“Dripping like an icicle now,” said Merlin, studying the sky. “We must seal your fairy tale quickly. Sun won’t last more than a few more weeks.”

“The sun is dying because of us?” said Agatha, surprised.

“And faster by the day—a sign your story is bringing our world further and further out of balance,” said the wizard. “Your fairy tale has been open too long, children. The pen must move on to a new story to keep the Woods alive . . . along with all of us in it.” Merlin twirled his beard around his finger. “Suppose this is what happens when the Storian tells a tale of amateur students instead of the properly trained.”

“Don’t blame it on me. It’s called The Tale of Sophie and Agatha for a reason,” growled Tedros. “Father never agreed with Readers being brought to school. Told me to stay away from ’em like the plague.”

“Maybe you should have listened to your father’s advice,” said Agatha. “Besides, it’s not like we asked for our fairy tale to be told.”

Tedros ignored her and glowered at the sun. “No way is the world dying before my coronation. Need to rescue Sophie quickly, get Excalibur back, and move on to Camelot. I can’t let my father’s kingdom languish any more than it has. Not after everything my mother did to disappoint them. The people need a king.”

“And queen,” Merlin added.

“A stupid queen who kisses my bum, apparently,” said Tedros.

“Look, I didn’t mean it that way,” Agatha argued.

“‘Stupid’ and ‘bum’ have alternate definitions I’m not aware of?”

Agatha didn’t bother responding.

“And to think, last night you two were sharing hot chocolate,” the wizard murmured.

The two young Evers didn’t speak another word to each other as Merlin led them out of the damp thicket and into Knobble Hill, a bumpy maze of brown mounds covered with thousands of mushrooms of every size and shape. Agatha wished she hadn’t said what she did to Uma . . . but it was true wasn’t it? In storybooks, queens were majestic and elegant and inspiring. She couldn’t possibly ever be one—

But if she stayed with Tedros, she would be one, wouldn’t she?

The one to take his mother’s place.

Agatha watched him scaling the hill, looking so gorgeous and well built against the sky that she couldn’t breathe. She’d been so focused on rescuing Sophie that she hadn’t thought of what would happen after it. A coronation . . . a kingdom . . . a queen? Her?

Her face went hot and she tried to put it out of her mind. Sophie was the priority now. Besides, the way she and Tedros were going, he’d dump her long before they ever made it to Sophie. As he crested the mushroom hill, she could see his square jaw clenching, his muscled arms flexed, the prince still stewing at her, with his ire no doubt compounded by his utter hatred of mushrooms. (Her mother had served them once for supper and he’d turned green: “Mushrooms are fungus and fungus reminds me of feet and I don’t eat feet.”)