THE PRINCE'S CLUB
Tedros' kisses tasted differently.
That was the first clue to Agatha that her prince had a secret.
Where his kisses once had the flavor of mint and sugar, now there was a hint of something hot and tart, like cooked grapefruit or flambeed cherry. It wasn't an unpleasant taste, Agatha thought, but it was different, and she sensed Tedros knew it, not only from the hesitation in his kisses, but also in the way he chewed on cardamom pastilles and licorice sticks relentlessly, as if there was indeed something to hide.
She could have said something, of course. They were married now, after all. Just as Tedros lambasted her cat for peeing in the prince's boots whenever Reaper came for visits or moaned about Agatha picking at her nails during court meetings or hid the deathly black gowns his queen favored for Camelot's spring ball, Agatha could have addressed the issue straight on with him — no doubt there was an easy explanation: a change in diet (he was finicky about food) or a new teeth-cleaning regimen (hadn't there been a visit to the dentist last month?) or too much time in his hot bath, which his overindulgent maid doused with every oil and salt in the Endless Woods (as if she wanted to get in with him!). Agatha brushed her concerns aside. Kisses from Tedros were kisses from Tedros, however they tasted. As quickly as they'd changed, they'd change back, and then she'd feel silly having ever brought it up.
This was her thinking in the beginning at least.
But then came the second clue that this was about more the flavor of his lips.
A week after she noticed the change in Tedros' kisses, she noticed something else.
He'd begun disappearing in the night.
Now that they were married, they slept in the same bed.
This came as easily to Agatha as thinking of Tedros as "her king" rather than "her prince" — which is to say, not easily at all.
Even if the bed was gargantuan, the sheets stitched from 800 silk threads, and the pillows like feathery clouds, it didn't change the fact that Tedros ran hot and Agatha ran cold and for the first two weeks, he'd toss and turn in a puddle of sweat, while she snatched futilely at blankets which he'd swept onto the floor, until the point came where she'd grab him thinking he was a blanket, only to sink her face into his sweaty back or stomach and wake up half-drowned.
Too many days of this and they'd become sleepless grumps, right in the middle of spring ball season when they should be fresh-faced newlyweds, and so a decision was made. Agatha would sleep in her old room, Tedros in the king's chamber, and they'd try again in two weeks when the calendar of engagements wasn't so fraught.
Agatha went back to calling him "her prince" and had never slept so well.
At first, she was perfectly happy putting off adulthood a little bit longer. Tedros seemed the same, returned to whistling at breakfast and cracking jokes at her expense ("For someone who grew up in a graveyard, fitting you had a wedding and funeral on the same day"), and she'd retaliated by stabbing a hole in one of his perfectly undercooked eggs. All was well.
But then one night, in the dead of sleep, she'd woken with a start — perhaps a bad dream, perhaps a sound — and as she sat to sip water, her eyes caught movement out the window and she spotted her prince, cast in moonlight, slipping through the garden like a thief. He was dressed in a royal blue doublet studded with pink heart-shaped pearls and a white lace collar, an outfit Agatha had never even seen before, and his wild gold curls were clamped down and tucked behind his ears, which means he'd bathed and combed before he'd gone stealing out of the castle.
Agatha didn't ask him about it the next morning
Nor the next, after she'd caught him doing it again.
Nor the next.
Nor the next.
Instead, she'd kept asking for kisses at breakfast, tasting that strange bitter orange, and inspecting the black circles under his eyes, which belied his jaunty mood.
On the fifth night, she waited until she saw him prowling out of the garden in another glistening doublet, this time red and silver.
She threw back her bed sheets, revealing the rest of herself, clad in her favorite deathly black gown.
Then she followed him.
At the shore beneath the castle, a ship was waiting for the king, small and lithe with black sails and twin cannons, that glided due west, which was strange, because as far as Agatha knew, there wasn't anything due west of Camelot.
She couldn't just go bounding after him in another boat. On open seas, his ship would spot hers. At best, he'd abort or divert his route. At worst, they'd open fire thinking her an enemy. Either way, she'd risk never getting answers to where he was going.
Luckily, Agatha had her own ship — one that only served a lady of Camelot. And unlike the one Tedros sailed… hers had more creative ways of traveling.
She closed her eyes, focused her mind and smiled.
A moment later, a ripple popped in the sea. Then more ripples bubbled up, faster and faster, whipping into a whirlpool that swirled deeper, wider, until from the center of it, the hull of a ship broke through, blue and gold, billowing with creamy white sails, the name IGRAINE painted on the bow near a masthead statue of a young, dark-haired woman dangling a lantern over the sea.
A few moments later, Agatha was aboard and standing at the prow, casting a shadow over the statue, her eyes pinned on the glint of Tedros' vessel, so far to the west now that it was merely a sparkle on the sea.
She took a deep breath and spoke the command silently.
Follow that ship.
The Igraine lifted straight into the air like a severed balloon, puffing its sails once, twice to expel any last traces of water…
Then it throttled west like a hawk after prey.
Agatha had told no one that Tedros was sneaking out at night.
Well. She'd told Sophie, of course.
"And this is a problem? First you complain when he's in your bed and now you complain when he's out of it," her best friend had mused, dressed in a shiny purple pantsuit, accompanied by a purple hat topped with peacock feathers. "You're married now, Aggie. You should be a team instead of two ships passing in the night."
Agatha hadn't replied, the pair ambling through the royal gardens after lunch.
"Oh dear, now you're looking like the miserable Graveyard Girl of old. He's probably just going for one of his midnight workouts," Sophie sighed. "You know how he is. Obsessed with his body and all that. It's what you get for marrying someone vain. Ask Hort what it's like being with me. Not that me and the weasel are married, but anytime I'm spinning my wheels, doesn't matter what time it is; I'll take myself to where there's a good, stiff breeze and do some night yoga."
"He's not sneaking out of bed to work out," Agatha said, her voice tightening. "He's going to… meet someone. He's bathed and dressed in the most beautiful clothes. Silk doublets, velvet waistcoats, heart-shaped pearls and cufflinks. Entirely overdressed. The way you are now."
"Excuse me, Your Highness," Sophie puffed. "You wrote with an urgent invitation to lunch and since you are now Queen of Camelot, I presumed it about royal business — you know, the official naming of your best friend as 'Queen Consort' or my appointment as ambassador to an exotic kingdom or at the very least, the unveiling of a portrait of me in your fusty halls — so apologies if I dressed to my expectations. Instead, I'm summoned from my own urgent work at school to a lunch of cold bisque and overcooked lobster and informed that your prince and husband is exercising his free will to take a bath and…" Sophie's eyes flared. "Meet someone? You mean another girl?"
Agatha gazed at her.
"Well, let's go ask him then!" Sophie insisted. "Where is that cad?"
"Napping. He's been dozing off in the afternoons. Whatever he's off doing at nights has left him knackered."
Sophie pursed his lips. "And the guards don't catch him?"
"Maybe they're in on it," said Agatha quietly. "The way Guinevere made off with Lancelot each night without anyone interfering. Like mother, like son."
Sophie spun to her so fast a feather flew off her hat. "Impossible. You two were just married. No one would honestly believe he's having an affair… You don't believe it, Aggie. I see it in your eyes. If you did, you wouldn't have called me here. You would have already confronted him yourself."
Agatha looked down. "You know me too well. But he is going somewhere at night and he's keeping it a secret."
"He's your husband! Can't you just ask him about it?"
"What if he denies it and stops whatever he's up to? Then I'd never know."
"Curiosity did kill the cat. Along with every other nosy parker in a fairy tale," Sophie warned. "And my point being that you and Tedros can't have secrets from each other anymore. Otherwise what's the point of being married? You have to let him in. You have to give yourself to love. And I say you and not him, because you're the one who has a history of trying to control everything and going at life alone." Sophie threw a stern glance at her friend, before softening. "Then again, I suppose you can't keep letting your prince run around in the middle of the night dressed in fancy doublets and smelling like a bath without knowing what he's up to. Which means you have to follow him. And judging from the way you're squinting at me, I suspect you already have a plan."
"I've been tracking his timings," Agatha admitted. "Tonight I'll be ready."
Sophie squeezed her best friend's hand. "Wherever he's going, Aggie… I'm sure there's a perfectly simple explanation."
"What would you do if Hort snuck out of your castle for a midnight rendezvous?" Agatha asked.
"I'd like to say that I'd trust him completely and leave him to his fun," Sophie replied. "But in all honesty… I'd probably kill him."
Agatha thought about this all now, reliving the conversation, while the Igraine hovered night sky far above Tedros' vessel, which coasted through open sea below.
Sophie was right about Agatha and her prince. They were married, but not yet a team. The proof in that they were, literally now, two ships passing in the night. She smiled at the lack of subtlety…
But then her smile curled down at the sides.
Because other ships loomed ahead, glittering under the moon like jewels.
She counted twelve in all, flying the sigils of other kingdoms — the red-and-black of Ravenbow, the green-and-white of Gillikin, the blue-and-pink of Pifflepaff Hills — all approaching a small island in the middle of the ocean, shaped like a teardrop. There was nothing on the isle but wild, overgrown forest; Agatha peered over the edge of the Igraine, using her mind to steer the ship lower, lower…
Oh but there was something on the island, she saw now.
Something hidden deep in the forest.
Agatha drew her ship down, dodging behind the fringe of a cloud, close enough to spot young men silently disembarking their boats at shore, Tedros included, all dressed in the beautiful frocks of royalty, none of them acknowledging each other or speaking a word, before gathering like a pack and herding into the trees.
Unnerved, Agatha steered her ship to shore, searching for a place to dock.
She must be seeing wrong. She had to be.
Because how could it be true?
That all these princes and kings would sail from near and far in the pit of night, her prince included, to a mysterious island in pursuit of…
… a merry go round?
By the time Agatha arrived at the carousel, the men were all gone, as if she'd dreamed up the entire affair.
She couldn't see much, the surrounding trees snuffing out the moonlight. She tried to ignite her fingerglow, but it wouldn't work, not even a flicker, suggesting a shield against magic. Carefully she padded around the carousel's perimeter, hands out, feeling for something to grip onto. She tripped hard, stumbling forward, her clump landing on the raised platform —
Instantly, a thousand flames sparked to glow, lighting up the merry-go-round. Blue tea candles were arranged in circular sweeps beneath the cresting, a wraparound board on top of the carousel, engraved with scenes that Agatha recognized from an old storybook back in Gavaldon called Pinocchio — paintings of a beautiful Blue Fairy, turning a wooden puppet into a real boy with her golden wand.
Beneath the cresting were twelve porcelain horses, staggered around the platform and anchored by wooden poles from the ceiling, each horse an unusual color, pink or blue or green, the ceramic hides painted with fluorescing stars.
Agatha scanned the platform, finding fresh bootprints, imprinted around the horses.
Tedros and the others had been here.
That she was sure of.
Agatha peered into the trees beyond the carousel.
But where were they?
She'd only been a few minutes behind them, five or ten at most…
They must have gone somewhere else on the island, she thought. Quickly, she gathered the ends of her black dress, preparing to sprint into the forest —
But then something caught her eye… wedged onto the back of one of the horses... between jagged cuts of pink-painted hair…
Agatha swung her legs onto the horse.
She reached down and plucked the pink heart-shaped pearl, holding it up to candlelight.
Tedros had been on this horse.
Suddenly, soft music began to emanate from the center pole, a stately waltz without players. The horses began to move on their poles, the platform rotating clockwise, and Agatha nearly lost grip on her prince's pearl, lurching off her horse to secure it, before settling back in the saddle. Up and down, up and down the horses went, Agatha straddled on the pink one's back, her fingers sliding her prince's jewel into her dress. But now the ride was going faster, the waltz too picking up speed, and for a moment, Agatha's bafflement was replaced by gall that these men had shirked their various lives to come ride toy ponies… Only now her horse was jerking even faster, obliterating her thoughts and throwing her forward. She gripped the horse's neck, hunting for a way to escape, but all she could see was a blur of bobbing horses and the darkness of forest beyond. The music sped and stuttered to a high-pitched whine, the ride losing all control. Crackles of wood ripped across the platform. Agatha braced too late –
Her horse's pole shattered beneath her fingers. With a lunge, she tried to dive for the next horse, but her own had already torn free, stamping a hole in the wooden platform and bucking Agatha off its back, sending her free-falling straight into the hole. Agatha closed her eyes, bracing for impact and pain —
She landed pillow-soft, hit with the rich smell of earth.
Agatha opened her eyes.
Dust hung like a veil, slowly clearing.
She was sitting in a chair, swaddled by cushions.
A small cavern hemmed her in, a few torches on dirt walls burning with gentle blue flames.
Her chair was in a circle with twelve others, each occupied by a prince or king… a redhead from Gillikin… a pale Ravenbow hulk… a swarthy prince of Jaunt Jolie…
Tedros was seated directly across from Agatha, glaring straight at her, with big, crystal blue eyes.
Agatha held her breath, waiting for him to say something.
Only he didn't. As if he didn't see her at all.
As if he was a wax doll.
As if all of the men were dolls, each gazing ahead, eyes wide open, mouths agape.
Agatha snapped her fingers.
She waved her hands in front of Tedros' face.
No response.
She went to touch him —
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice.
Agatha whirled around.
A beautiful woman stared back at her.
A woman who looked instantly familiar.
For it was her face that had been painted on the carousel.
The Blue Fairy smiled.
"Welcome, Queen Agatha," she said. "I had a feeling you might come."
"How do you know who I am?" Agatha asked.
"The same way you know who I am," spoke the Blue Fairy. "Your legend precedes you."
She wore a dress the color of a robin's egg, a silk, sleeveless one-piece down to the knees, covered in a thin veil of tulle. Her skin had the hue of a vanilla candle, her face diamond-shaped with thin, dark eyes, a narrow forehead, tapering chin, and blushes of rose on her cheeks. Agatha hadn't the slightest idea how old she was, for her skin gave off an otherworldly glow that blurred out any wrinkles or spots, as if she was radiating a light source within.
"Well your legend said you were a fairy godmother, not a kidnapper of men." Agatha pointed hard at Tedros. "What is happening to him? What's happening to all of them?"
The Blue Fairy glanced at Agatha's prince, his eyes frozen open, his body slack in his chair, a strip of drool at the corner of his open mouth. "Did he ever mention the Prince's Club to you?"
Agatha squinted. "Prince's Club?"
"Mmm, I didn't think he would," the fairy replied. "It's a well-kept secret between fathers and sons. Not to say that King Arthur would have confided in him, since Tedros' father died before the boy came of age. But no doubt Merlin or Lancelot would have informed the young prince."
"Informed him of what?" Agatha pressed.
"That once a year, the Prince's Club is open to the newly married," stated the Blue Fairy. She wandered around the circle of chairs, inspecting each of the young men, while Agatha's eyes shifted to the walls of earth behind the fairy, little sparkles appearing in the dirt wherever she moved, as if the light within her stoked light beyond. "For two weeks, the gates open for these freshly-wedded men to look inside. Then the gates close to them forever."
"I still don't understand," Agatha said. "Look inside for what?"
"What else?" The Blue Fairy glanced at her, inscrutable. "To see if they've made the right choice in a mate."
Tedros' queen went pale, her whole body stiff. "So he has doubts about me," Agatha croaked —
"Not necessarily," said the Blue Fairy. "Every prince comes to the club, whether they're happily married or not. Think of it this way. You used Wish Fish at school, didn't you? Those fish read your soul and tell you your greatest wish. This tells you more than that. This tells you whether your soul's wish can be trusted."
Agatha shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm still lost. What's… 'this'?"
"Pinocchio asked the very same question," said the Blue Fairy.
She reached into the front of her dress and drew out a golden wand. From the wand's tip bubbled a teardrop of blue liquid, translucent and gelatinous, that glowed as it came to full bloom. The drop fell from the tip and splashed in the dirt, erupting in a burst of cool, blue sparks that left behind a ring of ash.
"Not when he made his wish to be a real boy, mind you," the Blue Fairy continued, "but many years later, when he came to the Prince's Club after marrying his bride, the Princess of Altazarra. He, too, sat in one of these chairs, like your own prince, and took a taste to look inside. And just like your prince, Pinocchio came back night after night for two weeks, trying to understand exactly what this is… until the final night, when he figured it out for himself, like every other prince who's passed through my den. That the name of this is also the name of what they find inside… or as they all call it…"
The Blue Fairy smiled. "… the Truth."
Agatha soaked this in, and in that single moment, the fairy had swept across the circle and leaned over a comatose prince, her nose an inch from Agatha's.
"Would you like to try?" the Blue Fairy asked.
Agatha stuttered back, managing only: "I'm… I'm… not a prince."
"And yet you came all this way like one, even without knowing what you were coming for," the Blue Fairy noted. "It's the last night before the gates close to you and your prince forever. Might as well have a look, don't you think? Not that it'll do much good. Unless your soul is exceptionally clear, there's little to see on your first trip inside." She raised her brows at Agatha, dark eyes twinkling.
Agatha's throat squeezed. Merlin. Dovey. Sader. All had agreed on one thing about her soul. It was nothing if not exceptionally clear.
Fear pitted deeper in her stomach. Sophie's warning of a dead, too-curious cat, followed by a rush of adrenaline telling her to get back to her ship, to run from here and forget it all —
"Do you know why it's called the Princes' Club?" the Blue Fairy prompted, her glare sharpening. "Because every time a girl finds her way to me… every time a girl stands where you are now, with the chance to step through the gates… they choose to go back to sleep."
Agatha met her gaze.
Slowly she let go of her held breath.
She looked at her prince, lost in his trance.
Every night, he'd been here while she slumbered.
Chasing answers about their marriage.
About her.
Truths that Agatha thought she already knew…
…while her prince quested for them without her.
A king and queen, who once shared a bed, now dreaming apart.
Agatha turned to the Blue Fairy, a cool fire in her eyes.
"How do I start?" she asked.
Agatha tried to relax, positioning the cushion low on her back, so she could rest her neck against the top of the chair.
"How about a blanket? Or an ottoman to put your feet up?" the Blue Fairy asked sincerely. "Whatever you need to feel comfortable."
Agatha assessed the twelve princes, all in different positions. Some slumped over to one side. Some sitting straight. Some slid down in their chairs, shoes off, bare feet on a cushion, as if they might as well be in bed.
"A blanket would be nice," Agatha said.
The Blue Fairy tapped her wand and a quilt appeared over Agatha's lap, soft, black and wrinkled, like Reaper's bald skin, as if the fairy had known exactly what would put her at ease.
"Whenever you're ready," said the Blue Fairy, watching Agatha cocoon herself in the blanket.
Agatha took a deep breath. "Ready."
The Blue Fairy raised her wand, a teardrop of bright blue emerging from the tip.
Without prompting, Agatha opened her mouth and the fairy tapped her wand inside.
One drop, two drop, three drops, before the fairy pulled the wand away and Agatha closed her lips, letting the thick blue liquid slide town her tongue.
It tasted sweet, like frosted ice at first, before it began to morph… the taste of her mother's batwing stew… now Sophie's butterless bran biscuits… then hot, cozy mint… like the smell of her prince… but then that bitter fruit… the wrong taste of a kiss… The flavor overwhelmed her until it was in her nose, in her throat, in her breath, and she looked up anxiously at the Blue Fairy, as if she knew that whatever contaminated her prince had now invaded her, but the fairy was already blurring and dividing in two, three, six, twelve, Agatha reaching out to grab onto her and already falling, falling, falling —
She was in space, amongst the stars.
Her black dress hung loosely, her arms and legs treading for wind, for a current, but finding nothing, her body drifting amongst a million pinprick lights. This wasn't like the Celestium with its hand-drawn stars and magical clouds and two dimensions. This was something bigger, with no end or beginning, no entrance or exit. She floated and floated, trying to make sense of where she was and finding only a dull ache in her head, as if there was no thinking allowed, only feeling, here and now.
Then rose the planets.
Eight in a row, spinning on a single axis, each at different speeds and angles, each a radiant hue… pink, blue, green… shiny and ceramic and painted with fluorescing stars… like the hides of carousel horses…
She knew at once that she was to pick one — that one of these was her home — but which? They began to call her name, Agatha, Agatha, Agatha, but none in a tone she recognized, each with its own voice. She listened closer, to pick them apart, but the harder she tried, the quicker the calls came, AgathaAgathaAgathaAgatha, until they were overlapping, a single high-pitched whine, the planets spinning faster, faster, faster, until Agatha heard a familiar crackling, the shattering of wood… Planets ripped off their axis, colliding like pinballs and ricocheting into space. She had to make a choice before she lost them all —
The pink one.
She dove for it and reached out her arms like a child to a ball. But it was growing bigger now, too big for her to catch, and it was no longer a ball, but a pink, pearly heart, suddenly catching fire, a comet to burn her up. She turned to flee too late —
Waves crashed to shore.
She lifted her face, caked in sand, her body splayed on a beach.
Under a hot pink sky, cloudless and flat, a pink ocean stretched into horizon —
Smooth cuts of skin surfaced in the water, golden-brown spines bucking and curving, like gilded dolphins. Only they weren't dolphins, she realized now, but men, torsos flipping off water as they spit streams high into the sky like blowholing whales before diving back under. Closer and closer they came, more shiny smooth backs undulating like fins, ten of them, twenty, thirty, fifty strapping strangers, seafaring for Agatha, whose aversion to strange men sent her crabwalking back, as if facing down sharks. Except now as they came closer, Agatha stopped her flight. Because they weren't strangers… They were Tedros.
All of them Tedros.
Landing on the beach, one by one, variations of her prince, different in pose and mood and levels of tan, but each with his eyes fixed on her as if she was the prize to be won.
Agatha lounged back in sand. If this was the truth of her soul, then let the Tedroses come. For once in her life, she could be Sophie, awash in men, without the guilt because it was her man —
But now the Tedroses were crumbling.
Each dissolving to sand as they stepped foot on the beach, nothing left of a prince.
Agatha's eyes flung right and left, all her loves falling. She had to save one... keep him in the water and off the beach… or there would be none left…
Tedroses crumbled around her as she charged towards the sea, swimming, thrashing for the Tedros who was furthest, safe and sure and true. She grabbed him with both arms, burying her face in his chest with relief, looking up into his smiling blue eyes. But now her vision was speckling, fracturing… because one of them was turning to sand… and it wasn't her prince…
Agatha held up her hand and watched it break into a million little pieces.
She thrust the other at him for one last touch —
Snow blew her off a mountain.
She plunged backwards into blizzarding wind, pummeled by white gales of frost, free-falling, arms and legs out like a snow angel —
Something jerked at her hips, stopping her fall hard, suspending her on her back mid-air in storm.
Slowly, she craned her neck to see a white chain wrapped around her pelvis and reaching up high, high, high in the sky…
…to Tedros, who had the rest of the chain wrapped around his hips as he held onto the mountain with one hand, the rest of him dangling off it.
If he fell, she fell.
If she fell, he fell.
Agatha saw a piece of cliff within arm's reach. She grabbed for it —
A scream echoed above and now Tedros dangled from a single finger.
One of them had to lead in order to survive.
But if they both tried to lead… they'd die.
Naturally Agatha pulled on the chain first, guiding her prince to follow her —
Tedros lost grip with a yell, scraping down the side of the mountain, clasping onto a last horn of cliff, his legs kicking under him. The chain went taut, swerving Agatha off her rock, so she dangled freely over the chasm. Snow blinded her, Tedros a black shadow on high.
Now it was her prince who tried to lead, climbing up the mountain, dragging Agatha by the chain, but she had no control, her body spinning at his mercy. She lurched angrily for a new crag of rock, wrenching on the chain, knocking Tedros off the slope. He fell like a severed spider, plummeting straight past her, until the chain caught, suspending him as Agatha was a second before, her prince dusted with snow, his princess the black shadow looking down.
Tedros clawed for control.
Agatha fell.
Low, then high. High, then low. Snow, then shadow. Shadow, then snow.
This would go on forever, Agatha realized. No progress, no teamwork, nothing gained.
Tedros jerked on the chain.
Agatha plunged.
Their eyes met as they passed -
A bed.
She and her prince lying in it, side-by-side.
Only they were each cuffed to separate posts, wrists bound and lashed behind their heads, so that neither could get free.
The bed began to flood.
Rich, blue liquid splashed in from every corner, an angry tempest devouring the mattress, towing them under, until they bobbed their heads, one after the other, stealing frantic breaths.
Tedros, listen to me.
He turned to her, but he was wearing a mask. Silver steel like the School Master's, covering half of his face. His single eye gazed at her, before more tides of blue came.
Underwater, they tore at their binds, each trying to free themselves —
Only Tedros succeeded.
He kicked off his post and Agatha blew ripples of relief, stretching her wrists from her post to be freed. But Tedros didn't swim in her direction. He swam away, into an undersea garden, vanishing between colors.
Agatha shouted after him, but it was too late. He was gone and she was out of air, twisting, floundering, her mind fogging black, the pressure in her lungs turning to sharp intakes of pain —
Until suddenly, she was rising, surfacing, gently brought to breath and she inhaled as if drinking the sky. She laid back on her rescue raft, her body draped into its warmth. Up and down the raft swayed, as if taking its own big breaths, until she looked down and realized it wasn't a raft, but her prince, face down, giving his back to save her.
No. No!
She tried to turn him, to make him breathe, but he reached back and pinned her to his spine with his wrists. The flood came harder, angrier, punishing him to break his will, but the prince didn't bend, his princess forced to live, his breaths shallowing, until he had no more left. She ripped free of his grip, diving into the water, flipping him over —
It was a table.
She was in a house all alone.
A house she knew well.
At the table, there were two place settings.
The second one empty.
Agatha glanced around the cottage.
There was a kettle on the stove bubbling with hot chocolate. Next to it a mug filled to the brim with it, topped with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles.
Tedros? she called.
No answer.
Over the fire, a cauldron bubbled, the scent of batwing stew.
Mom? said Agatha.
Emptiness hung like a fog.
She looked out the window.
Gravestones glowed on a hill in pearly pink sunset.
She waited and waited and waited for someone to come home.
For someone to be her family.
Months passed.
Years.
But all she found was ghostly silence.
The sun speared through the window like a sword.
Agatha's eyes fluttered open.
"Tedros?" she wheezed.
Suddenly she remembered everything.
She turned her head for the Blue Fairy, for the princes -
No one.
No chair.
No club.
No island.
Just bare pillows in her empty bed.
"Tedros?" she called again.
A clock tolled somewhere.
Nine o'clock.
She looked again at the other half of the bed, untouched.
Agatha drew a gasp.
Instantly, she was on her feet, scrambling to gather sheets around her like a toga. "Tedros?" she called. She burst out of her room, past spooked maids. "Tedros!" She tripped on tails of the sheets, stumbling forward, hair wild, bare limbs flapping, her entire body propelled like a broken egret into the royal dining room…
…where Tedros was doodling on the back of the Camelot Courier, his breakfast plate clean.
Agatha choked out: "You're… you're… here."
"I am nothing if not a creature of habit. You're the one who no amount of knocking could rouse," he said, not looking up. "You missed the daily puzzle. Took me a while without you. The solution was 'Epiphany.' Speaking of which, the prince of Gillikin is leaving his wife a month after marrying her. Told the paper he had a revelation he's meant for someone else. Imagine that…" He looked up, stiffening. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a haunt."
"Oh… no… just… overslept," Agatha croaked.
Tedros folded the paper and stood with a smile. "Can I at least get a kiss? Have to go dress for my annual court visit to Gillikin. Can only imagine what I'll be walking into after this news…"
He strolled towards her and kissed her softly on the lips. "Not sure when I'll be back tonight, but hopefully I'll see you before you lock yourself in your chamber to oversleep." He winked at her and headed out of the room.
Agatha remained, her hand lifting to her mouth.
His kiss… It tasted right again. The way it once had.
She shook her head, bewildered.
How much had been real? How much had been a dream?
Maids entered the dining room to clear the table.
Agatha pulled the sheets tighter around her. There would be no answers. Time to stop living in her head and get on with her duties. She sighed, heading for the door —
Something stopped her.
A flash of color on the table as a maid picked it up.
The newspaper.
Tedros' doodle next to the daily puzzle.
A blue scrawl of a girl on a flooded bed…
…held up on a boy's back.
Late that night, Tedros returned from Gillikin, yawning and unbuttoning his green and gold doublet as he trudged through the castle, poised to faceplant into bed. He gave perfunctory nods to the guards, the young king eager to be alone. A finger stuttered on his doublet and he noticed one of the buttons missing, a hole where a heart-shaped pearl should be. He smiled and made a mental note to have one of the tailors fix it in the morning.
As he reached the cross between halls, he debated saying goodnight to his queen, but the doors to her chamber were sealed.
He sighed and walked down the corridor to his room, slumping through the double doors, his eyes barely open —
He froze at the edge of the bed.
Someone was balled up in sheets, hugging the pillows as if to hold his place.
A tear rose to the king's eye.
He slid off his jacket and climbed into bed.
Tedros let Agatha hold him.
Agatha let Tedros hold her.
Soon, their breaths were synched.
