Never After

Sally began to suddenly suffer the same uneasiness that had filled her just before the old king had a

“Because there are answers in the Tangleroot, for those who have the courage to find them. Answers and questions, and possibilities.”

“And dreams?” Sally asked.

“Dreams that walk,” whispered the old woman, staring down into her tankard. “Your mother would have understood. She had been inside the forest. I could see it in her eyes.”

Sally went still at the mention of her mother, and then placed her hand over her chest, feeling through her dress the pendant, warm against her skin; the wooden heart, especially. “If I go there, will I find something that can help me? And my father?”

“You’ll find something,” she replied ominously, and pointed at Sally. “The Tangleroot calls to some, and to others it merely answers the desire that it senses. You want that forest, and it’ll bring you in, one way or another. It is a dangerous place, created by a dangerous woman who lived long ago. But there’s danger in staying here, too. You can’t stop a plant that wants to grow. You’ll only crush it if you try.”

Sally had felt crushed from the moment her father had mentioned marriage, but now a terrible restlessness rose within her, crazy anticipation feeding a burst of wildness. Her entire body twitched, as though it wanted to start walking, and for a moment she felt a strange energy between herself and the oak. Like something was waking.

Fool’s errand, she told herself. Magic, if it exists, won’t save you.

But she found herself saying, “And all I would do is enter the Tangleroot? There must be more than that. I wouldn’t know what to look for, or how to start.”

“Start by not making excuses. Go or stay.” The gardener stood on unsteady legs, and handed Sally her tankard. “Princess or not, duty or no, you were born with a heart and head. Which, in my experience, is enough to make your own choices about how to live your life.”

The old woman touched Sally’s brow, and her fingertips were light and cool. “You have a week before the envoy arrives.”

“That’s not much,” Sally said.

“It’s a lifetime,” she replied. “Depending on how you use it.”

2

Sally used it that night, when she slipped out of the castle and ran away.

She did not take much with her. Bread, cheese, dried salted beef; a sharp knife; and warm clothing that consisted of a down vest, a woolen cloak, and cashmere knitted leggings worn beneath her work dress, which still smelled faintly of manure. She took gold coins, and left behind her horse. If she was going to venture inside the Tangleroot—and that remained to be seen—she did not want to worry about leaving the animal behind. That, and it was harder to hide with a horse when one traveled the road.

The borders of the Tangleroot were everywhere, scattered and co

She moved quickly, almost ru

She was terrified. This was a fool’s journey. No direction, save faith in the unknowable, and the possibility of something miraculous.

But she did not stop. Not once. Afraid that if she did, even for a moment, she would turn around and return home. Like a coward, without even trying to fight for her freedom. The gardener was right: Sally had a week. One week to find an alternative, be it magic or simply inspiration—neither of which she was going to discover back home.

Near dawn, she found a small clearing behind a thicket of blackberry bushes that had lost their flowers. It was a cool night, and she curled deep inside her cloak to eat bread and cheese. Forest sounds filled the air: the hiss of the wind, and the crunch of a hoof in the leaves. Owls hooted. Sally was not frightened of the night, but sitting still made her think again of what she was doing, and that was far more terrifying. She shut her eyes and tried to sleep.

And dreamed of a queen.

Dawn, and though it is spring, there is ice on the lake, a sheen of frozen pearls smashed to dust, compacted into a shield against the undercurrent, dark water. A sleeping time: the fog has not yet burned away, and everywhere a glow, an otherworldly gleam.

It is not safe to walk on the ice. Ice belongs to the sleeping queen, the horned woman of the southern shore, who wears a crown to keep her dreams inside her head. Such dangerous things, her dreams. Like her voice, which makes thunder, raining words that drown.

She is silent now. Shackled, sleeping. Wearing the crown that binds her. A crown that has a lock. A lock that has a key.

A key that can be found.

Sally was still trying to find that key when something tugged her from the dream. She opened her eyes, and found herself staring into the face of a little girl.

It was an unexpected sight, and it took Sally several long moments to pull away from the dream and convince herself that she was not yet still asleep. It should have been dawn, sun high, but the sky was dark with night. And yet the air was cool on her face, and there was a rock digging into her hip; and when she dug her nails into her arm, she felt the pinch.

The little girl was naked, her dark hair long and matted with leaves, brambles, and feathers. Hard to see much of her, as the shadows loved her face, but she was a healthy, round little thing, not much older than five or seven, with sylphlike features and eyes that were huge and gray.

When Sally began to sit up, the little girl scuttled backward, half crouching, each movement graceful and wild, but fraught with a startled energy that reminded her of a deer. She did not walk, but jolted; she did not crawl, but leapt; and the moon that dappled her skin with light seemed instead like the spots on a fawn, drifting sweetly across her smooth, soft flesh.

“Hello,” Sally whispered.

The little girl flinched at the sound of her voice, swaying backward as though she wanted to run. Sally held her breath, afraid of moving; but, after a moment, let her hand creep slowly toward the satchel lying on the ground at her elbow.

“Are you hungry?” she asked the child. “Food?” The little girl did not react, not even a blink. Sally fumbled inside the bag, and removed the half-eaten loaf of bread. The child showed no interest. Instead, she reached deep inside her matted hair, and pulled out a small speckled egg. Sally stared, astonished, as the little girl placed it on her palm, and held it up at eye level, peering at Sally over the round, pale surface; like a small spirit, gazing over the curve of the moon.

And then, with hardly a wasted motion, the little girl popped the egg inside her mouth, crunched down hard—and ran.

Sally sat, stu

She struggled to her feet, sluggish, as though her limbs had been dipped in cobwebs and molasses, and when she finally stood, the world spun around her in waves of moonlight. She gathered up her belongings and stumbled down the path that the little girl had taken.