Agatha expected more protest to sputter out of her and her body to pull away . . . but instead she stayed in place, something changing inside. Looking up at Camelot’s crown, Agatha felt fear and tension melt away, as if the queen’s words had called up a part of her deeper than herself. Fire and purpose ripped through her, like armor beneath her skin, usurping the old Agatha and steeling her shoulders and chest.

Guinevere was right. This wasn’t about her anymore.

This was about two sides, warring for love.

She and Tedros fighting for Good. Sophie and the School Master fighting for Evil.

Once upon a time, she and her best friend tried to find a happy ending together. Now only one of them could come out alive.

Right then and there, Agatha knew why she couldn’t have an ordinary life.

She was never meant for one.

Because as long as her story was about her—her worth, her love, her future—she resisted her fate, as if living for herself was too much responsibility.

But the moment she saw her fate was bigger than her . . . as big as Good itself . . . she finally felt free to embrace it.

Slowly Agatha lowered her head to the queen as strands of light silver sprinkled over her forehead and a glare of red sun exploded against diamond edges.

Agatha looked up to see Guinevere clasp her hands to her mouth, fixed in a dazzling smile.

It was the only mirror Agatha needed.

Suddenly Guinevere paled, her smile gone—

Agatha spun to see Tedros across the field, watching them.

“I’ll go—” Guinevere started.

“No . . . stay,” her son ordered.

He moved towards Agatha in a grass-stained shirt and rumpled breeches, his eyes on his princess. “Everyone just . . . stay.”

As he approached, Agatha could smell dew and sweat on him and see the sleepless circles under his eyes. He ran his fingertips over the diadem, remembering its every bump and crevice, but his focus was still on her, his hand drifting down from the crown to her cheek to her mouth. Without a word, he bent and kissed her, long and slow, as if to make sure it was still the old Agatha inside and out.

“You’re not allowed to take it off,” he whispered.

“Not even a ‘good morning’ before you start bossing me around,” said Agatha. “Besides, are you trying to give orders to a queen?”

“Oh, so today you’re a queen,” Tedros said, pulling her closer.

“Late bloomer if you haven’t noticed,” said Agatha.

“Well, even so . . . a king is still a king.”

“Which means that your queen is beneath you?”

“No, only that you should do as you’re told.”

“Or what?” Agatha chortled. “You’ll put a death sentence on my—”

She saw Tedros’ face and her whole body went cold.

Both of them turned to Guinevere, still there, white as a ghost.

“What’s this?” Lancelot’s voice blustered, as the knight galumphed into the grove with Hort. “A coronation we’re not invited to?”