But Evangeline refused to give up hope.
Her mother, Liana, had grown up in the Magnificent North, and she had raised Evangeline on their fairytales.
In the North, fairytales and history were treated as one and the same because their stories and histories were all cursed. Some tales couldn’t be written down without bursting into flames, others couldn’t leave the North, and many changed every time they were shared, becoming less and less real with every retelling. It was said that every Northern tale had started as true history, but over time, the Northern story curse had twisted all the tales until only bits of truth remained.
One of the stories Liana used to tell Evangeline was The Ballad of the Archer and the Fox, a romantic tale about a crafty peasant girl who could transform into a fox and the young archer who loved her, but was cursed with the need to hunt her down and kill her.
Evangeline loved the story because she, too, was a Fox, even if she wasn’t the sort who could turn into an animal. She might have also had a tiny crush on the archer. Evangeline made her mother tell her the tale over and over. But since this story was cursed, every time her mother neared the end, she would suddenly forget what she’d been saying. She could never tell Evangeline if the archer kissed his fox-girl and they lived happily together forever, or if he killed the fox-girl, ending their story in death.
Evangeline would always ask her mother to just tell her how she thought the story ended. But her mother always refused.
“I believe there are far more possibilities than happily ever after or tragedy. Every story has the potential for infinite endings.”
Evangeline’s mother repeated this sentiment so often that it grew inside Evangeline, rooting itself into the heart of her beliefs. This was one of the reasons she’d drunk the poison that had turned her to stone. It wasn’t because she was fearless or terribly heroic; it was because Evangeline simply had more hope than most. Jacks had told her that her only option for a happy ending was to walk away; that if she drank the poison, she’d be stone forever. But Evangeline couldn’t believe that. She knew her story had the potential for infinite endings—and that belief hadn’t changed.
There was a happy ending waiting for her.
The bell attached to the door of the bookstore chimed. The door hadn’t even opened yet, but the bell must have sensed someone special was entering, for it rang a touch early.
Evangeline found herself holding her breath, hoping Luc would walk through. She wished she could break the habit. But that same hope that led Evangeline to believe there was still a happy ending waiting for her also made her think that one day Luc would return. It didn’t seem to matter how many weeks or months passed. Whenever the bell to the bookshop rang, she couldn’t help but hope.
She knew some people would think this made her foolish, but it was tremendously hard to fully fall out of love with someone when you had no one else to love instead.
Evangeline quickly barreled down the ladder she’d been standing on and hurried past several patrons exploring the aisles. The last person who’d walked through the door was not Luc, but she was also unexpected.
Marisol had never visited Evangeline at the bookshop. Marisol never really left the house, she barely left her room, and she looked visibly uncomfortable at having done both today. She wrung her gloved hands with every step.
Given that the bookstore was a bit of a secret, it didn’t look like much from the outside. Just a door with a knob that always seemed on the verge of falling off. And yet there was a certain sort of magic once you stepped inside. It was the feel of candlelight at twilight, paper dust caught in the air, and rows and rows of unusual books on crooked shelves. Evangeline treasured it, but Marisol moved through the stacks as if they all might fall on her.
Over the last few months, the Cursed Bride had become part of local lore. Weddings were no longer held in gardens, and if a wedding was canceled, it was now bad luck to reschedule. Since she rarely went out, Marisol wasn’t widely recognizable as the actual Cursed Bride, but Evangeline could already see her stepsister’s skittishness making the other customers feel as if there were something to fear. Conversations had grown hushed, and patrons made a point of avoiding Marisol.
Evangeline continued toward her with a smile, hoping Marisol wouldn’t notice the less-than-friendly glances. “What brings you here? Did you want a book? We just got in a shipment of cooking books.”
Marisol shook her head, almost violently. “It’s probably best I don’t touch anything. People might think I’ve cursed the books.” She shot a furtive look toward the door, where a couple happened to be quickly exiting.