Cinderella Is Dead(55)

Amina takes a long, deep breath. The longer he stays, the more he’ll be able to get under her skin, maybe even make her second-guess her decision to help us.

“You’re just as worthless as you’ve always been,” the king snarls. He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Your spells and potions have always been lacking. I’ve had to take things into my own hands because of your ineptitude.”

Amina doesn’t respond.

“I do hope you’ll keep me informed should you hear anything,” says the king.

The front door opens, and a horse whinnies. No sound is made for several moments, and then the hatch pops open. Amina looks down on us, her face crestfallen, her mouth drawn into a tight line. We climb up and stand quietly, waiting to be sure the king is gone.

“What was all that about?” Constance asks angrily. “Suddenly when we’re here, he just decides to stop by for a visit?”

“No sense in hiding how you feel. Come right out with it,” says Amina, who looks absolutely drained.

“You told him we were here!” Constance runs to the window and peers out, her dagger drawn. Amina appears not to hear her as she slumps into a chair.

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding my hands up, my heart still pounding. “Amina could have opened that hatch and handed us over right away, but she didn’t.”

Constance retreats to the kitchen.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” I ask.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” Amina sighs. “My dear Sophia, you may one day find yourself the topic of your own fairy tale. I can already see him turning your escape into a cautionary tale.”

“I won’t give him the chance to use me like that,” I say. “I would die first.”

Amina turns to me, sadness in her eyes. “Please don’t say that. Because you very well might.”





26





We spend the following days preparing for the harvest. Every rustle of the trees or creaking of the boards in the old cottage makes me jump, fearing the king has returned. Constance is so suspicious of Amina that she adjusts to Amina’s schedule, sleeping when she sleeps, waking when she wakes, and following her around, which pushes Amina to her wits’ end.

When the full moon rises they are barely speaking, but the time has come for us to gather the herbs for the necromancy ritual and to perform the work Amina calls divination.

Amina gathers bushels of herbs from her garden—wormwood, mugwort, bay leaves, vervain, yarrow. Using a mortar and pestle, she grinds them up in different combinations. She makes sachets from white linen and stuffs them with the herbs, stitching the edges closed. The look of concentration on her face is so stern that I dare not interrupt, even though I am curious about the ritual’s steps.

She consults her book, goes out and checks the sky, and when she’s done, she brews an infusion of rue and serves it in three cups.

I swallow a mouthful and have to stifle a gag, my eyes watering. “It’s so bitter.”

“Be sure to finish all of it,” Amina says. She drinks hers like it’s nothing. Constance sips her tea, and when we’re done, Amina asks us to follow her outside.

“It’s the dead of night,” Constance says.

Amina blinks. “And?”

“Do you think it’s safe?” I ask.

Amina laughs. “No. It’s not safe, but it is necessary.”

Constance tightens her belt and runs her hand over her dagger’s hilt.

An insidious little smile spreads across Amina’s lips. “It won’t do you much good. It’s not the wolves or bears you should be afraid of. The night creatures, the ones with no name who come alive in the moonlight—those are the things you should be worried about.”

Constance pauses in midstep, thrusting her chin in the air. “I’m sure there isn’t anything out there as scary as you.”

“Let’s hope you’re right about that,” says Amina.

“Can we get on with this?” Constance asks.

“I think you should be more mindful of your tone,” Amina says, still smiling. “Lest you find yourself on the wrong side of a transformation spell. It would be a shame if you ended up as some slimy, amphibious creature.” She walks out the front door.

“Is she threatening me?” Constance glances at me. “Because it sounded like a threat.”

I hear Amina cackling from somewhere outside and shrug, but Constance remains stone-faced.

“I don’t think she means it,” I say.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as a toad, Sophia.”

“But you’d be such a cute one,” I say. “A beautiful bullfrog.”

Constance shakes her head and gives my hand a quick squeeze.

We walk in procession behind the cottage and through a thicket in the bright light of the full moon. As we emerge into a second, smaller clearing, we come upon a pool of water. The space above it, open to the night sky, allows the moonlight in. Devoid of plant life, animals, or even ripples, the flat pond, wide as the cottage itself, seems out of place. It looks like a large round mirror.

My head swims. I feel like I’m floating. I glance at Constance, who has taken a seat on the ground.

“What was in that tea?” I ask.