Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom there was a beautiful girl named Margaret who— 

“Why do they always have to be beautiful?” Stella cut in, dunking another grimy plate in the sink full of sudsy water. It wasn’t that Stella didn’t like when Izzy read to her, but sometimes she was so sick of her own problems that she didn’t want to hear about anyone else’s, whether they were real or not. “It’s ridiculous.”

She stacked the clean plate on the counter with the others, and grabbed the next unwashed one, turning her back on Izzy, who was huddled on a broken chair at their rickety table. Hopefully it didn’t collapse under the weight of the book—Stella didn’t want to give her stepmother another reason to scream at her. 

Izzy didn’t break her eyes from the book she’d been reading aloud from, mumbling something noncommittal in response. Often, to Stella’s aggravation, once Izzy found herself in a story, it was a fight to drag her back out.

“And what does that mean, anyway?” Stella went on, annoyed she was so annoyed over something so trivial. “‘Once upon a time’? A time of what? Why does everything have to start with unrealistically beautiful girls and vague one-liner cliches?”

Blowing a piece of hair out of her face, Izzy just shrugged and kept reading.

There was a beautiful girl named Margaret who lived in the village along the river with her parents and two younger brothers. Though the toils of life wore harshly on the poor family, the girl managed to live a happy childhood— 

Stella snorted. “Beautiful and a happy childhood? Fairy tale, for sure.”

She knew that her father had wished for a son to be the eldest of the family, so she worked twice as hard as any other child of the village, determined to prove her worth and ability. Even with her heavy load, she still made time to play with her brothers— 

Once again, Stella interrupted. “You read this part yesterday. Skip to where you were. They lived their terrible lives and then the strange man showed up.”

“Um…” Izzy bit her lip as she skimmed and flipped pages.

Margaret had seventeen happy years of play, work, and relative freedom, despite her parents’ continual depressive distance from her— 

Stella scrubbed another plate. “Nope. Past that.”

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, there was a knock at the door— 

“Almost.”

With a small sigh, Izzy finally settled on the page she’d left off.

The children craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the visitor, eager to see a friend; instead, they found a short, stubby man that smelled strongly of burnt wood, with a beard nearly to the ground and a devious smirk that promised both mischief and danger. His small, black eyes were focused on Margaret.

“My dear Margaret,” the man said, ignoring Margaret’s rigid father. “Happy eighteenth birthday, darling.”

“Why, thank you,” Margaret stammered to the stranger, unsure how he knew her name or her day of birth. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you. Are you a friend of my father’s?”

Her father took a sharp breath as the short man laughed. “Not a friend, no. Merely a…collector.” All at once, the devious smile vanished and a stony glare of warning took its place. “Your eighteen years are up, Henrik. I’ve provided you enough to keep your family sustained despite the harsh conditions. It’s time you pay.”

Margaret’s mother screeched from her bedroom, making everyone but the short man jump. When her father didn’t answer, Margaret smiled courteously at the stranger, ready to pay the debt and move on from the tense encounter.

“What does my father owe you, sir? I’m sure we can make it right.”

The short man’s small eyes flicked to Margaret, just as her father finally turned to face her. She stilled at his gaze.

“Me?” Margaret breathed. “You gave him your first—”

“He sold his own daughter?” Stella crowed in disbelief, nearly dropping the plate. “What an awful, despicable man.”

Izzy finally looked up from the book, bronze hair spilling out of the haphazard knot on her head. “Maybe he had no choice.” 

“Clearly, he had a choice. He chose to make the deal.”

“Maybe.” Izzy went back to the book, eyes poring over the words while she tapped her pen against her bound notebook. “But remember what the troll said? ‘I’ve provided you enough to keep your family sustained despite the harsh conditions.’ The father needed help.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So how bad would those conditions have to be for someone to give up their firstborn child?”

Stella scrubbed a resistant stain on the plate to buy her time to think of a response. As Izzy’s best friend and roommate, Stella knew she was the only person Izzy really felt comfortable talking to, which meant she was often the designated partner when Izzy wanted to discuss her favorite topic: love. And since Stella had spent the day working for hours in Lady Pursbrough’s house only to come home to a giant stack of dishes, she was in no mood to give anyone, even fictional fathers, the benefit of the doubt.

“I don’t know. I guess bad?” She wanted to argue that a good father would never abandon his child—Stella’s father would never have dreamed of it—but she kept that opinion to herself. No need to rub salt in Izzy’s wounds.

“So what do you think that means?” Izzy asked, imploring, like this fictional story was the key to unlocking everything in life. “Of course, he made the deal before he even had children, so maybe he didn’t understand the real cost. Or maybe he didn’t think he and his wife would live long enough to have kids. Or maybe it was just a hasty decision he regretted instantly. Did Henrik not care enough about Margaret, or did he love the rest of his family more?” The sound of scratching on parchment filled the momentary silence as she jotted down notes. “Can love make you sacrifice that heavily and completely? Sacrifice something you love for something you might love more?”

Again, Stella thought of her father, sharpening the constant ache in the bottom of her gut. Instead of dwelling on it, she shrugged. “Love makes you desperate, I would think. If you love someone, you would do anything for them.”

“Maybe. But does that mean he didn’t love Margaret as much as he loved everyone else?” The idea caused her to grip the golden rose locket around her neck, twisting it around her finger. It was her nervous habit, but she was doing it constantly, so Stella assumed that by now nervous was just a part of Izzy’s being. 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Stella said, allowing venom in her voice, though she made sure to speak quietly enough that her stepmother couldn’t overhear from the other room. Their house was nearly too small to be called a house. “Not everyone gets the love they deserve.”

“No,” Izzy replied softly, wide eyes lost in an ocean of thoughts. “They don’t.” Pages flipped again. “Maybe the love he had for each person added together—if it’s Margaret versus the rest of the family, then there would be more love on the side of the family, because there are more people. More people, more love. So maybe it wasn’t that particular child, so much as the fact that the others outweighed the one. He would’ve made the deal with any of the kids, not just Margaret.” She sounded confident in this train of thought, and more scratches ensued. 

Yes, more people, more love, Stella thought bitterly, reaching over to grab yet another dirty dish. She didn’t believe that. Her life had been nothing but unparalleled happiness until her father decided to add in more people. Since his death five years ago, Stella’s stepmother and stepsisters had brought nothing but misery. No love. If Stella’s stepmother, Natalia, loved her, she wouldn’t stick her in the shabby attic of their tiny house and pretend she didn’t exist unless there were chores to be done.

That wasn’t love. She knew what love was: her father was love. She didn’t remember much of her mother, but she knew her parents loved each other, and she knew more than anything that they loved her.

If only love had more power. If only all their love could’ve kept them alive.

Suddenly, Stella understood Izzy’s obsession with studying and defining love. It was  what everyone wanted in the end, right? Love and acceptance?

The door flew open, interrupting Stella’s thoughts and Izzy’s pencil scratching. A tense chill clung to the air as Natalia rushed in. Though she hadn’t been considered a noble for years now, she still held herself like near-royalty: shoulders back, spine straight, and sharp eyes looking down on everyone else. Per usual, she was wearing a dress rather than pants—another small way she held on to her previous life. As a noblewoman, she’d always been in a skirt with bright makeup and an elaborate hairstyle. Of course, these days her dresses were shabby in comparison to her old ones, expensive makeup went from a daily staple to a luxury for special occasions, and she always had a handkerchief tied over her hair, somehow managing to make the scrap of fabric look regal. As if appearance really mattered in Racine, the poorest village in the kingdom next to the Jacklands.

Why did he have to marry such a vain little viper that only showed its true colors once he was gone?

Stella’s shoulders instantly straightened, the hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she felt as Izzy tried to fold her own presence up into a tiny ball and stick it in the corner. Stella often dreamed of the day when she would finally stand up to Natalia; she told herself the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself, but really deep down she knew she was too terrified.

Natalia didn’t acknowledge either of them. Instead, she came into the kitchen and searched their few cupboards until she found an empty glass to her liking. Stella avoided looking directly at her as Natalia put a bundle of fresh flowers in the glass and set it on the table.

Flowers. That usually meant Natalia was expecting company, and she was trying to make their pathetic excuse of a house seem nicer than it was.

Stella went rigid as Natalia walked up to the sink and picked up a plate from the stack of dishes she had just washed.

Natalia clicked her tongue in disapproval and threw the dish back in the sudsy water. “Not clean enough,” she said harshly, like it was a crime. She gestured around the small kitchen. “This whole place isn’t clean enough. Get working on it.”

Stella gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to both scream and cower. Miraculously, she held her tongue. There were only a handful of occasions Natalia had physically harmed Stella, though they were burned into her memory, always there to remind her it could happen again if she didn’t keep herself in check.

“And be quick about it,” Natalia went on. It was probably the most she had spoken to Stella all week, if she didn’t count the screaming yesterday. “I have a meeting at seven. This place needs to be spotless and everyone needs to be out. Understand?”

Izzy nodded rapidly, face slightly pale. Stella gave a mumbled, “Yes,” but Natalia had already left.

Instantly, the tension in the room melted away. Stella gave a silent sigh, and Izzy regained movement. She stood without a word and started sweeping the floor, helping to prepare for Natalia’s “meeting.”

Since Natalia was a widow, the king sent several of his economic advisors once a month to discuss finances—the meetings were useless, in Stella’s opinion, since they were still as poor as ever. But part of Stella did wish Natalia would include her in those meetings, extending even the slightest hand of trust or unity. Stella provided most of the family’s income anyway. She was employed as a day maid for a noble household, and Natalia had seized Stella’s wages from day one, claiming Stella needed to earn her keep.

Earn my keep in my own house? Her father would’ve never let Natalia say that. He would’ve never married the snake if he could have seen what she’d reduced his daughter to.

That’s why I’m getting out of here. 

Knowing it would help the chores go by faster, Stella let her favorite daydream take over again: the daydream in which she finally revealed the secret stash of money she’d been saving for years. The anger in Natalia’s face. The triumph in Stella’s eyes. The speech she would make before she took Izzy and left and never once looked back.

Stella practiced a version of the speech in her head as she and Izzy worked dutifully in the kitchen, slowly chipping away at the inescapable grime that came with living in such poverty. Izzy was less inclined to talk when she knew Natalia was nearby, so the two worked in companionable silence until the kitchen was clean. At least, as clean as it could get.

Just as Stella leaned against the counter to admire their work, Natalia burst in like a raging storm. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Get out now.” She glanced back nervously over her shoulder. “Now!”

Izzy darted out like a cat, gone without anyone realizing she had left. Yanking her apron off, Stella quickly leaned down to lace up her boots. She hadn’t even gotten through the first one when Natalia was back, pushing her daughters, Isla and Noor, at Stella.

“Out, all of you,” Natalia said in a frenzy as she herded them all out the back door. “Don’t come back until sunset.”

Noor, the little brat, turned her nose up at Stella and stomped out on her own, making sure to bump into Stella’s shoulder. The eleven-year-old was short and stout—like a troll—but since Stella was kneeling, the blow knocked her off balance. Stella bit her lip to keep from yelling at her in front of Natalia.  

Isla, on the other hand, awkwardly stepped around Stella and followed her younger sister, her steps unsure. The girl had sprouted nearly six inches in the last couple months, and now she was constantly tripping and knocking things over, unaccustomed to her height. Between her long legs and even longer neck, she was on track to pass Stella despite being two years younger. Another thing Stella couldn’t stand.

A knock sounded in the front room and Natalia disappeared to answer it. Stella ushered the two girls out the back door, and they rushed after Izzy. Muffled voices sounded in greeting, getting closer with every word. Stella was about to duck out when something caught her eye: a rogue platter on the counter and the broom leaned up against the cupboard. Natalia would hate that.

With a huff, Stella darted forward and stuffed the broom back in its place, heart pounding at the voices getting louder.

“…it was invaluable, what was taken,” one man was saying.

Another man added something she couldn’t make out, then said, “…the investigation regarding the crimes is still ongoing…”

Stella paused, platter in hand. Crimes? Had someone stolen something? Had Natalia stolen something?

She glanced around the ugly kitchen just as she shoved the platter in a drawer. This place didn’t fit Natalia—Stella had known that for a long time. Were the guards here for something other than helpful conversation? What theft could warrant that kind of attention from the crown?

“Of course, with Damon gone,” the man went on, his voice clearer, too close, and dripping with disgust, “it’s logical to assume his resources fell to you.”

The mention of her father’s name, especially by a stranger, made Stella’s blood go cold. For a split second she was torn—was there somewhere she could hide and listen?—but her quick search came up fruitless. No matter how badly she wanted to hear the conversation, survival instinct won out. Just as the kitchen door swung open, Stella ducked out the back door, running after Izzy.

* * * * * * * *

“Good morning, Isabelle,” Lady Pursbrough greeted with a dimpled smile. “How are you on this beautiful morning?”

Izzy set her books down on the writing desk at the front of the classroom, a bead of sweat trickling down her back from carrying her things. “I’m fine, Lady Pursbrough. Thank you for asking.” She gave the same answer every day—well, every day since her father had been taken away—and Lady Pursbrough had graciously learned to accept it. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you. Ready for another day of learning and growth.” She began dusting the chalkboard clean, but was too short to reach more than halfway up. Izzy was about to offer to help, but Lady Pursbrough just flicked her wrist. Izzy watched, mesmerized, as the cloth suspended higher on its own and wiped away the dust, then settled back in Lady Pursbrough’s hand. Lady Pursbrough turned and saw her looking. Izzy dropped her gaze and fiddled with the locket around her neck.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Oh, no worries at all, dear, of course.” Lady Pursbrough beamed again and her face crinkled. “You probably don’t see much magic where you live, do you?”

“Not really,” she said, then added in her mind, not anything legal, anyway. It had long since been law in the kingdom of Elaria that only certain nobles were allowed to practice magic. For anyone else, especially in her community, it was strictly forbidden to use magic unless they trained and became licensed. A few people in Racine had a license—Natalia was one of them—but most were either too poor for training or didn’t have the skill to begin with, and magic there tended to draw unpleasant attention anyway. Watching Lady Pursbrough use her power with ease was startling.

Shaking off the encounter, Izzy leafed through her notebook for the day’s lesson plan. “How’s Christian doing?” she asked, trying to be polite.

Lady Pursbrough’s chestnut eyes brightened at the mention of her son as she went about the room straightening desks. “He’s doing really well. Doctors are in high demand these days, you know, especially one as well trained as he is. And so young! He and his wife keep busy, and they’re still happily, madly in love.” She winked. “Though I tell him he needs to carve out some time for grandchildren. I’m in dire need of a new baby to coddle.”

Izzy smiled. “That’s good to hear. I’m happy for them.”

“I am too.”

Children started trickling into the classroom, buzzing with excited chatter. Lady Pursbrough greeted each of them by name as they entered, while Izzy began writing the day’s vocabulary words on the chalkboard, unable to keep a grin off of her face. She’d been a peasant girl her whole life, but that hadn’t stopped her thirst for knowledge and knack for learning, and the only thing that made her happier than written words was the chance to teach them to others. She’d been ecstatic when Lady Pursbrough had noticed her talent and offered her a teaching position at the refined primary school she opened in her late husband’s honor. It gave her more purpose than anything else she’d found in her seventeen years of life, and the academy was the only place she felt centered. Plus, it gave her access to the library upstairs, a major bonus since Racine didn’t have any kind of library.

The students continued filing in and found their seats just as Izzy started on the last line of words. She was midway through ‘predilection’—a new word she’d found in her book the night before—when she heard it.

“Crazy Izzy,” a boy murmured.

Izzy stumbled, and the chalk made a screeching sound when her hand jolted. Several kids snickered.

“Crazy Izzy makes me dizzy,” another boy said, and Izzy knew without looking the way he dragged his finger in circles on his temple and rolled his eyes.

Izzy closed her eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. How did the kids learn it? They were noble children, for star’s sake, and had never seen the harsh realities of the outer villages. The cruel nickname had first originated when her family lived in Solume—a village on the other side of the kingdom. Sure, gossip had trickled through the grapevine and found her hiding in Racine, but these kids, this academy…this was supposed to be her safe place.

“What was that, Blanche?” Lady Pursbrough demanded, steaming like a fresh pot of tea. Izzy wasn’t sure if her gratitude outweighed her embarrassment. Either way, she couldn’t make herself turn around.

Coward.

“Nothing, Mrs. Pursbrough,” Blanche answered with feigned innocence. Izzy cracked her eyes open and continued writing vocabulary words, focusing intently on her penmanship while grasping her rose locket in her other hand.

“All right, then,” Lady Pursbrough said sternly. “Now all of you pay attention to Isabelle today. Understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pursbrough,” the children repeated in unison.

Steeling herself, Izzy turned to face the class. Her hands were warm with sweat and grimy with chalk dust, and she felt the room closing in on her slowly, the walls pushing in even though she’d always been able to stand here and teach just fine…

Izzy took a deep breath and forced herself to begin the lesson. Her voice was thin and fragile at first, but eventually she worked her way into a numb rhythm. Lady Pursbrough stayed in the classroom for a few minutes, eyeing the students like a circling vulture, waiting for someone to say something fatal, but the kids behaved themselves even after she’d left. Izzy didn’t let go of her locket for the duration of the lessons, even when the classes rotated and nothing else happened. The chain left a line imprint on her palm.

When the hours finally passed and the final bell rang, she excused her last class for the day and began gathering up her things. Several of the boys lingered behind, to ask a question, she thought. She straightened up to face them and the boys burst into laughter.

“Crazy Izzy’s head is fizzy!” one of them shouted before they bolted out the door, nearly crashing into a newcomer in a well-tailored suit and handsome, slicked-back hair.

“Hey!” Christian yelled down the hallway at the boys, his hands balling into fists. “You show some respect!”

Izzy ducked her head, both from the sting of the remark and the fact that Christian had heard it.

“It’s okay,” Izzy told the floor. “I’m used to it.”

“It’s most certainly not okay.” Christian took a breath and strode into the room. “And here I thought we were raising decent citizens, not miscreants.”

“What did you need, Christian?” Izzy asked, wanting to change the subject. Grabbing hold of her locket again, she glanced up to meet his eyes. Despite knowing Christian for years, his face still surprised her at times: it was virtually perfect, except his nose, which had been born at an odd angle, so it looked like it was constantly hanging off his face. Between that and the dent in the middle of it, she didn’t know how he was able to breathe. She’d never been brave enough to ask.

“Well I came to talk to you about your father,” he continued, still fired up, as he gestured to the door, “but those delinquent offenders probably deserve my attention more. I should talk to their parents.”

Izzy deflated. Of course Christian came to talk about her father—he was a doctor after all. But Izzy was sick of those superficial conversations. Everyone wanted to ‘talk’ about her father, but never in any way that actually mattered or helped. At least Christian was genuinely concerned, though, and Izzy had to be grateful for that.

He opened his mouth to say something else just as Izzy did, and they both stopped for the other. Izzy hiccupped nervously and grasped her locket tighter out of habit, which stole Christian’s attention.

“You only have half a locket,” he said, then shook his head and smiled. “Obviously. You must have realized that by now.”

Izzy gave a small grin and nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Where’s the other half? Did you lose it?”

She looked down to inspect the gold rose pendant with broken hinges where the other half should’ve been clasped. “I don’t know. It’s my…” Taking a sharp breath, her eyes darted back to Christian’s.

“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.

Izzy bit her lip. People loved to talk about her father, but nobody ever spoke of her mother. People could make fun of her father, of Izzy even, and pity them in a situation that was largely out of their control. But her mother…her mother had chosen to leave them, to walk out years ago without any warning or explanation. It marked her as a traitor to the community, as if she had somehow betrayed an apathetic village more than she had her own precious daughter and fragile husband.

“Yeah,” she finally breathed. “Hers.”

Christian looked like he was going to say something, then he shook his head and seemed to change his mind, getting back on track. He pointed to the hallway again. “How did those boys even come up with those phrases anyway?”

“They didn’t. They must’ve…I don’t know. They must’ve heard them from somewhere else, I guess.” At that, Izzy turned and started stacking her books—it was more than time to go home.

“Who would make up something like that?”

Izzy picked up her books. “My best friend. Well, obviously he’s not anymore, we’re not together any…” She trailed off when she saw the all too familiar look in Christian’s eyes. Pity.

Izzy used to think anything—even pity—was better than the hurtful stares and whispers and remarks people would aim at her and her family, but she’d come to realize pity was just another dirty lens people chose to look at her with, rather than cleaning the glass and seeing her for who and what she actually was.

To be seen as she was, and to be loved for it. Isn’t that what everyone wanted, in some way, in the end? It would seem so impossible to Izzy if she hadn’t seen it happen before to others.

“How did you know you loved your wife?” she blurted suddenly. She felt her cheeks turn pink at the outburst, but she had to admit she wanted an answer. Christian and his wife had been a prime case study in Izzy’s research—without him knowing, of course.

Christian blinked in surprise before stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Hm, um, well, I don’t know. It’s a feeling, I guess…one day, I just knew.”

Izzy pursed her lips. She hated that answer. It was vague and left too many things unaccounted for. “How do you know she loves you?”

“Well…she told me so.”

“Huh.” Izzy nodded to herself. “That’s what they said, too.”

Christian’s eyebrows furrowed; Izzy stepped around him before he could continue the conversation.

“Goodnight, Christian,” she mumbled as she stepped out of the classroom and began the long walk home.

It took her over two hours most days to walk from Pursbrough Academy to Stella’s house. She didn’t mind it much except in the rain or snow, as it was nearly impossible to keep every book from water damage, and wet socks were some of the worst torture she could think of.

But she walked. She wouldn’t ask Stella to dip into her secret stash of money just for a carriage back and forth, and she didn’t dare bother Natalia. She barely spoke in Natalia’s presence. Natalia had let Izzy live in the attic with Stella after her father was taken—Izzy had no other family, nowhere else to go, and she would never ask Natalia or Stella for anything else. As long as nobody bothered her, walking was just fine.

Izzy walked the dirt streets with her head down, hoping nobody recognized or stopped her as she finally entered Racine. The village remained largely destitute, and people weren’t friendly or neighborly like the Pursbroughs. Life had too much hardship to be friendly. Out here, it was everyone for themselves, as Izzy had so brutally learned, and though the thought made her toes curl with fear, she longed for the day when Stella announced they had enough money to leave. Start over. Write any story they wanted to.

The idea gave her legs strength to make the last stretch to the Amaranth house. She snuck in the back door quietly to avoid being noticed by Natalia or her daughters and climbed the stairs to the attic where she shared a room with Stella. Sighing in relief, she put her hand on the doorknob and pushed her way inside.

Izzy jumped when she nearly ran into Stella, who must’ve been standing by the door, waiting for her. She left no time for Izzy to question the state of her hair or the frantic look in her wide, blue eyes. Instead, Stella took Izzy by the shoulders and pulled her inside the attic, shutting the door behind them.

“Izzy, I’ve got to talk to you.”