Sophie shook her head, mortified. Tedros was probably dying inside, his heart shredded by emotion, and she’d floated in like a gas bubble to tell him his father’s grave was pretty.

Agatha would never have been so selfish or stupid.

Sophie sighed dismally as she neared the farmhouse. She’d set out on this journey to rewrite her fairy tale, only to repeat the mistakes she’d made the first time. Tedros couldn’t be pushed or rushed or wheedled into a kiss. Even back on the trail, she’d been the one who tried to kiss him, which was no doubt one of the reasons why it hadn’t worked. Her prince had to come to her. Until then, she’d wait patiently, even if heroes were being slaughtered, even if the sun was drip, drip, dripping until they all dropped dead.

Sophie gritted her teeth. If heroes were dying, it wasn’t her fault, was it? Wasn’t it a hero’s job to win their story, even if it was happening the second time around? Why should she take the blame if they got old and useless? Let them take care of their stories and she’d take care of hers.

Because this was her fairy tale.

This was her happy ending.

And this time she was getting it right.

She pulled off her dirty shoes as she came up the porch. They’d all appreciate her in the end, of course—once she’d sealed her Ever After with her prince and relighted the sun. Everybody would win because of her hard work. In the meantime, Tedros could have all the space he needed. She’d be a patient ear to him, a perfect guest to her hosts, a good friend to Agatha: helpful, convivial, polite, like the girl who once kept track of her Good Deeds. With a deep breath, Sophie arranged her face into a smile and pushed her way into the house, fluttering back towards the dining room—

She stopped cold.

Lancelot was alone at the table, eating an apple.

“W-w-where’s everyone else?” she asked.

“Gwen is cleaning up and Horbst went to check on Agatha.” He chomped into the apple and slid her a cup of smoky red-brown liquid. “Gwen made a pot of her famous licorice tea.”

Sophie turned for the door. “I should see if they’re okay—”

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you? Been giving me cagey looks all night.”

Sophie froze. Lancelot was staring at the ring on her finger as if he’d noticed it for the first time.

“They’ll find their way home, I’m sure,” he said. “Sit and have your tea.”

His tone left little doubt as to her options. Sophie sat opposite him, her stomach queasy.

“Guinevere was just touting what a perfect queen you’ll make for the young prince. The kind who’d make Arthur proud.” Lancelot bit into his apple, studying Sophie.

“Funny thing, actually. You see, every Christmas, Merlin comes to the house to give Gwen news of her son. Last year, I remember he told us Tedros had found the princess of his dreams. Thoughtful, fiery, compassionate girl . . . a soul of pure Good, who loved him as much as he loved her. Only I could have sworn the name of that princess didn’t sound anything like ‘Sophie’ at all. Lousy with names so I knew I must have remembered it wrong. Gwen never misses a thing, so I mentioned it to her just now in the kitchen, figuring she’d set me straight. Strange, though. Gwen said I was right: Merlin had named Tedros’ princess as ‘Agatha,’ but even Gwen agreed the old codger was losing grip on that famous brain of his, ’cause clearly Sophie was the one who was the boy’s princess. Not just from the way you went after him at dinner, but Gwen noticed you had Tedros’ name tattooed on your finger, which also happened to be bearing Tedros’ ring.”