Rosalin looked haughtily away, and Varian’s face crumpled.
I drew in a breath. My sister’s romantic complications were not enough to distract me from what I had just learned. The fairy godmother’s words ricocheted back and forth in my mind.
Dying in it. Dying in it. Dying in it.
No, I thought.
“Briony?” Rosalin said suddenly and sharply. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from that spinning wheel!”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Dying in it. Dying in it.
I couldn’t tell them. Especially not Rosalin.
The way she can stop it, the fairy godmother had said. Not the only way to stop it. So maybe there was another way.
“Briony!” Rosalin said. “Didn’t you hear me? Get away from that thing!”
Varian raised his eyebrows and strode to the spinning wheel. He pressed a finger to the point of the spindle.
“Seems safe enough,” he said, and grinned at me.
We both stared at him as if he had pulled his pants down and started dancing a jig in his undergarments. His grin faded.
“It’s not funny!” Rosalin snapped. “Do you think what happened to me is funny?”
“No! I was just making a— I didn’t think— I shouldn’t have—” He stammered to a stop. He looked like he was regretting not just what he had done, but having been born in the first place. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s understandable,” I said quickly. (Even though I didn’t really think so.) “I guess spinning wheels aren’t scary anymore. People must use them all the time.”
“Well, no,” Varian said. “We have better machines for making thread now. But in the village, they have model spinning wheels as part of their historical display.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rosalin flinch. “Don’t tell me,” she said tightly. “They have festivals where people prick their fingers on fake spinning wheels for fun.”
“Oh, no,” Varian said. “Not at festivals. It’s a common children’s game. It’s called prick-a-princess—”
“Anyhow,” I said. Varian stepped away from the wheel as if driven by the force of my glare. “I told the fairy godmother I would keep spinning gold thread for her, and now I have to do it.”
“Gold thread?” Rosalin repeated. “Isn’t that from a different story? The one the minstrel always sings at dances?”
“Fairies always spin gold thread,” Varian said. “They wouldn’t bother spinning anything else. In every story I’ve heard, that is.” He looked at me. “But do you really think spinning for her is a good idea?”
“I promised,” I said. “Do you know what happens to people who break promises to fairies?”
“Um…”
“Okay,” I admitted, “neither do I. But I’m pretty sure it’s not good.” I positioned my feet on the pedals. “Besides, the fairy godmother is the only one who can get us out of here.”
By dying in it.
No. There had to be another way. I would bargain with the fairy until she told me, and then I’d bargain until she helped us. Even if I had nothing to bargain with.
“What makes you think she can help us?” Rosalin asked. “I heard her, when she was carrying you away. She said she doesn’t have much power in the Thornwood.”
“That makes sense,” Varian said. Rosalin shot him a glare, and he hesitated, then went on. “The Thornwood belongs to the fairy queen, and your godmother is just an ordinary fairy. She can’t go against her queen. I don’t think it’s possible for them.”
“Look,” I said as calmly as I could (which wasn’t very). “She saved Rosalin from dying, and she saved us from the Thornwood, so she’s on our side. Ish. She might know a way we can…”
The way she can stop it is by dying in it.
My throat closed, and I knew I was about to cry.
But I couldn’t. If I cried, they would want to know why, and I couldn’t tell them. Once Rosalin got past being terrified, she tended to get all noble and stupid; she might very well decide to sacrifice herself to save the rest of us. Which was probably something most people wouldn’t have thought her capable of, but everyone underestimated my sister.
“Get off that wheel,” Rosalin said. “I forbid you to spin.”
That got me to focus. “You forbid me?”
“Yes. You’re being foolish.”
I dug my fingernails into my palms. “You don’t get to order me around. And I’m a lot smarter than you are. Maybe if you would just listen to what I said instead of acting like this is all about you—”
“It is all about me!” Rosalin said. “Do you think that makes me happy? Do you really wish this was about you, that you were the one cursed—”
“Are you really so sure that it’s not about me?” I demanded. “I’m the one who woke up first! I’m the one your fairy godmother asked to spin! And I’m the only one who can see past the end of her own nose!”
Rosalin started toward me. I slid quickly back to the edge of the stool, and as I did, I caught a glimpse of Varian’s expression. His lips were curved in amusement, like he thought this was funny.
“And if I don’t spin,” I finished, “I’m the one who pays the price! Don’t be so—”
Rosalin made a whimpering sound. I looked at her, at her wide dark eyes, and the words I was about to say died on my lips.
Don’t be so selfish. But that wasn’t selfishness on her face.
It was fear.
By dying in it. Did Rosalin know?
“Rosalin.” I slipped off the stool. “Are you…are you afraid of your fairy godmother?”
Rosalin shook her head. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Not of her,” she said. “Of the other one. The fairy queen. The one who cursed me to die.” She drew in her breath. “The one who’s waking now.”
Silence.
Rosalin forced her hands to her sides. “At my christening, my fairy godmother said that instead of dying, I would sleep for a hundred years. And so would
