“What. . . is this?” Jo whispered, looking at the river rocks that made up the room’s foundation. Her attention drifted from bottom to top, looking at a mural painted in careful detail on her ceiling.
Stars spotted on a blue-black canvas of sky, swirls of light radiating out from them in softer shades. It was similar to the hand that had painted the murals on Snow’s ceiling, but the subject matter was different. Her eyes connected the dots, making shapes that resembled no constellation she’d ever seen before.
No, they weren’t constellations.
Slowly, Jo began to recognize the shapes, like finally understanding a complicated math problem, or watching a line of code evolve into something hackable. They had once been her game plan, like the x’s and o’s on a football coach’s playbook, for the order in which she’d eventually end the stars one by one. Her restriction—she had toseesomething to be able to destroy it—had always been there. And reaping destruction was what she’d been doing all along.
She’d been made to bring ends. Just like everything she’d broken, every life she’d ever ruined. How many people, how manyworldshad already suffered because of her?
Turning in place, Jo wrenched the door open once more and started down the hallway. She listened for the slam of the door closing—ensuring that no one else would accidentally stumble on her room. Its latest change was not a phenomenon she wanted to explain. Her feet moved on auto-pilot and, in a blink, Jo found herself squaring off opposite a white door.
Just as her knuckles were about to meet the wood, the door swung open.
“I didn’t think I would see you again so soon.” Snow seemed pleased, but also concerned.
Jo glanced at the black door to her left. Snow’s eyes followed; he gave a nod and stepped aside. She took the silent invitation and spoke only when the door had clicked shut behind her.
“My room is different,” Jo started, turning to face him.
“Different, how?”
“Much more similar to yours.” She motioned at the decor around her. “And I recognize it.”
Snow’s lips thinned into a line.
“Snow, I—” Jo had set to pacing around the room as she spoke, working out the nervous energy that ticked up in her. But she came up short the moment her eyes fell on a dresser, window, and small table with a gilded box atop. “The box,” she whispered.
“What?” Snow went rigid.
“You said, once, that there was great power in it—destruction. You said you split my magic and used it . . .”
“Josephina.” He used her full name like a parent might. Yet she could not be chided or dissuaded.
“I saw it. I saw you use it during the first wish—I felt it then. I felt it soak into me without resistance as you unleashed it. You said my magic was returning, more now that I was in proximity to it . . .” She remembered how the magic had flooded the room where Snow had said he’d died. She remembered the feeling of it seeping through her flesh. “Then you wouldn’t let me touch it the last time I approached it.” Jo stopped, standing before the box. “My magic is in there, isn’t it?”
Jo felt him behind her. She could hear him breathing, every slow breath hot on the nape of her neck. Jo gave him a solid minute to bring to an end the battle that was no doubt raging in his mind. But when he said nothing, she spoke again.
“Answer me, Snow. I deserve to know.” She spun in place, putting her back to the box and facing him once more. Jo found herself at the starting line of another seemingly infinite silence. It stretched before her and between them, as though they stood on different worlds. The finish line was at his feet. Just beyond it was truth, knowledge. One way or another, she’d cross it. “You’ve already told me almost everything, haven’t you? This is just a simple yes or no.”
Still, he said nothing.
“Keeping me in ignorance is not letting me thrive in a beautiful lie. It’s death in the dark.” Dramatic? Probably, since she couldn’t technically die. But Jo didn’t know how to describe her feelings lately, if not as agony. Snow let his gaze roam over every plane of her face, brows pinched and eyes sad.
“It’s dangerous. You cannot meddle with the box, even if I tell you.” His eyes continued to searched her face, as though he were asking for permission to take the risk anyway.
“Fine,” Jo agreed. “Though my magic already seems to be haywire enough. I’m not quite sure what difference it’ll make.”
“Regaining all of your powers will make a world of difference.” Snow sighed. “Yes, your magic is stored there. But you must not touch it.”
“Why?”
“If the box is opened, your powers return. However, while they are returning and before they are safely back within your form, they will be vulnerable to theft.”
Jo felt a twinge of frustration at being treated like a child who could not be trusted with her parents’ toys. Yet she knew there was still much for her to learn—both about her magic and about the Age of Gods—so she kept her mouth shut and stifled her objections. Her fingers slotted between his body and elbow. Gently but firmly, Jo pulled him to her. “All right, I won’t.”
“Thank you,” Snow whispered into her hair.
“Is it true?”
