Chapter Text
Agatha stood in a ballroom of gold and glass, where chandeliers dripped light like molten stars and the air smelled of roses and something sharper—vanity, perhaps, or deceit.
She didn’t belong here.
The masks around her were exquisite: swans with diamond feathers, foxes with sly grins, lions with manes of spun gold. Hers was plain black, cracked at the edges, as if it had been chewed by rats. The others glanced at her, their eyes glinting behind porcelain and jewels, their whispers slithering past her ears like snakes. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew them all the same.
Ugly. Wrong. Evil.
Her fingers curled into fists. She wanted to scream, to claw the masks off their faces and force them to look at her properly. But her throat was sealed shut, her voice buried deep where no one could hear it.
Drowning.
Unbearable.
She walked forward anyway.
The crowd parted before her, silk and satin flinching away as if she carried the plague. A small, bitter victory. She didn’t want to touch them either.
Her dress grew heavier with every step, the fabric thickening into chains. The mask melted against her skin, hot as wax, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The walls pulsed like a living thing, the chandeliers dimmed, and the faces around her twisted—fear, pity, disgust, all painted in garish strokes.
Still, she walked.
Then—
A girl stood in her path.
Not stepping aside. Not shrinking back.
Agatha halted.
The girl was everything she wasn’t: golden hair coiled into perfect ringlets, a dress like frosted petals, a mask of delicate silver vines. She smiled— bright and stupid—and held out a gloved hand.
Agatha’s fingers twitched.
She nearly reached out.
She almost did—
But the girl didn’t wait. She grabbed Agatha’s hand anyway.
And they danced.
Clumsily, Agatha followed, her steps too sharp, her body too stiff. But the girl didn’t seem to care. She spun them through the crowd, laughing as if they were the only two people in the world. The weight of the dress lightened. The whispers faded. For a moment, Agatha forgot the masks, the stares, the way the air had clawed at her lungs.
For a moment, she almost believed it.
Then—
Her hand shot up, fingers hooking under the girl’s mask.
She ripped it off.
They were all the same. This was no different.
Agatha wakes up.
A sliver of light cut through the cracks of the battered wall, stabbing Agatha in the eyes as she groaned awake. Early. Too early.
She sat up, peeling her threadbare blanket away—black, like everything else she owned, though "black" was generous. It was more like the color of mud after a storm, faded and streaked with years of wear. The room around her was little better: walls splintered, floorboards warped, the whole place held together by what she suspected was sheer stubbornness. And yet, despite the rot, the house never collapsed. Like it was cursed to stand forever, just to spite her.
Agatha dragged herself out of bed, her bare feet flinching against the cold, uneven wood. The air smelled of damp earth and something sharper—herbs, maybe, or the lingering ghost of last night’s failed potion.
Reaper, her hairless cat, uncurled from a nest of moth-eaten scarves on the dresser, his wrinkled muzzle twitching as she passed. He blinked at her, slow and judgmental, as if he already knew where she was going.
She ignored him.
The living room was less a living space and more a den of alchemical chaos. Jars of pickled roots lined the shelves, their contents floating in murky liquids. Dried frog legs hung from the ceiling like grotesque wind chimes. A mortar and pestle sat crusted with remnants of yesterday’s work, and the scent of crushed mint and something faintly metallic clung to the air.
At the heart of it hunched Callis, her mother—a woman built like a storm crow, all sharp angles and inky shadows. Her hair, a greasy black helmet, framed a face that might’ve been beautiful once, before time and bitterness carved it into something gaunt and hungry. Her nose hooked over thin lips, her skin so pale it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. But her hands—steady, spiderlike—moved with the precision of a woman who’d spent a lifetime making poisons taste like medicine.
The town healer.
The village tolerated her because they had no choice. Broken bones needed setting, fevers needed breaking, and when the children whispered that Callis was a witch, their parents still came crawling to her door at midnight.
Agatha moved past her without a word. Callis let out a low, rasping chuckle.
When Agatha glanced back, her mother was grinning—all yellowed teeth and sharp amusement, like a cat watching a mouse trip over its own tail.
Agatha ignored her.
The bathroom was a cramped afterthought, the mirror cracked and warped, the sink stained with things she didn’t want to identify. She rummaged through the cluttered shelves until her fingers closed around a near-empty bottle of tonic. She sighed, then slipped back through the crooked doorway.
Callis hadn’t moved, still grinding, still smirking. Agatha snatched a handful of dried lavender and a spare mortar, then set to work in silence.
The quiet stretched, thick and heavy, until Callis finally spoke.
“Looking for this?”
She held up a vial of crushed juniper berries between bony fingers, her smile widening. Agatha didn’t answer, just snatched it and dumped the contents into her mixture.
“You’re up early again,” Callis mused, stirring a bubbling cauldron. “Third time this week.”
Agatha grunted.
“Practically social of you.”
No response.
Callis cackled, the sound like dry twigs snapping. “Busy day ahead. The School Master’s favorite holiday.” She tapped a long nail against the rim of her brew. “Parents slopping mud on their precious darlings, wives begging for draughts to calm their nerves… though I suppose you don’t need to worry. He only takes the pretty ones.”
Agatha’s grip on the mortar tightened. She kept grinding.
“You’ve been so obedient lately,” Callis crooned. Then, without missing a beat: “Don’t forget the rosehip. Unless you want your hair to fall out.”
Agatha muttered something unintelligible and tossed in the rosehip.
“Used to throw a fit if I so much as looked at you. Now? Sitting by the door like a trained dog.” Callis’s grin was all teeth. “Waiting for something?”
Agatha shot her a glare. “Would you prefer I set the house on fire?”
“Oh, either would entertain me.”
With a sharp exhale, Agatha stalked back to the bathroom, tonic in hand.
The water was ice-cold, but she scrubbed anyway—her skin, her hair, the orange streaks stubbornly clinging to the black. A careless mistake, one she could’ve fixed months ago. The dye had been too bright from the start, slopped on with laughable enthusiasm by hands that didn’t know how to hold a brush steady. It should’ve faded by now. It should’ve. But the color held fast, like a stain she’d decided to live with.
She caught her reflection in the broken mirror. A face carved for scowls: sharp cheekbones, a nose too pointed for prettiness, lips perpetually pressed thin as if to bite back every word she couldn’t afford to say. Pale as a grub under a rock, save for the freckles splattered across her nose—faint, like someone had flicked mud at her and missed.
Too much like my mother.
She snatched a frayed towel and scrubbed her head—harder than necessary.
A thin light sliced through a crack in the wall. A damp strand clung to her cheek—its orange streaks caught. It almost glowed. Like embers. Like the last stubborn sparks of a fire she'd tried to smother.
The only color in the room.
She dressed in the same clothes—black, always black—fabric coarse and fraying at the seams, as if even the threads knew better than to cling to her.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Callis was already by the door, a weathered shawl draped over her shoulders. Her mother’s sharp eyes found hers—that knowing, piercing glint.
“Bread’s on the table,” Callis said. “Eat before you go.”
Agatha grunted.
Callis paused, halfway out. “And don’t be late for dinner.” Another cackle, like she’d told a joke only she understood.
The door clicked shut behind Callis, her cackling swallowed by the wind.
Agatha stood motionless for three heartbeats—long enough to prove she wasn’t rushing anywhere—then turned sharply and grabbed the bread from the table. Plain, but fresh. She chewed mechanically, crumbs dusting the front of her dress.
Waiting by the door?
Ridiculous.
She crushed the last bite between her teeth and stalked to the worktable, yanking open the drawer of dried ingredients. The wood screeched in protest. Reaper, sprawled atop a pile of moth-eaten herbal journals and tattered remedy logs, cracked one yellow eye open. Judging.
"What?" Agatha snapped.
The cat blinked slowly and tucked his nose back under his tail seemingly unbothered.
Agatha seized a mortar and pestle, then dumped in a fistful of bitterroot with more force than necessary. The grinding drowned out the silence. Good.
Outside, the wind howled through the cemetery gates. A branch scraped against the roof like skeletal fingers. Normal sounds. Nothing like footsteps.
Nothing like—
Crush. Grind. Breathe.
She worked through the stock like a soldier on a mission: feverfew for headaches, crushed moonpetals for sleep, a particularly vile-smelling paste of bogweed and crow’s bile (the village brats had learned quickly not to lob rocks at her windows after she’d lobbed a jar of that back).
The sun climbed higher, slicing through the cracks in the shutters. Dust motes swirled in the beams, lazy and golden.
Too long.
Agatha froze.
Too long since what?
She slammed another jar onto the table. The label peeled at the edges—Stinkhorn Tincture (Do Not Open Indoors). A relic from her more… creative phase. The less said about that particular summer, the better.
Reaper sneezed, then batted a dried beetle across the floor. It skittered into a sunbeam, and he pounced, kicking up a cloud of dust that made Agatha’s nose itch.
She ignored him and reached for the valerian root. The jar was half-empty—she’d used the rest last week to spike Old Man Hargrove’s tea when he’d limped in, swearing about his joints and cursing her mother’s prices. He’d never mentioned the sudden lack of pain. She hadn’t expected him to.
Her fingers closed around the pestle again.
Crush. Grind. Breathe.
The wind rattled the shutters. Reaper’s ears twitched toward the door.
Agatha’s shoulders tensed—
—but it was just the house settling.
Always just the—
Then she heard it.
A distant creak of the cemetery gates. Crows scattering from the birch trees. The rustle of plants being brushed aside—too deliberate to be the wind. And Reaper—ever the traitor—slipped out through his ragged hole in the wall, tail held high like a victory flag.
Agatha’s shoulders loosened, she continued grinding moonpetals into dust, her hands steady.
Ignore her. She’s always a bother.
The first knock came—soft, polite, almost hesitant.
Agatha sighed and shook her head.
The second knock, firmer this time—testing, unsure. Reaper meowed outside, his raspy voice muffled through the wood.
Agatha grimaced, abandoning her mortar. This would drag on forever if she didn’t answer. She halted mid-stride in front of the door, fingers twitching at her sides.
Then— tap-tap-TAP.
That stupid, infuriating cadence. Like a nursery rhyme. Like a secret.
Agatha rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Go away.”
A voice, muffled but bright, “You say that every time. And yet—!”
“And yet you never listen.” Agatha finished flatly.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Agatha didn’t answer. The door creaked as weight settled against it, the voice softening. “I brought lemon bread. And before you say ‘poisoned,’ I ate three on the way here. If I die, you’ll know.”
Agatha’s lips twitched. She stomped the impulse dead.
Silence.
Then, with theatrical despair, “Fine. I’ll just sit out here, then. Alone. In the cold.”
Rustling fabric, the exaggerated thump of someone settling onto rotting porch steps. A crow cawed. Reaper meowed again, closer now, his sandpaper tongue no doubt grooming the intruder’s outstretched fingers.
“So lonely…”
Agatha’s eye twitched. She slowly—so slowly—opened the door.
Sophie wasn’t sitting. She stood right there, grinning, basket in hand, her free arm already poised to knock again.
“You’re insufferable.”
Sophie beamed. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
Agatha opened her mouth to protest, but Sophie was faster. She hooked her arm through Agatha’s and dragged her out the door with surprising strength. “We’ll be back before you know it!”
Sunlight caught Sophie in full then, and Agatha—against her will—noticed.
She wore pink, of course—but not the frilly kind she used to wear. This dress was simple, the color of dawn-washed roses, with a high collar and sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her golden hair was braided back, practical but still painfully pretty. Her boots were caked with graveyard mud, the laces frayed from snagging on brambles every time she took the shortcut.
And that smile. Big. Dumb. Unshakable. As if the very act of existing beside her was a triumph.
And Agatha—
Agatha didn’t argue.
Reaper trotted after them, purring like a rusty hinge, as Sophie towed Agatha down the hill. The crows watched from the trees. The wind carried the scent of lemon cakes and stubborn hope.
And off they went, as they always did now, picking their way down Graves Hill's uneven slope where tree roots twisted like buried bones, the gravel beneath their feet slowly giving way to cobblestones—until the first chimney smoke curled into view and the distant clatter of the square reached them.
Reaper was, of course, the first to go, having the benefit of not being laced around Sophie’s fingers, (Agatha shaking her off after three steps, muttering, "I’m not a child—I won’t run.") the cat paused to piss on the carpenter’s boot—earning a shout—before vanishing into the brambles.
Off to hunt. Or to traumatize the village. Hard to say.
The town square was a hive of frantic preparation.
Men sharpened pitchforks and set bear traps, though no one had seen a bear in Gavaldon in living memory. Women scrubbed homely children raw and slopped mud on pretty ones, while the priest led choruses of "Blessed Are the Ordinary " from the church steps. The butcher and blacksmith huddled in an alley, trading storybooks like contraband. Even the homeless hag danced before her fire, shrieking, "Burn the books! Burn them all!"
After four years, the dreaded eleventh night of the eleventh month had arrived yet again.
Agatha chuckled. The whole village had lost its mind over a fairy tale.
She glanced at Sophie, expecting to find her wide-eyed with excitement or trembling with fear. Instead, Sophie looked... calm. Unnervingly so.
"You don’t seem afraid," Agatha said, probing. "Like the rest of them."
Sophie smiled. "It’s just a legend."
Agatha snorted. "You’re the last person I’d expect to have a rational head about this. I’d have thought you’d be leading the charge to prove it real."
Sophie pouted. "How so?"
Without missing a beat, Agatha ticked off on her fingers: "Your pristine appearance—golden curls bouncing like you're starring in your own fairy tale, pink dresses pressed and perfect even for graveyard strolls. Your saintly reputation—lending farmers lemon bread you definitely didn't steal from your father's kitchen. All those obnoxiously good deeds—rescuing kittens, polishing the church candlesticks, probably whispering prayers for my wicked soul after dark." She leaned in, lips curling. "Almost like you're auditioning for the School for Good..." A deliberate pause. "Or Evil."
Sophie giggled, executing a mock bow, "Why Agatha, I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said about me." She straightened up, eyes glittering. "But let's say I was auditioning—and let's say it's all true for a moment." She stepped closer, gloved hands clasped like a storyteller beginning a tale. "What, pray tell, could this legendary School possibly offer that would make Evil..." Her pinky finger hooked Agatha's black sleeve. "Half as tempting as Good?"
Agatha stared at the offending glove like it was a venomous spider. "In Good,” she said coldly, plucking Sophie's hand away, “you'll learn to prance in glass slippers and sing to rodents. In Evil—" Her voice dropped, almost involuntary. "You could turn those rodents into wolves. Make the slippers melt into lava. Curse every prince in the kingdom to croak like frogs."
A flicker of enthusiasm slipped through before she could reel it back.
"Such vivid imagination," Sophie purred, "for a skeptic."
Agatha clicked her tongue and strode ahead taking a sharp turn.
Sophie stumbled after her, tripping on a loose cobblestone. Agatha stopped. Her hand almost shot out—but she clenched it at her side.
Sophie dusted off her dress, laughing lightly. "You could’ve told me we were changing directions."
"And ruin the highlight of my day?" Agatha said.
Sophie’s smile wavered.
Agatha instantly regretted it—but doubled down. "I’m going ahead," she snapped, marching off.
Sophie followed, undeterred. "You still haven’t given me an answer."
Agatha groaned.
"Soo~?" Sophie pressed, falling into step beside her.
Agatha narrowed her eyes. "If you think I believe in this dumb legend because of those stupid fairy tale books you’ve lent me—"
"So you did read them!" Sophie beamed.
"Ugh."
Sophie bounced on her toes. "But don’t you see? The missing children are in the stories! Jack, Rose, Rapunzel—"
"Impossible."
"Why not?!" Sophie squeaked.
Agatha blinked. A moment ago, she’d sounded more of a skeptic than she did, but now she was practically a zealot.
"Because," Agatha snapped, "it’s just two idiots sneaking into the woods to scare their parents, only to get lost or eaten by wolves."
Sophie laughed—bright, melodic, infuriating. Agatha couldn’t tell if she was mocking her or genuinely delighted. "But If the adults believed it once," Sophie mused, "and were convinced otherwise… couldn’t you be?"
"Just admit you want to be whisked away to that godforsaken school!" Agatha’s voice rang louder than she’d intended.
Silence fell. Sophie’s laughter died. Agatha’s gaze darted past her—the villagers had stopped to stare. Their eyes flicked between the pair: Sophie in her soft pink, Agatha in her ragged black. Good and Evil. The School Master’s perfect match.
Agatha gritted her teeth.
"Aggie...?" Sophie’s voice was small.
Agatha stormed off. Sophie followed.
For a while, they walked in silence, the weight of the stares prickling Agatha’s neck. Then Sophie spoke again, softer this time:
"I’m not that good, you know. There are others... better. Kinder."
Agatha’s chest tightened. Why did this feel like she was being comforted? She was the one who—
"Like Belle," Sophie added.
As if summoned, they passed a crowd near the church. There, on her knees in the dirt, was Belle—her golden hair hacked short, her lace collar torn and crusted with filth, fingers clawing mud from the ground to smear across her cheeks.
Sophie drew a sharp breath.
Agatha felt her fists clench, tight enough to bleach her knuckles white, "He only takes the pretty ones," The words slithered out before she could stop it.
They walked on. The silence between them grew teeth.
The sun bled into the lake as two girls—one gold, one shadow—sat side by side on the shore. Sophie’s reflection shimmered perfect and pink in the water; Agatha’s dissolved into ripples, fractured and fleeting.
Sophie plucked at her gloves. "Belle looked... different today." Too casual.
Agatha chucked a stone into the lake. "Mission accomplished, then. You’re the prettiest girl in Gavaldon again."
A flinch. Tiny, but there. "That’s not—" Sophie caught herself, twisting a loose thread from her sleeve. "Do you really think that’s all I care about?"
"I think," Agatha said slowly, "you’d trade every ‘good deed’ you’ve ever done for a ticket out of this town." She watched the words hit, watched Sophie’s fingers still. "And I think you’re using me to get it."
Sophie’s breath hitched. Agatha pressed on, voice sharp as a blade.
“Always trying so hard, always smiling.” A sneer. “Practicing your princess curtsy when you think no one’s looking. Baking pies for the baker’s brats just so they’ll sigh and say, ‘Oh, Sophie’s too kind for this world!’ ” She leaned in. “Tell me, did you rehearse that line about Belle in the mirror too? Or did it just come naturally?”
Sophie’s gloves ripped at the seams.
Agatha scoffed. “And the worst part is—” She flung another stone, watching it vanish beneath the water. “It’s working.”
That caught Sophie off guard. Her lips parted—confused, then oddly hopeful.
A lie so blatant only she’ll believe it.
“I thought you’d give up after a week,” Agatha continued, merciless. “Two, at most. But no. Day after day, you drag me out of my home like some… some project.” Her voice cracked. “And now? A whole year of your stupid, relentless—”
She bit her tongue. The words hung between them, too raw.
Sophie stared at her. The sunset painted her face in gold and fire, but her eyes—wide, wet—were the only thing Agatha could see.
“Go ahead!” Agatha’s voice tore through the quiet. “You win! Go to your fairytale land and leave me alo—”
SLAP.
Agatha’s head snapped sideways. The sting bloomed hot across her cheek. She touched her face, dumbfounded, as Sophie trembled before her, fist still clenched.
“You idiot!” Sophie shouted.
The lake seemed to hold its breath.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve put up with?” Sophie’s voice shook. “The first time I knocked on your door, you dumped a bucket of slugs on my head! The second, you rigged the porch to collapse! And the third—” She jabbed a finger at Agatha’s chest. “—you locked me in your cellar for three hours while you forgot I was there!”
Agatha opened her mouth—
“And the stinkbombs!” Sophie barreled on. “The way you reeked of pickled frog legs and moldy herbs for months until I practically bathed you in rosewater myself! The Stinkhorn incident—which, by the way, I spent days apologizing for! Do you know how many mothers called me a bad influence? How many brats cried because of you?” Her voice pitched higher. “And the glaring! And the growling! And that time you accidentally spilled beetle juice on my favorite dress—”
Agatha recoiled. Sophie wasn’t just angry—she was furious, her cheeks flushed, her braid coming undone like a fraying rope.
“I didn’t ask for any of that—!”
“You didn’t!” Sophie agreed, so vehement it made Agatha blink. “But I’m still here, aren’t I…?”
The words hung in the air, soft and devastating.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Sophie was supposed to falter, to admit the ruse—but the girl in front of her, pink dress mud-splattered, wasn’t a liar.
Just Sophie. And somehow, that was worse.
Agatha’s lips quivered. “Why…? ”
The question slipped out, small and broken.
Sophie looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, Agatha didn’t flinch away. The anger drained from Sophie’s face, replaced by something unbearably gentle.
“Why do you keep letting me in?” She whispered.
The lake held its breath. The sun hovered above the water, its light gilding the waves but already beginning to bleed into the horizon. Agatha stared at their reflections—two girls, side by side, edges blurred where the light touched the dark.
For the first time, she didn’t hate what she saw.
Agatha looked away. “That’s dumb.”
Sophie giggled, the sound bright as the ripples at their feet.
And for once, Agatha didn’t feel the need to argue.
The lake shimmered, the sun now half-submerged in the water, painting the sky in bruised purples and fading gold. The girls sat in comfortable silence, Sophie’s basket between them, its last lemon bread torn in half.
Agatha chewed slowly, eyeing Sophie. “So… you don’t want to be taken to the School for Good?”
Sophie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock horror. “Agatha! I didn’t think you’d actually believe the legend!”
Agatha narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Sophie laughed, tossing a breadcrumb to a curious duck paddling near the shore.
“Are you kidding?” She leaned back on her elbows, voice softer now. “I can’t leave my dad.” A pause. “Or you.” She pointed her half-eaten bread at Agatha like an accusation.
Agatha rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.
“Besides~” Sophie stretched, catlike, “I slapped you real hard back there, and that felt pretty darn good.” She tapped her chin. “Pretty evil, actually. Doubt the School Master wants children like that.”
“Assuming he’s even real,” Agatha muttered.
“Exactly.” Sophie grinned.
The water swallowed another sliver of the sun. Agatha picked at the basket’s lining, then—before she could stop herself—blurted:
“I don’t smell that bad, do I?”
Instant regret.
Sophie burst into laughter, so loud it startled the duck into flight.
“Forget I asked!” Agatha snapped, pressing her palms to her face like she could physically shove the words back into her mouth.
“N-no!” Sophie wheezed, clutching her stomach. “You actually smell nice now.” She wiped her eyes, suddenly thoughtful. “I don't know when it happened, but… you’re all good.”
Agatha refused to react—though her cheeks burned.
“The only thing that’d make it better,” Sophie mused, “is if you tried on new clothes. I’d even lend you mine—”
“No.”
“Boo.”
Agatha reached into the basket again, fingers brushing empty linen—then paused.
That jar.
It had been there all along, tucked in the corner like a secret. She’d ignored it earlier, too busy scowling or stuffing her face with lemon bread to care. But now, with nothing left to distract her, she hooked a finger around its rim and dragged it into the light.
A ceramic jar, no bigger than her palm. The lid was sealed with a dab of pink wax—Sophie’s touch—and the sides were smudged with fingerprints, as if someone had gripped it too tightly on the walk here. Inside, something sloshed: thick, golden, reeking of lemon peel and something aggressively floral.
“This is—”
Sophie’s grin was already triumphant. “Finally noticed it, did you?” She snatched the jar before Agatha could react, pried off the wax seal, and—
“No. Not again.” Agatha tried to swipe it back, but Sophie danced away, dipping her fingers into the golden glop.
“Oh, come on!”
Agatha twisted off the grass, but Sophie—damn her and her stupidly quick reflexes—was already lunging. She flicked a glob of tonic at Agatha’s hair like a catapult launching siege fire.
“Get that away from me! ” Agatha batted at her, but Sophie just dodged, cackling, her fingers glistening with another dollop.
“Your hair’s days of looking like a half-chewed carrot are numbered!”
“I’ll never let you touch it again!” Agatha hissed, though the threat lacked its usual venom as she ducked behind the basket like a shield.
Sophie’s grin faltered. She stepped closer, wiping her sticky hands on her dress—ruining the pink fabric without a second thought—and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me fix my mistake. Properly this time.”
Her fingers hovered near the orange streak. “It’s grown out all patchy,” she murmured, as if she’d memorized every misplaced brushstroke.
Agatha opened her mouth—to snipe, to scoff, to lie—but the words dissolved on her tongue. She hesitated. A strand of orange-streaked hair fell into her eyes, and she didn’t brush it away.
“…I like it this way.”
Sophie blinked. For a heartbeat, Agatha braced for another onslaught of pleading.
Then—
Sophie took her hands. Not grabbing, not tugging. Just holding, her fingers still faintly sticky with tonic. “We’ll do it right this time,” she said, so quiet it was almost lost to the lapping waves.
Agatha stared at their joined hands. Sophie’s gloves were frayed, her nails bitten short. Not a princess’s hands at all.
She looked away. A grunt—neither a yes, or a no.
Sophie beamed like it was a vow.
The sun was nearly gone now, the first stars pricking through the twilight. Sophie stood, brushing crumbs from her dress.
“Want to eat at my house tonight?” The question hung between them, tentative.
Agatha frowned. Her mother's smug face flashed in her mind—
Sophie backtracked instantly. “You don’t have to! I just thought—”
“N-no!” Agatha’s voice cracked. “I’d… like to.” The admission came out a whisper, but Sophie heard it.
She squealed, dragging Agatha upright with enough force to make them both stumble. “We’ll have soup! And honey cakes! And—oh!—I’ll show you the new ribbons I got, the blue ones that—”
Agatha let herself be pulled along, Sophie’s chatter weaving around them like a spell. The cemetery gates loomed behind, but for once, Agatha didn’t glance back at them.
So what if my mother was right?
She’d finally found a friend.