Agatha opened her eyes. On a breath, she forged deeper into the house.

The living room had a snuggly feel to it, with a sooty fireplace facing big-armed calico chairs, a fluffy red-brown rug made out of hawk feathers, a shelf of gemstones, seashells, and animal eggs beneath a shut, slatted window, and a steep, stumpy wooden staircase in the back corner, barricaded with red velvet rope. Agatha peered at a brass plaque on the wall:

hile living in the cottage, Snow White decorated it herself using knickknacks the dwarves collected on their travels. Here the cottage den is preserved precisely as she left it when she moved to Foxwood Castle to marry her prince. The only addition to the room is a hand-sewn chair made of lambskin and cat hair—a wedding gift from the wicked queen, who snuck into the banquet disguised as an old peddler. But the sight of Snow White with her prince, fair as ever, made the queen scream with rage, giving her away. As punishment, Snow White ordered her to dance before the guests in red-hot shoes until she fell down dead. The queen’s gift is kept at Cottage White as a permanent reminder that Good always triumphs over Evil.

Cottage White Museum is sponsored by the Everwood Society for Cultural Preservation. No babies, animals, or giants allowed inside.

Behind the den, the kitchen was roped off, just like the staircase, but Agatha peeked in to see a dusty, deserted nook, no footprints on the floor or signs of life, except for a few flies milling around a leaky faucet.

“Agatha?” Tedros called outside. “Where are you?”

Agatha sighed, stomach relaxing. The scream must have been one of the dwarves’ after all. She shuddered at such a morbid thought and hustled towards the front door, determined to get to League Headquarters. Whoever this League was, her mother had trusted them to help her. “You must save Sophie as Stefan saved you,” Callis’ voice echoed—

Agatha stopped cold in the foyer.

A creak echoed somewhere upstairs . . .

Then it went quiet.

Slowly she raised her eyes to the ceiling.

She knew a sensible princess would have called her prince, but instead, she was moving into the den again, slipping off her clumps one by one before she left them on the lambskin chair. She felt her bare toes rake through the feathers of the rug, her eyes pinned on the ceiling until she squeezed under the rope at the rear of the room. She slid up the stairs on her hands and knees like a cat, taking time between steps, so the cricks and cracks of the stairs were camouflaged by the swinging squeaks of the front door.

At the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway with two rooms. Agatha rose up carefully and peeked into the first. Seven small beds lay in a cramped row, as if in an orphanage hall, each neatly made with different colored sheets, matching the tunics of the seven dead bodies outside.