The Last Ever After (16 page)

Sophie checked her arm, desperate to get out of this tub, but her blisters were still raw. “First of all, don't call me stupid, Hort. Second of all, please believe me when I say I'm sorry for last year, okay? I still don't know why Tedros' name came out of my mouth instead of yours. I'm done with him . . . I really am. I don't know what else to say—”

“As if I'd believe anything you said anyway,” Hort snorted. “I've already killed you and kissed you more times in my head than you deserve.”

Sophie stared at him.

Hort sighed, flicking the water. “But I learned my lesson.
No one wants Old Hort. So meet New Hort instead. Modeled right after your cool, manly prince. The Hort chicks dig.”

“But that Hort isn't real at all,” said Sophie, frowning. “That Hort isn't you.”

“Well, whoever it is . . .” Hort raised his gaze. “Finally got your attention, didn't he?”

Sophie fell silent.

“Yikes, getting pruney,” Hort deflected, assessing his wrinkled fingers. He started to push out of the tub. “Besides, your new boyfriend's probably waiting for you.”

Sophie watched him get out, water sliding down the curves of his back.

“Hort?”

He stopped, still facing away from her. The only sound in the room was the drip of his shorts onto the carpet.

“Do you still love me?” she whispered.

Slowly Hort turned to Sophie with a sad smile, looking like the raw, openhearted boy she once knew.

“No.”

Sophie averted her eyes. “Oh good. Yes. Glad to hear it,” she chimed, fussing with her dress before looking up. “You know, with my new boyfriend and all—”

But Hort was gone.

For a long time, Sophie stayed in the steaming pool, sweating and gazing at the spot where he'd been, even after her arm was well healed, even after her skin had shriveled dry. And only when she heard the shriek of fairies rip through the castle did Sophie realize then that she hadn't
just missed the start of lunch.

She'd missed it completely.

As midnight came and went, Sophie sat calmly in the School Master's window, her hair still wet, her ebony dress bunched at the knees as she pressed bare toes against the wall. She looked out at the fluorescent green bay, reflecting the shadows of two black castles, both dark and quiet.

How quickly things changed in a fairy tale.

Rafal hadn't been too upset, thank goodness—she claimed she'd gotten lost in the throng on the way to lunch
(“It's like an overcrowded zoo, Rafal.”)
and trapped herself in a broom closet (
“So much black in this place—hard to tell the closets from the students!”
). Rafal interrupted her, looking stressed: he'd barely been at lunch himself, he said, and told her he had important business in the School for Old that would keep him there until the morning. With a kiss, he left her on her own and off the hook (except for a stern visit from Lady Lesso, who'd chastised her for being no closer to finding the spy).

Sophie curled her knees to her chest and glanced at the Storian, paused over a blank page. It hadn't drawn a new scene since early in the evening, when it painted Agatha and Tedros disappearing into a rabbit hole and Tedros fainting at the sight of a bearded old man. She'd tried to flip back in the storybook to see who this old man was and where Agatha and her prince were in the Woods, but the Storian had stabbed her when she'd tried to turn pages, nearly impaling her hand. Once a story was unfolding, it seemed you couldn't go back.

Sophie did a few half-hearted yoga poses, trying to take her mind off the two Evers, then gave up and slumped onto the edge of the bed, looking out the window again.

Somewhere out there her best friends were writing their own side of the story. Somewhere out there they were coming to rescue her from a school she would have once done anything to be rescued from . . . coming to convince her to leave Evil and its Master behind forever . . .

Or so they think.

Because now she felt at home here in Evil. Sure, there were a few pitfalls her first day, but she was still a teacher and queen, superior to all the other students. More importantly, she was about to win Evil's first fairy tale in two hundred years! She was about to be a legend for all time, more famous than Snow White, Cinderella, and every other old, blank-eyed, pink princess who never had a mind of her own . . .

And to think, I used to be like those fools.

But now she was ready to fight for Evil.

Kill, even.

Because unlike all Evil that came before her, she had someone to fight for.

Rafal
, she thought, admiring her ring, imagining his gorgeous, snow-cold face in its reflection . . .

Only now she was seeing Hort instead, pink and warm in steaming blue mist . . .

Then violet-eyed Aric, primal and perspiring in the Forest . . .

Sophie shrank against the wall, nauseous.

After finally finding her true love, now she was fantasizing
about Hort? About Aric? After everything she'd done to find love?

Rafal
had
to be the one, after all.

No one else loved her anymore.

Not even Hort.

I need proof,
she thought.
That's all.

I need proof Rafal is the one.

Then I'll stop doubting.

Then I'll stop thinking of other boys.

She lifted her eyes to the dark, empty room.

Prove it
, she begged her heart.

Prove he's my true love.

The School Master's chamber was dead silent.

All of a sudden, the ring on her finger started to move.

Slowly it slid down her finger by its own power, settling below the knuckle.

It was still for a moment, cold against her left hand. Then the ring magically melted before her eyes, the gold turning darker and darker, softer and softer, deconstructing into a circle of gleaming black liquid.

Sophie held her breath, staring at the ring of ink, warm and wet on her finger, gripping her skin like a leech—

But now she saw what the ring was doing.

It was writing a first letter into her finger.

It was writing the name of her true love.

Just like she'd asked.

Sophie smiled and closed her eyes, letting her inner fairy godmother do her work.

Inky and wet, the ring calmly slashed into her skin, controlled by something deep within her. With every new letter, Sophie's soul breathed freer, lighter, as if a crushing weight had been lifted, as if the force moving the ring was her true self, her purest self . . . until at last, the ring finished the last letter and hardened back to solid gold, leaving the name “Rafal” upon her without a doubt . . . Rafal who she'd be with forever . . .

Slowly Sophie opened her eyes and saw the name in squid-black ink.

It wasn't Rafal's.

She fell off the bed in shock.

Petrified, she grabbed the hem of her dress and scrubbed at the name, trying to erase it.

Still there.

She scraped with her nails, buffed it on the floor, chafed it against the wall—but the name was even darker than before. Thunderstruck, she cowered against the bed, hiding her hand in her dress, trying to calm her screaming heart.

It didn't matter what name was there!

There was no way that name was her true love.

There was no way that name was her happy ending.

Because the name the ring had tattooed on Sophie's skin, the name it had promised was her one true love, was the name of the prince she was supposed to kill.

14
Where Wizards Go to Think

“I
suppose the entrance was a bit dramatic,” Merlin mulled in his musical baritone as he reclined Tedros onto the sofa, his purple cape accidentally smothering the prince's face. “But a good wizard can't very well loaf in like a delivery boy, can he?”

“Don't
talk
to me!” Tedros mumbled, his voice cracking as he shoved Merlin and his robes away. “You think you can mosey in and tell jokes and pretend everything's
okay
?” He smeared angry tears, turning his ire on Agatha. “And just so you know, I didn't faint, so don't even think about it!”

“Put your legs up here,” Agatha said calmly, stripping off the prince's socks and lifting his clammy feet onto the ottoman.

“Tell all the old farts that
I didn't faint.
Tell
them.”

“They're busy eating supper, not even paying the slightest attention to you,” Agatha replied, peeking up to see Yuba and the other League members instantly duck their heads to their plates of mashed carrots and gruel at the dining table, pretending to have a conversation.

“And even if I did faint, you fainted
twice
,” Tedros snapped, wiping his runny nose with his sleeve.

“Nice to see the future of Camelot is in mature hands,” said Agatha, jamming another pillow under his head.

“He was even more emotional as a child. Imagine that!” Merlin piped, smacking the dust out of his robes before he plunked down in a rocking chair, doffed his hat, and pulled a cherry lollipop out of it like a carnival magician. “Of his future princess, his father would say, ‘Look for the girl who is truly Good.'” Merlin sucked loudly on the lollipop. “I, on the other hand, said, ‘Look for the girl who will give you a good kick in the rump.'”

Tedros glowered, red-eyed. “You think this is funny?”

Merlin burped and tugged at his moustache. “Tedros, I know I have a lot to explain—”

“No.
No
explaining. There's nothing to explain!” Tedros waved him off. “Mother runs off with Father's best friend when I'm nine. Runs off with Lancelot, of all people—Lancelot, the knight I idolized, who carried me on his back and gave me my first sword and acted like he was my friend too. She didn't even say goodbye, Merlin! As if Dad and I were strangers, as if we were
nothing
. But no matter how much I cried or cursed
her, no matter how many times I watched Dad lock himself in his chamber, at least we still had you. You kept our family together when it was falling apart.” Tedros welled up again. “And then a week later, you disappear in the middle of the night, just like she did. Not a word to my father after guiding him his whole
life
. Not a word to me, who you took questing in the Woods like I was your own. Father said you left because your life was in danger—said you'd created a spell that messed with boys and girls and could bring down whole kingdoms; that word of the spell had spread and armies were coming for you. . . . But the Merlin I knew was stronger than any army, bigger than any danger. The Merlin I knew would have put my dad before his own life.”

Tedros heaved a breath. “I was ten years old and had to watch my father die, as weak as he was once strong. I kept telling myself you'd come back. Merlin couldn't abandon me like this: an orphan in a giant castle, with no mother, no father, no one to care about me. But years went by and I told myself you were dead. You had to be. So I mourned you like I did Father, promising to make you proud for the rest of my life, wherever in heaven you were.” Tedros let out a sob, burying his face in a pillow. “And now you show up . . .
alive
?”

Agatha gazed at Tedros, her own eyes misting. She wanted to touch him, but he was too raw. Slowly, she looked up at Merlin, seeing a selfish old villain now instead of a hero.

The brightness in Merlin's face drained away. He flicked his finger and the lollipop evaporated as he leaned into his chair. “I should have left the castle long before that night, Tedros. Your
father had stopped viewing me as his friend and more as an old fool, there only to nag and point fingers and hold him back. Indeed, he'd come to my cave only days before demanding a spell to spy on Guinevere, but I'd held firm that matters of the heart were too delicate for magic. The young Arthur would have trusted my advice and confronted her, even if it wounded his pride or led to a truth he wasn't ready to accept. But the old Arthur, green-eyed and arrogant, stole a spell recipe from my cave like a vengeful child, changing himself from a boy to a girl in order to trap his own
wife
. I had to leave Camelot. Not just to protect myself, but to protect your father most of all. Had the spell not been there for him to take, perhaps Arthur and I may have found a different ending. Though that in itself may be wishful thinking. As he told me many times before that day in anger, ‘I don't need you anymore.'”

Tedros rubbed his eyes, scarlet fading from his cheeks. “And what about me? What if I needed you?”

“I couldn't make the same mistakes with you as I'd made with your father,” said Merlin. “I'd sheltered him from his own weaknesses, and because of it, those weaknesses won. I had to let you write your own story, Tedros . . . to let you grow up on your own, until the day when you truly needed me to survive. If I'd tried to say goodbye, you would have followed me into the Woods. Still, you'll never know how hard it was to leave you. As much as you may have needed me, I needed you far more.” The wizard's voice wavered slightly. “I took solace in the fact that I was never truly gone, watching you as an eagle watches from the sky, following every twist and turn of your
story. Cringing perhaps, at some of your mistakes, fatheaded as they were. And yet knowing that all these mistakes were yours, beautifully yours, and you came out the better for it . . . the boy I left behind well on his way to becoming an extraordinary man and an extraordinary king.” Merlin smiled. “If only from your choice of princess alone.”

Tedros and Agatha looked at each other and turned away, blushing, as if unsure whether they were still in a fight.

“Though you will certainly have interesting children,” Merlin murmured, studying them.

Agatha's buttocks clenched.

Tedros yawned and balled his knees to his chest. “Well, after everything you've put me through, the least you can do is make me one, M,” he grumbled, peeking at Merlin. “Double marshmallow and candy cream as usual, please.”

Merlin cracked a smile. “What'd I tell you? The second I show up they turn back into little boys,” he sighed. Out of his starry cone hat he pulled a tall stone mug of steaming chocolate with two giant fluffy marshmallows and a mountain of rainbow-sprinkled whipped cream and slid it into the prince's hand.

Tedros was about to take a sip . . . then looked up at Agatha. “Want to try?”

Agatha blinked at him. Her prince was the poster boy for chivalry, except when it came to food; he'd practically eaten her out of the house in Gavaldon, stolen last bites from under her too many times to count, and never offered her a single morsel of his own meals. So as he held out his mug, looking
so handsome and earnest, Agatha teared up like an idiot—because after all the fights and tension and resentment, it meant that Tedros still loved her.

Taking the warm mug from him, she slurped at the bubbling, rich chocolate and candy-studded cream and a riot of sweetness exploded on her tongue, as if she'd inhaled all of Hansel's Haven in one bite. “Whoa,” she shivered, going for another sip, but Tedros snatched it back so violently that Agatha burst into cackles.

“Where were you all these years, Merlin?” Tedros finally asked, with a whipped-cream moustache that looked remarkably like his mentor's.

“Exploring the Woods, my dear boy!” Merlin declared, digging deep in his hat for a round yellow balloon. It magically flitted out of his hands with a mousy squeak and inflated over his head. “They really are Endless, you know. The man-eating hills of Mahadeva, the upside-down kingdom of Borna Coric, the haunted fog of Akgul, the black seas of Ooty, led by an eight-armed queen—” The balloon frantically contorted into the images he was describing, trying to keep up. “I even spent Christmas one year in Altazarra, a kingdom where everything is made entirely out of milk or honey, with rivers of fresh butter cream, castles of Swiss cheese and honeycomb, and roads paved with thick yogurt. Everyone is quite obese, of course, but brilliantly happy, though not as happy as the villagers of Nupur Lala, who have a rare birth condition that leaves them all born without tongues. You'd be surprised how deliriously happy people are when they can't speak. And yet, no matter
where I went, they recognized me from King Arthur's storybook and treated me as an honored guest, though it meant I often had to do a bit of musty magic to earn supper and a bed (or in the case of Kingdom Kyrgios, a giant peapod). Amazing how tales travel, really, and it never ceased, no matter how far I went, each kingdom just as familiar with the legend of Arthur as the next, inspiring me to journey farther and farther, intoxicated with novelty, celebrity, and most of all inexhaustible beauty . . .”

The balloon popped with a gunshot crack, sputtering back into the hat. Merlin plopped it on his head with a sigh. “Yet as anything else, beauty grows tiring. For all my adoring fans, I began to feel a rot inside, as if finally turning as old on the inside as I was on the outside, as if there was no point to seeking adventures if I had no one to share these adventures
with. . . .
And yet, just as I told myself that it might indeed be time to die after all, Yuba managed to track me down on a glacier in the middle of the Piranha Lakes. The League of Thirteen had reconvened, he said. And a lad named Tedros was bringing his princess to meet it.”

Agatha and Tedros gaped at him, as if still stuck on the honey and cheese.

“Reconvened?” asked Agatha, her brain catching up. “The League of Thirteen existed before?”

“Why did it convene in the first place?” Tedros asked.

“Here come the questions,” Merlin moaned, yanking his hat down over his eyes. “I wish I was a seer. Then I would have an excuse not to answer them. No questions until after dinner.
Both of you must be ravenous.”

“Not for old-people food,” Tedros grouched, eyeing the others finishing up their carrots, gruel, and prune stew.

“Well, then I'm afraid you can't have any of this,” Merlin said and began pulling a sumptuous spread out of his hat, with pork ribs, sweet potato mash, creamed corn and bacon cubes, pickled cucumbers, and coconut-curried rice heaped on silver platters which he lay across a white silk picnic blanket which had magically appeared on the cave floor. “After all, given that I, an old person, just made it, I believe it would fall squarely under the term ‘old-people food.' Come, Agatha.” He drew a plate out of his hat for her and lavished it with pork, cucumbers, and corn.

Mouth salivating, Agatha was about to start shoveling food, when she saw Tedros' face, like a beaten puppy's. She cocked a grin and held out a rib. “Want to try?”