Cinderella Is Dead(58)

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to be special or have a gift or anything of the sort. Some people think they are chosen, destined to be great, and do you know what happens while they are basking in the possibility of their own greatness?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me. “What happens is that someone with no particular preordained purpose puts their head down, works hard, and makes something happen out of sheer will. That’s where we fall.”

“And you? You’ve had your doubts. I wasn’t even sure we could convince you to help us.”

“That’s true. But things change. Even if I don’t—well, never you mind that.” Amina seems flustered.

We are all shaken by what we’ve seen: the vague notions of a future beyond our control despite our best efforts to change the present. Constance moves to the piles of blankets next to the fire and stares up at the ceiling.

“Try to get some rest,” Amina says solemnly. She puts away her pipe and goes to her straw mat in the corner.

I curl up on a thick blanket next to Constance. We tuck in by the warmth of the crackling fire. Constance dozes off easily while I watch the fire die. I wait nervously for sleep to find me, fearing the king will be lurking in my head.

When I finally drift off, I fall into a dreamless, heavy sleep, but even then, I am thankful to see the sun rise the following morning.





27





The sense of foreboding that shadows me grows stronger as the day comes to begin our journey to Cinderella’s final resting place. The larger cart is still parked at the entrance to the footpath, but because our horse was killed by the wolves, we won’t be able to use it. We pack everything we need for the trip, including a live rabbit that Constance caught in a snare just behind the cottage. She puts it in a wooden cage and sets it in the back of a hand-drawn cart. I avoid looking at it. I know its fate.

Amina walks around the cart, carrying a stack of books. I glance at the book of spells. The cover is crisscrossed with fine lines that look almost exactly like the ones on my palm. It’s not leather at all. It’s human skin.

Fear stirs deep inside me, reminding me that Amina is no fairy godmother. She studies me for a moment and then holds out the book. I don’t want to touch it, but she puts it in my hands. A smell wafts into my face—the scent of death. “Amina, how did you make this?”

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Amina says.

Constance’s head whips around, and I take a step back.

Amina grins. “Just having a little fun.” She takes the book and tucks it in the cart. “That story is for another day.”

Constance loads the rest of our things, and we set out on foot. Amina leads us down a narrow but passable pathway that is hidden behind the cabin and snakes around to the spot where we had to leave the big cart.

“I wish we’d known about this path when we showed up,” Constance says.

“I bet you do,” Amina says.

A rancid odor, like the one emanating from the spell book, hits the back of my throat as we step out onto the main trail. Our horse lies on its side. Buzzards and other wild animals have picked nearly all the flesh from its bones. I look away.

Amina leads us through the White Wood, her crow familiar swooping in every so often and then taking off again. We don’t stop to make camp for longer than an hour or two. Just time enough to eat and rest. The ritual needs to be performed on the next moonless night, which gives us only three days to make a trip that normally would have taken at least four on horseback.

Somehow, when we emerge from the White Wood, we have time to spare, and I wonder if the sleepy confusion Constance and I felt when we’d first gone in was some kind of enchantment. Amina stays mum when I ask her, but her little twisted smile is telling.

Three guards patrol the open space between the towers as we crouch low to the ground, watching them. I wonder if Constance might need to bring out one of her bombs, but I don’t have time to ask. Amina is walking straight ahead into the clearing.

“What is she doing?” Constance asks, her dagger drawn.

We squat in the dirt, staying quiet as Amina approaches the group of guards. One of them draws his sword, and I start to run after her when her hand juts out in front of her. The guard drops his weapon. It looks like she is speaking to them. She holds her hand near her face and gives a quick, hard puff. A cloud of a shimmering silver powder engulfs them, and they sink to the ground.

Constance turns to me. “What the hell just happened?”

Amina motions for us to join her.

“Did she—did she kill them?” Constance stammers.

I walk out into the clearing with Constance at my heel. The guards are slumped on top of each other, their eyes closed, breathing heavily.

“What did you do?” I ask as we approach Amina, who stands grinning at the foot of the lookout tower.

“A little sleeping dust to send them to dreamland.” She holds up a small leather pouch.

“I’ve had a hard time sleeping,” I say. “I could have used some of that.”

One of the men shrieks and rolls over on his side, whimpering.

“It brings nightmares,” says Amina. “The kind you never forget. The kind that haunt you even in your waking hours.”