Sophie swallowed. “Uh . . . how long did Merlin say we had before the Woods went dark?”

“No more than a week now,” Agatha warned, eyeing the ring on Sophie’s finger. The End was right there . . . and yet so far away. “Meant to ask you. The other night, I saw you and Lancelot talking in the dining room. What did he say to you?”

Her friend stopped walking, but said nothing.

“Sophie?”

Sophie’s eyes were still on Gavaldon. “It’s coming, isn’t it?” she said softly.

“What is?”

Sophie turned. “Each of us thinks we know who’s Good and who’s Evil. You, me, Tedros, Rafal . . . even Lancelot. But all of us can’t be right, Aggie. Someone has to be wrong.”

Agatha shook her head. “I don’t underst—”

“What if we could go back to the beginning? When it was just me and you.” There were hot spots on Sophie’s cheeks, desperation in her voice. “It was our first Ever After, Aggie. Can’t it be the last?”

Agatha gazed at her starlit, hopeful friend, framed by the vision of their old home.

Gently Agatha took Sophie’s hand and looked into her eyes. “But it wasn’t, was it? Our Ever After didn’t last.”

Sophie let go of her, sadness weakening her smile. “You still think I’m that same girl. You think I’m the one meant to be alone.”

“No—that’s not what I meant—” Agatha countered.

“Say it, Aggie,” Sophie asked, lips quivering. “Tell me you and Tedros deserve the Ever After. More than Tedros and me. More than me and you.”

Agatha broke into a sweat.

“Tell me you want to be Camelot’s queen. That only you can make Tedros happy forever,” said Sophie, eyes welling. “Tell me and I’ll destroy the ring tonight. I promise.”

Agatha flushed in surprise. She searched Sophie’s face and saw she was speaking the truth.

This was The End.

This was the way out of the fairy tale.

All she had to do was say the words.

“Say you’re a fairy-tale queen, Agatha,” Sophie coaxed.

Agatha opened her mouth—

And yet no words came . . . only the image of her in a Wish Fish painting, wearing Tedros’ crown . . .

“Say it, Aggie,” Sophie pressed her.

Agatha imagined herself as that classic, regal leader . . . worthy of standing beside King Arthur’s son.

“Say it and mean it,” Sophie demanded.

Agatha struggled for air. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . .”

Shallow gasps faded into the wind.

“But you can’t say it, can you?” Sophie whispered, touching Agatha’s cheek. “Because you’ll never really believe it.”

Agatha felt hot tears blind her, her voice padlocked inside—

But now there was someone else coming towards her across the moors.

A blond, broad-shouldered boy, holding a single pink rose.

Freshly bathed and shaven, Tedros glided towards Agatha in a loose, milk-colored shirt and black breeches, Excalibur sheathed on his belt.

Only he wasn’t looking at Agatha.