By the sixth day, she and the group had settled into a routine, like a ragtag family. Hort spent his days with Lancelot doing chores around the farm. From morning until night, they’d milk cows, till the vegetable garden, gather eggs from chickens, shear sheep, bathe the horses, and manage a frisky goat named Fred who chased any animal of female persuasion halfway across the moors. Caked in sweat, smelling of hay and manure, Hort seemed elated to be useful to such a virile man, and they looked almost like father and son with their oily black hair, puffed-up chests, and swaggering gaits.

Guinevere, meanwhile, had the house to manage, with an endless amount of laundry, sewing, cooking, and cleaning on account of the extra guests, all of which she did eagerly, rejecting any offer of help, as if she needed the work to distract her from her thoughts.

Which left Agatha and Sophie on their own.

For the first time since they lost their Ever After, the two girls didn’t have a boy between them. Trapped on these heaths with nothing to do, it was like they were back in sheltered Gavaldon, with a world of princes and fairy tales far far away.

While Hort slept on the couch in the den, the two girls had to share a bed in the small guest room. Each morning, they’d have bacon and eggs with Hort, Lancelot, and Guinevere, do their best to tidy up before Tedros’ mother shooed them out, and spend the rest of the morning walking the moors or riding horses together.

The first week, they seemed to have forgotten how to be friends at all. At night, each girl rolled to her side of the bed and murmured something half-hearted. During walks and rides, their stilted conversation revolved around what might be for lunch, the abundance of farm animals, and the weather (which given the magical location, was invariably the same). Agatha noticed Sophie was edgy and preoccupied, constantly peeking at her ring and Tedros’ name tattooed beneath it. Whenever Lancelot crossed their path, Sophie pretended to fix a fingernail or adjust her shoe, avoiding eye contact. Sometimes, Agatha would catch her tossing in her sleep, murmuring disconnected phrases: “Don’t listen to him” . . . “black-swan gold” . . . “hearts don’t lie,” before Sophie would wake up shaky and red faced and seal herself in the bathroom.

Agatha, meanwhile, still couldn’t get comfortable around her old friend. While traveling with Merlin, she’d convinced herself that letting Sophie end with Tedros was the Good thing to do—first, because Sophie would destroy her ring and kill the School Master; and second, because if she couldn’t be the queen Tedros needed, shouldn’t Sophie have her chance?

But Hort’s words at the pond had put a dent in her convictions. For one thing, while Sophie aspired to rule one of Good’s kingdoms, here she was holding Good hostage over her ring. Even if agreeing to her terms would save Good’s future . . . it still seemed Evil.