my hand in hers, unwrapping the bandage. I wince as she pulls the cloth away from the wound and uncorks the jar. A sweet smell wafts out.

“Honey and comfrey,” I say, recognizing the scent of the honey and the stringy leaves of the comfrey plant.

She smiles. She dips her fingers, which I notice are each marked with ink in a triangle pattern, into the mixture and smears my hand with the pungent salve. I set my hand back in my lap after she rewraps it. The pain is already starting to subside.

“It’s hard for me to say what the king is or isn’t,” says Amina. “A man, a monster, or some terrible combination of the two.”

“What does that even mean?” Constance asks tensely. I shoot her a glance, urging her to be patient, and she clasps her hands together tightly in her lap. I don’t want her to be quiet. I only want her to try to keep things calm. We need to know what Amina has to say.

Amina continues, unfazed by Constance’s impatience. “Would you prefer the long version or the short one?” she asks curtly.

Constance sits back in her chair, still fuming. I hope she can bring herself to listen to the full story before she loses it completely.

“The long version,” I say.

Amina smiles at me and then purposely frowns at Constance, who rolls her eyes. She reaches under her chair and brings out a small rectangular box. She produces from it a long churchwarden pipe. The chamber is elaborately carved with figures of flowers and leaves, and the stem is nearly as long as my forearm. She fills the chamber from a small cotton pouch and sets about lighting it. She takes a long draw, exhaling slowly. “All my life I’ve practiced magic. My mother raised me in the craft, taught me from the time I was young. You will hear people speak of light and dark, but in my experience you must be well versed in both to find a balance. By the time I was grown, I’d gained quite a reputation for myself. People came from near and far to seek out my services.”