“Rafal said one day Sophie would come back to him,” she puffed, waving away more pesky pollen. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t chase her. He doesn’t understand how much Sophie loves Tedros.”

“Or he understands exactly how much she loves Tedros,” said Merlin vaguely, laying out a picnic lunch of chicken potpie and watercress salad atop the flattened flowers.

“What do you mea— Wait, we’re eating here? In the middle of the day with zombie villains on the loose?”

“Gillikin fairies are an Ever’s most dependable scouts.” Merlin held up a handful of watercress stalks. “You’ll keep an eye out for us, won’t you, Gillies?”

Agatha watched him waving vegetables at thin air, convinced the old man had finally lost his mind. But then she noticed the watercress whittling down in his hand, as if magically being eaten by something . . .

“Invisible,” said Agatha, flashing a bright smile. “It’s not pollen! It’s fairies!”

She looked up at the drab, gray air and imagined it aglow with thousands and thousands of diaphanous wings and tiny, fantastical little bodies. Once upon a time, she’d thought of fairies as girly, vapid insects (she’d swallowed one her first day at school), but now, she’d give anything to see the little Gillies, even for a moment. She held out her arm and felt them crawl all over her, chills of wonder goose pimpling her skin, her smile growing as she listened to their thrumming wings . . .

Then her smile evaporated. She could see Sophie and Tedros in the valley of a distant hill, their blond bodies close together as they walked.

“Merlin, am I . . .” Words stuck in her throat. “Am I . . . doing the right thing?”

Merlin studied Sophie’s and Tedros’ small figures, as he sipped on a goblet of wine he’d pulled from his hat.

“Let me tell you a story about Tedros’ father, Agatha. Years after Tedros was born, King Arthur came to my cave one day demanding a spell to spy on Guinevere, his queen. He was quite sure she’d been straying from the castle at nights for some time and wanted to see where she’d been going. Now, Arthur’s anxieties about Guinevere were not new. Even when they were students at the School for Good, he’d schemed and manipulated and done everything he could to ensure she chose him as her true love. At the time, there was stern competition from a young knight-in-training named Lancelot, who in addition to being bookish and an animal lover like Guinevere, also happened to be Arthur’s best friend. Arthur certainly noticed the attraction between them, but he made sure Lancelot knew of his intentions towards Guinevere and that he would not be denied. Besides, as Arthur saw it, Lancelot couldn’t hold a candle to him when it came to the things that mattered to a girl: looks, lineage, money, fame. . . . So when Guinevere and Arthur were tracked as Leaders, and Lancelot as a Helper to the future king, Arthur persuaded Guinevere he was the right choice for a husband. How could she marry Lancelot—now a knight for the king—when she could have the king himself? As Arthur put it, Camelot needed Guinevere: he would accept no other queen and it was her duty to Good to marry him. No girl could stand firm against such words, not when they came from a boy as dashing and determined and powerful as Arthur.