Eleanor’s own anger rose in her. Was she supposed to feel sorry for the hedgewitch? For the person who had destroyed her mother? Her hands balled into fists. She wanted to scream—she wanted to hit the woman—she wanted to run.

Instead, her ears ringing, she marched out of the room and walked up the stairs. She meant to go wake Thea, but at the top of the stairs she stopped and sagged against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut, choking back a sob.

It hurt so much she couldn’t breathe. It hurt so much she could feel the hurt turning swiftly into hate.

The words of The Glass-Heart Girl echoed in her mind.

“Grief is the consequence of love,” said the old woman. “Love will always shatter you, sooner or later. Love is never safe. It is never wise.”

“But isn’t it worth it?” the princess asked.

“Worth it to shatter? You can be happy, be whole, by yourself,” the old woman chided. “Do not tie yourself strongly to others. Those bonds will tug at you. Pull you apart. You have to stay whole.”

The cold gray thread that bound Eleanor to the hedgewitch was lodged somewhere inside of her, and Eleanor did seem to feel it tugging at her like a fishhook. And it wasn’t the only one. Worry about Ben, fear of losing Pip and Otto—they all twisted and tangled and tore at her. If she could cut through them all, she’d be free. She’d have none of this pain.

But she hadn’t been able to open the Wending without them. The book was wrong. It had to be. Love had to be worth it, even if it hurt like this.

She straightened up, swiping tears from her eyes, and walked the rest of the way to Thea’s room. At the door she paused, looking behind her at the grandfather clock that stood in the hall. The hands weren’t moving backward anymore, like usual. They weren’t going forward, either. The second hand was ticking forward and back, forward and back, like it was stuck.

Eleanor pushed open the door. Thea sat on the bed. Her arms were wrapped tightly around the cat-of-ashes, who lay draped awkwardly over her shoulder as the girl wept into her long fur.

“Thea?” Eleanor said. “Are you okay?”

Thea looked up, her face streaked with tears and more than a little snot, a great deal of which had smeared into the cat-of-ashes’ normally pristine fur.

“Hello, Eleanor,” Thea said. She loosened her grip on the cat, who detached herself with what grace she could muster, leaped down from the bed, and walked primly past Eleanor.

“We will never speak of this again,” she said under her breath, her tail lashing, and bounded into the hall.