Where did I put that . . .

  Aconite knocked over a pile of scrolls as she reached across her desk, sending them tumbling off her table and unraveling across the floor.

  No, not there.

  She hated working here, in her room — it was far too small for what she needed to do, and far too cluttered. Vials of potion ingredients and failed remedies lined the shelves, taped-on labels peeling from glass. Empty bottles clustered in piles on the floor. Plants bowed their wilted leaves in the pots placed around the room, withering away with no sunlight to feed them. Scrolls and books and papers formed mountains on her desk and bed — she’d hunted down every scrap of knowledge she could find about the curse.

  The recent increase in patrolling guards had barred her from accessing her hidden workspace, from visiting him, for fear of being caught. That wasn’t her only problem, either — that creature was acting up again. She could hear it clawing at the door downstairs, talons screeching against the magic protecting the wood. She needed to find a way to placate it, silence it, but there was no time for that. She had a more important project.

  No matter. The queen would be dead soon — and, after her death, Aconite was sure she’d be able to work freely once more. As soon as the queen was gone, the guards would disappear, too. One little death would fix these problems. She’d finally be able to see him again.

  Fear trickled down her spine as she wondered if he’d recognize her. If he’d ever remember her.

  She’d give him his memory back. And his form, and his life. She’d fix her mistake. She’d reverse the curse. No matter what it took.

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  She breathed a sigh of relief as she finally found the newest draft of her plans, hidden under a basket of crystals.

  Now, where did my model go . . .

  She reached around the inside of her desk for her clay figurine of the dragon, but came up empty handed.

  Not again.

  The nuisance had evidently managed to break in, even after the new curses she’d put in place. She swore to herself and pried open the rusted door, the wood glowing momentarily in contact with her hand. She descended the winding staircase, past the windows locked up with steel bars and molding planks.

  The sound of the clawing stopped abruptly as she stepped off the stairs into her cramped living room. It was littered with chocolate wrappers and disemboweled pieces of figurines, broken pens and brushes, torn paper. Her foot bumped against something, and a doll’s head went rolling across the dusty floor. A pair of scissors lay lonely in the corner, atop a nest of scraps of fabric.

  She got down on her hands and knees, hoping her dragon was still intact somewhere, that she wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of making a new one. Her hopes were dashed as she found a shard of ceramic beneath the couch, and the broken pieces of the body and head.

  She sighed, gathering up the pieces and sliding them in her pocket. How many times had she told that thing not to go in her room? Everything it did hindered her progress. Aconite prayed for the day when it would learn to keep quiet and out of her way.

  She stared at the cracked head of the dragon, nestled in her palm, the jaws still moving weakly. Weariness hit her as she closed her fingers over the ceramic -- one model out of dozens, another attempt following hundreds of failures.

  It’ll work, she told herself. The queen will be dead. The restraints will be lifted. I’ll find a way to save him.

  She had taken her first step back up the stairs when she heard a knock at the door.