Agatha could see these letters piled on the desk, coated in spidery dust. Every day she told herself she would answer them, but she never did. And the worst part was she didn’t know why.

Footsteps grew louder outside her room.

Agatha’s stomach churned.

It’d been this way for six months. She felt more and more anxious while Tedros grew more and more withdrawn. Last night was the closest they’d come to speaking about what happened on coronation day and neither of them had even said a word. She knew he was embarrassed . . . devastated . . . ashamed. . . . But she couldn’t help him if he didn’t talk to her. And he couldn’t talk to her if he was never with her.

More voices now. More footsteps.

Mouth dry, Agatha snatched the glass of water on her night table. Empty. So was the pitcher.

Reaper slid off the bed, prowling towards the faded double doors.

She needed time alone with Tedros. Time where they weren’t living separate lives. Time where they could be honest and intimate with each other like they used to be. Time where they could be themselves again—

The doors crashed open and four maids paraded in, each wearing the same draping robe in a different shade of pastel—peach, pistachio, grapefruit, rose—as if they were a box of mixed macarons. They were led by a tall, tan woman in lavender with dark, smoky eyes, shiny red lipstick, and wild black hair barely cooped by a turban. She carried a leather-bound notebook in one hand and in the other, a feather-pen so long it looked like a whip.

“Breakfast with the wedding florist at seven in the Blue Tower Dining Room; then meetings with tailor candidates in twenty-minute intervals to decide who should stitch the wedding linens; then an interview with the Camelot Courier for their Wedding Preview Edition. At nine, you’ll visit the Camelot Zoo to pick the official wedding doves; apparently they have several species, each a varying shade of white. . . .”

Agatha could barely listen, because Peach and Pistachio had hoisted her out of bed and were already scrubbing her with scalding towels while Grapefruit shoved a toothbrush in her mouth and Rose smeared her face with an array of potions, like Sophie used to do, only without Sophie’s charisma or humor.

“Then a signing of The Tale of Sophie and Agatha at Books & Crannies to raise funds for the castle’s plumbing renovation,” the lavender woman continued in a crisp, posh accent, “followed by a lunch fundraiser at the Spansel Club where you’ll read a storybook to children of rich patrons whose donations will repair the drawbridge . . .”

“Um, Lady Gremlaine? Is there time for me to see Tedros today?” muffled Agatha beneath a blue gown the women were tugging over her. “We haven’t had a meal alone in ages—”

“After lunch, you’ll begin waltz lessons to prepare for your wedding dance, then etiquette training so you don’t make a mess of yourself at the wedding feast, and finally, history class about the triumphs and disasters of royal weddings past so that yours might end in the annals of the first rather than the last,” Lady Gremlaine finished.