Sophie held her breath, staring at the ring of ink, warm and wet on her finger, gripping her skin like a leech—

But now she saw what the ring was doing.

It was writing a first letter into her finger.

It was writing the name of her true love.

Just like she’d asked.

Sophie smiled and closed her eyes, letting her inner fairy godmother do her work.

Inky and wet, the ring calmly slashed into her skin, controlled by something deep within her. With every new letter, Sophie’s soul breathed freer, lighter, as if a crushing weight had been lifted, as if the force moving the ring was her true self, her purest self . . . until at last, the ring finished the last letter and hardened back to solid gold, leaving the name “Rafal” upon her without a doubt . . . Rafal who she’d be with forever . . .

Slowly Sophie opened her eyes and saw the name in squid-black ink.

It wasn’t Rafal’s.

She fell off the bed in shock.

Petrified, she grabbed the hem of her dress and scrubbed at the name, trying to erase it.

Still there.

She scraped with her nails, buffed it on the floor, chafed it against the wall—but the name was even darker than before. Thunderstruck, she cowered against the bed, hiding her hand in her dress, trying to calm her screaming heart.

It didn’t matter what name was there!

There was no way that name was her true love.

There was no way that name was her happy ending.

Because the name the ring had tattooed on Sophie’s skin, the name it had promised was her one true love, was the name of the prince she was supposed to kill.

14

Where Wizards Go to Think

“I suppose the entrance was a bit dramatic,” Merlin mulled in his musical baritone as he reclined Tedros onto the sofa, his purple cape accidentally smothering the prince’s face. “But a good wizard can’t very well loaf in like a delivery boy, can he?”

“Don’t talk to me!” Tedros mumbled, his voice cracking as he shoved Merlin and his robes away. “You think you can mosey in and tell jokes and pretend everything’s okay?” He smeared angry tears, turning his ire on Agatha. “And just so you know, I didn’t faint, so don’t even think about it!”

“Put your legs up here,” Agatha said calmly, stripping off the prince’s socks and lifting his clammy feet onto the ottoman.

“Tell all the old farts that I didn’t faint. Tell them.”

“They’re busy eating supper, not even paying the slightest attention to you,” Agatha replied, peeking up to see Yuba and the other League members instantly duck their heads to their plates of mashed carrots and gruel at the dining table, pretending to have a conversation.