It wasn’t just her best friend or her prince she was afraid of losing.

It was the old Agatha.

The Agatha who knew how to be alone.

That’s why she’d held on so tightly to Sophie as a friend . . . then to Tedros as her prince . . . doubting them, testing them, distrusting them . . . but still holding on.

Because somewhere along the way she’d stopped trusting herself too.

Pain smashed through the barrier and flooded her heart. Agatha closed her eyes, unable to breathe, as if she was drowning—

“Heard I took you to the Snow Ball and didn’t even know it,” a voice said.

She turned to see Hort, barechested in long underpants, his hair dripping wet.

Maybe it was her wrought expression or the red in her cheeks, but Hort awkwardly covered his chest. “Uh, she’s washing my clothes. Don’t fall in love with me or anything,” he mumbled.

Agatha took one look at his worried face and exploded into cackles, tearing and laughing at the same time.

“Oh eat my dust, will you!” Hort barked. “You know full well you’re impressed by what you see!”

Agatha wiped her eyes. “Oh, Hort. One day people will read our fairy tale and you’ll be the one they love the most.”

She started walking away.

“I didn’t lose my clothes this time! I gave them to her!” he called out. “And I’ll have my own fairy tale, one day. With a happy ending and everything. I can prove it—”

“Really? How’s that?”

“’Cause I found something you won’t believe.”

Agatha stopped walking and turned.

The weasel flashed a wicked grin. “Want to see?”

Sophie had been standing next to Tedros in the oak grove for nearly ten minutes, but the prince didn’t say a word. He was staring at a beautiful glass cross, rising out of the ground between two trees. Garlands of fresh white roses draped the cross, along with a small glowing five-pointed star resting against the base. There were more of these five-pointed stars around it, ashy and burnt-out, as if Merlin returned to lay a new star whenever the old had grown cold.

Sophie nuzzled into Tedros’ side. “Is this where your father’s buried? It’s pretty.”

Tedros turned to her. “Sorry, do you mind if I do this alone?”

Sophie scalded pink. “Of course—I-I-I’ll see you at the house—” She spun on her heel, tripping over a dimmed star, and bungled out of the grove.

“Sophie?”

She looked back at the prince.

“Thanks for checking on me,” he said.

Sophie nodded briskly and hurried away.

Without the light of Merlin’s star, she couldn’t see anything outside now, except the outlines of the house a quarter of a mile away. She tromped across the moors, cheeks still simmering.

Everyone had made her so frantic about the ring, so guilt-ridden and jittery, that she’d only been focused on getting Tedros’ kiss as fast as she could. She’d forgotten her prince wasn’t a prize to be won or a finish line she could barrel through. Had she even considered how he was feeling? Tedros was trapped indefinitely with the mother who’d abandoned him and the lover she’d chosen to spend her life with instead. How could he possibly look at Guinevere, let alone talk to her, let alone stay in her house, without wanting to kill her? Especially since it was completely within his right to kill her, according to his father’s decree?