Cinderella Is Dead(59)

Constance and I exchange glances.

“Okay, never mind,” I say.

“You should have turned them into mice,” Constance says.

“Maybe next time,” Amina says.

We’ve reentered the capital’s borders, and passing between the watchtowers brings with it a new and terrible sense of dread. We avoid the main road, instead taking a wagon path that loops around the outskirts of the city. As we walk along the road, wagon wheels sound on the gravel right before a horse-drawn cart comes to a stop alongside us.

“Looking for a ride?” asks the driver.

“No,” says Constance, sounding annoyed. She doesn’t even look up.

I tilt my head, trying to get a look at the driver from under my cap. His face twists into a mask of confusion when our eyes meet.

“It’s really dangerous for you to be walking around here, dressed like that.” He takes a swig of something from a flask at his hip.

I can’t tell if he’s threatening us or not.

“Leave us alone,” Constance says. She narrows her eyes at him and angles herself between us. I look for Amina, but she has disappeared.

The man holds his hands up. “Now just wait a minute. I’m not saying anything except it’s dangerous. I can give you a ride. Just hop in.”

Constance’s hand moves to her dagger, and the man glances at her.

He scratches the top of his head. He is completely confused. “Do you even know how to use a sword? Women aren’t permitted to—”

“The pointy end goes in your neck,” Constance snaps.

I catch Amina at the back of the cart, dumping something into the little flask that the man had on his hip just a moment before. She disappears again.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if the king’s men see you with a sword, dressed like that, they will arrest you on sight.” He smiles, but a look of concern has overtaken him. He reaches for his flask and I tense, worried he’ll know it’s missing, but it has reappeared on his belt. He takes a long drink. “I’m just trying to—trying to—help.”

He is stumbling over his words as his body sways like a tree in a storm. He clutches at his neck, clearing his throat repeatedly, sweat dripping from his forehead. He leans over the edge of the cart as the pupils of his eyes expand into inky black voids. I yank Constance backward just as his eyes roll up into his head, and he falls headlong into the dirt. He groans, rolls over on his side, and sputters before beginning to snore. Amina appears at the side of the cart, holding the man’s flask.

“Belladonna.” She gives the flask a little shake and tosses it at the man, hitting him between the eyes. He doesn’t move.

“Will he die?” I ask. “I don’t think he meant us any harm.”

“No. I used juice from the berries, not the root,” Amina says. “Hear that snore? He’ll have a headache, but he’ll live. We can’t take the chance of him telling someone he saw us. When he wakes up, he won’t remember a thing.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, feeling a slight stab of pity for the man.

Amina looks thoughtful. “If I had a seeing stone, I could tell you for sure, since you seem so concerned.” She sighs as she begins to transfer our belongings into the man’s cart. “But I haven’t come across one of those in ages.”

“What’s a seeing stone?” I ask.

“An alternative to the kind of divination we used at the pond,” Amina says. “An enchanted stone, polished up like a mirror. It can be used to see all sorts of things—the future, the present—but they are exceedingly rare.”

“I heard a tale when I was little about a queen in another kingdom who had a seeing stone,” says Constance. “A magic mirror, but I think it drove her mad. She became obsessed with her reflection and the visions she saw in it.”

“I know that story well,” says Amina. “And much like our own tale, it’s not exactly what it seems. The reflective power of the glass is a seductive thing. It can show you things that need interpretation, or it can reveal the truth as it is. It can be maddening trying to decipher what you see, but it’s important to understand that it’s only a reflection. The things shown within it are not always set in stone.”

“The story of that queen says she tried to kill her own child. She said the mirror told her to,” Constance says.

“But the mirror would not have told her to do so if it weren’t already in her heart,” Amina says. “It was a shameful turn of events. How did you learn of it?”

“The story about the magic mirror?” Constance asks.

“Yes,” Amina says. “It’s a very old story.”

“I have it,” Constance says. She goes to her bag and pulls out the book she’d been lugging around this entire time. The pages are yellowed around the edges, and some of them are detached from the spine and just stuck between the others. Constance hands the book to Amina, and she flips through the pages as we climb into the cart, Constance at the reins.

“Where in the world did you get this?” Amina asks. I’ve seen nothing that has shaken her to her core quite like this. She’s trembling as she looks through it.

“It’s been in my family forever,” says Constance. “Handed down by Gabrielle herself.”