In a flash, Sophie understood.
Evelyn’s dress only helped her when it wouldn’t get caught.
Because Evelyn’s spirit was afraid of her son.
This son.
Back when Rhian was king, Evelyn’s dress was a loyal henchman, binding Sophie like a puppet. Because Evelyn loved Rhian. She wanted Rhian to become the One True King, even if it meant him marrying Sophie—the bride of Evelyn’s once true love, the girl responsible for Evelyn’s death. Because with Rhian as king, Evelyn knew she would get a second chance at life. She trusted her son to bring her back.
Rhian.
Not Japeth.
Which is why the moment Japeth killed Rhian . . . the dress’s allegiance changed. Evelyn knew what Japeth was. She knew what he’d done to his brother. He had to be punished. But Japeth couldn’t get a sniff of what she was up to. So his mother’s ghost took her time. Slowly, carefully, the dress began helping his bride, each time out of the Snake’s sight, until the time came at last when Sophie could see that Japeth’s mother wasn’t loyal to Japeth. She was loyal to the girl trying to kill him.
The dress’s white folds softened, caressing her like rose petals . . . before the eel sensed something afoot and pierced into the silk, grazing Sophie’s skin. Instantly, the dress stiffened like a straitjacket, afraid for its own preservation.
Loyalty could only go so far, it seemed.
For now, Sophie was on her own.
They rolled deeper into the Woods, past the evergreen edges of the Stymph Forest, into the autumn hues of Camelot’s wood, the king’s castle only a few miles away. Dusk thickened, embers of sun widening to dark shadows around the hilts of buried blades. Trees began to tremble, the scufflings of metal echoing to the east. Through the window, Sophie glimpsed a thousand men riding past on horseback, outfitted with red-and-black helmets, armed with Camelot swords and shields . . . followed by another battalion, seven-foot nymphs with colorful hair, floating over the ground in neat lines, also with Camelot weapons.
“Fleets from Akgul and Rainbow Gale,” said Alpa. “On their way to Foxwood.”
“Camelot offered free arms to kingdoms that help the Lion win the third test,” said Bethna. “They’ll keep guard over the king while he’s in Foxwood—”
“—in case Tedros tries to get anywhere near the sword,” said Omeida.
More armies followed, silhouettes gliding across the trees: the red-horned goblins of Ravenbow . . . the giantesses of Gillikin with clouds of fairies in their hair . . . the blue-jacketed soldiers of Pifflepaff, wearing blue masks . . .
The air went out of Sophie’s chest.
Even if she could get out of this carriage, she’d never find her way to Avalon, track down Tedros, and somehow sneak him a hundred miles into Foxwood, let alone into Chaddick’s house before Japeth got there. Not with this many men out to kill him. There would be no rescue for the prince. Or for her.
Then she noticed one of the Pifflepaff soldiers.
He was glaring at her through his blue mask, his eyes sparkling in the dark. A tiny blue glow lit up his finger. Then he breathed out a trail of smoke towards Sophie’s carriage.
SING
Sophie spun back to the soldier but the carriage had already veered to the west, into the heart of Camelot’s forest.
Sophie held still as treetops blacked out the sky, the Mistrals watching her in the window reflection. Outside, Camelot guards faded to inky outlines. She’d sung a thousand songs in her life, songs of love, but those had come to nothing and she couldn’t remember a one . . . No time to think. Sing! Sing something—
“I’m Whisky Woo, the pirate queen!”
Not that.
A new tuft of smoke appeared out the window.
LOUDER
“I’m Whiskey Woo, the pirate queen!” she belted again.
“Stop it,” Alpha snapped.
“Whiskey Woo! Whiskey Woo!” Sophie crooned at a hellish pitch. “I’m Whiskey Woo, the pirate queen! Not yet eighteen, but still damn mean!”
“Enough!” Bethna barked.
“I’m Whiskey Woo, the pirate queen! Formerly known as Evil’s Dean!”
She yowled so loudly the carriage seemed to shake, her voice drowning out a strange rustling outside. “I’m Whiskey Woo, the pirate queen! No autographs please, don’t make a scene!”
“We said stop!” Omeida twisted her hand, the scim puncturing Sophie’s skin.
But she kept warbling, the carriage jostling to more muffled sounds in the forest while the scim cut Sophie deeper, her song exploding to a wail of pain: “Whiskey Woo! Whiskey Woo—”
The carriage stalled violently, launching Sophie and the Mistrals at each other, the eel crushed between Alpa’s and Bethna’s colliding skulls, leaving sisters and prisoner in a heap on the floor.
Outside, the forest was silent, the carriage unmoving.
The Mistrals gaped in confusion. Then they threw open the door, stumbling out, dragging Sophie with them.
A slew of guards were on the ground, faces slashed, helmets crushed, knocked out cold. She’d seen this kind of carnage before, Sophie thought . . . Then she spotted the rest of the guards huddled around the carriage, eyes haunted through their helmets, swords and crossbows pointed wildly in the dark at whatever had just attacked them. The Mistrals, too, scanned the night, gripping their prisoner by her chain, Sophie’s singing having distracted them from the force that just eviscerated half their guards.
One thing was for sure.
Whoever did this was angry.
Very angry.
Sophie smiled to herself.
She had that effect on men.
From the trees came a snarling mass of teeth and fur, crashing down onto the carriage and shattering it to splinters, before sweeping Sophie into its claws, grabbing hold of the nearest branch, and swinging limb by limb into the black mass of trees.
She relaxed into the beast’s chest as he flew through the forest, his paw manhandling the cuff around her neck and busting it free.
“My prince,” she sighed. “Only hairier.”
“You like me like this, don’t you.”
“If only you didn’t smell like wet dog.”
“If only you didn’t keep putting yourself into trouble, making me sweat after you like a dog.”
“Me without trouble is like you without . . .”
“You?”
“I am a lone wolf, thank you.”
“A lone wolf who has to keep getting rescued.”
“Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?”
“I’m saying that letting me take care of you is taking care of yourself.”
“Oh, darling. When you shrink back into a wee little weasel without your clothes on, we’re going to pretend we never had this conversation.”
His snout brushed her ear: “Beauty and the Beast. That had a happy ending, didn’t it?”
“Depends on if you think a girl kissing a beast is a happy ending. I don’t.”
“I’m half-tempted to drop you right no—”
An arrow impaled his thigh.
He yelled with pain, as Sophie swiveled to see Camelot guards rush in, crossbows raised, along with blue-masked Pifflepaff soldiers firing arrows of their own. An arrow struck the man-wolf’s ribs, then his shoulder, his eyes numb with terror. More arrows speared for their tree—