Cinderella Is Dead(53)
“It is so much easier to forget the world when you’re alone in the forest. There are fewer opinions, less to consider.”
“That sounds like something I could get used to,” I say. “But I don’t really want to forget what’s going on in Lille. I can’t turn my back on all the people who are still there, fighting to survive.”
There is a rustle in the trees. I jump up and look around frantically. Amina laughs.
“It’s all right,” she says. She holds her hand out, and from the tree line the crow emerges, swooping down and landing on her shoulder. “He’s a friend of mine.” The bird nuzzles her and then flies up and settles on the roof. “He’s what we call a familiar. He keeps an eye on the path that leads here, lets me know if anything is amiss.” A bit of her rough exterior softens. She pats me on the shoulder. “Come. Let’s go inside.”
Around the front of the cottage, I find Constance sitting on the narrow front step. Amina walks straight past her without so much as a downward glance. I sit next to her.
“This must be hard for you,” I say. “Being here, knowing she played a part in what happened to your family.”
“It is,” Constance says. She sighs heavily and presses her leg against mine. “I knew she was involved, but it was so deceitful. She led a lamb to a slaughter. I’ve always known that Cinderella would never have stayed with Charming—with Manford—if it hadn’t been for the fairy godmother.”
“It doesn’t change what happened, but she’s willing to help us now, and I think she knows exactly how much pain and suffering she’s caused. That’s why she’s out here.”
“Hiding is why she’s out here.” Constance is unmoved.
“Yes, but why?” I ask. “She’s exiled herself as a form of punishment. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do. You heard her say she doesn’t think he can be stopped. Maybe she’s given up.”
“I think a part of me had given up, too.” Constance heaves an exaggerated sigh and turns to me, smiling. “I’m not going to forgive her for what she did, but I won’t kill her.”
“I guess that’s good enough for now.”
She looks at me in that way again, and I never want her to stop. She makes me feel seen. Alive. Hopeful.
“You know, if we can stop Manford, you could come back to Lille. You wouldn’t have to stay away.” Imagining all these new possibilities helps me push away the thoughts of what will have to come first.
“I’d like that,” Constance says. “It’d be nice to stay in one place after all this time.”
Under the glinting moon, her hair is like a smoldering ember, her face so much like the splendor of the stars in the sky above us that I wonder how she can be real.
“But if we can find a way to end his reign,” Constance says, “it doesn’t mean that everyone will suddenly change. The people of Lille don’t know anything other than Manford’s laws and rules. It will be hard to make them see a new way.”
We sit in silence for a moment, a swell of sadness rising in me, and Constance seems to sense it. She lays her head gently on my shoulder, and her hair brushes against my cheek. I breathe in the flowery scent that always clings to her.
“If this doesn’t work,” she says, “we can run away together. Maybe get our own decrepit little shack in the woods.”
She is joking, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I feel my face grow warm. “You might get tired of me.”
“I might get tired of your cooking,” she says, smiling. “That gruel was—”
“Terrible? I knew it!”
She reaches down and runs her fingers over the back of my hand. For a moment I think she might turn her face up and press her lips against mine, and while I want that more than anything, I can’t bring myself to slip my hand under her chin and bring her mouth closer. My feelings for Constance grow with each passing second, but my feelings for Erin hang heavy on my heart. I feel terrible for caring so deeply about Constance while Erin suffers.
She shouldn’t be suffering, and neither should I. It is this feeling that strengthens my resolve to do whatever must be done to make sure Manford’s reign comes to an end, even if that involves raising Cinderella from the dead.
25
The next night, the moon is just a sliver of silver in the black sky, and Constance, Amina, and I have gathered by the fire as a wicked wind gusts through the White Wood.
Constance sharpens her dagger on a flat stone as Amina puffs away on her pipe.
“There’s something I’d like to ask of you,” Amina says.
Constance scowls, and I nudge her with my shoulder.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We’re heading into an unknown future. I’d like to see if, perhaps, we might illuminate our path.”
Constance is exasperated. “You clearly have something specific in mind, so why don’t you just get on with it.”
Amina rolls her eyes and stands up, stuffing a piece of parchment into Constance’s hand. I lean over and read it. It’s a list of the herbs we need from the garden, and underneath it is a schedule with little drawings of the phases of the moon and the word “divination.”