Circe and Snow White perched the odd sisters’ house in the large courtyard below the crumbling mansion in the dead woods. It was as they had imagined. A dead place filled with beauty and steeped in sorrow. A place filled with magic, without its queen to wield it.

They looked out on the city of the dead, just beyond the dense tree line of weeping willows, their branches hanging low and crumbling to dust. The city was still and quiet, but Circe and Snow knew it was likely the dead still resided there.

The Gorgon fountain they had read about in Gothel’s story was still standing with its dancing nymphs frozen in time, as if the Gorgon’s enjoyment of their frivolities had inadvertently turned them to stone. Just beyond the courtyard, on the edge of the city of the dead, were Hazel’s and Primrose’s crypts. Snow and Circe were saddened to see them there, remembering how devastated Gothel had been when she’d lost her sisters. And Circe was sure her mothers had had a hand in their deaths. She just couldn’t say how. She thought perhaps she would find the answers in one of her mothers’ or Gothel’s books.

As she looked out over the woods, Circe was overcome by the destruction her mothers had caused—here and everywhere. There was so much blood on their hands. There had been so much death. And the solution was becoming clearer to her every day. She just didn’t have the courage to do it. Not yet.

It was strange for the women to see the place in such ruin, without Sir Jacob or the other minions they’d read about wandering the woods. They almost expected to see them peering out from behind the dead weeping willow trees or resting beneath one of Gothel’s weeping angels. They wondered how Primrose and Hazel would feel once they got here. Would they come expecting to see their sister Gothel? It hurt Circe’s heart to think they were expecting to find their home just as they’d left it. Yes, this was why it was so important for her and Snow to be here. To tell them their story—and the story of their sister, should they want to know it.

The mansion was in almost complete disrepair, ruined by the soldiers of the kingdom who had come to retrieve the magic flower, forcing Gothel and her sisters from their home many years before. Circe imagined Sir Jacob and his army fighting to protect the dead woods, hoping one day Gothel would return to these lands and take her place as queen of the dead. She felt heartbroken about the ruin of their lives and their home, and of Jacob’s hopes and dreams. And to think, all that time, Gothel had been right. The flowers had brought her sisters back to life. If only the flowers Jacob had planted at the little cottage so many years before had bloomed in time.

“Where should we start, Snow? The library? Should we see if it still stands?”

Snow nodded without a word, just as moved as Circe by the state of the dead woods. “Could you maybe repair it?” she asked quietly. “Do you have that power?”

Circe hadn’t even thought of that. “I just might. And what a wonderful idea. If Primrose and Hazel intend to live here, then I suppose I’d better try.”

“Should we see if…” Snow stopped herself.

“What’s that, Snow? What did you say?”

Snow squished her lip to the side and bit it, as she often did when she was vexed or unsure about something. “I was going to ask if we should check to see if Sir Jacob survived.”

“That’s a good idea. Let’s check.” But Snow was still making that face, causing Circe to think she was unsure.

“Do you think we should disturb him? In Gothel’s story, he did say he wanted to rest.”

Circe smiled. “You are so kind, Snow. And you’re right, he did say that, but I think he would want to know if his witches are about to return.”

“How much time do you think we have before Hazel and Primrose get here?”

“Maybe one day more if they’re on foot, I think.”

“Is that enough time for you to get things in better shape while I take a look in the library and maybe go through the books we took from Mrs. Tiddlebottom’s?” Snow desperately hoped she would find the pages from “The Mourning Box.”

“Snow, what is this all about, this obsession with missing pages? What is the mourning box?”

“I don’t want to say, Circe. Not until I’ve read the entire story. Please trust me.”

Circe took Snow’s hand as they walked toward the mansion. “Of course I trust you, Cousin. I trust you with my entire heart. Let’s see if the library is still standing, shall we? And then maybe break our fast with something from the feast Mrs. Tiddlebottom packed for us?”

The two ladies made their way up the hill to what was left of the mansion. Inside, it wasn’t as ruined as they had feared. Many of the rooms were still intact and undamaged by the battle. Most of the destruction was to the outer walls and vestibule, and Circe imagined this was what it must have looked like after Manea attacked Gothel and her sisters years earlier. Both of the ladies were happy to see that the morning room they’d read about was still beautiful; only a few panes of glass had been broken, and the furniture hadn’t been turned over or damaged like it had in some of the lower rooms.

“This won’t take much time at all to manage,” said Circe as she and Snow White continued to explore, in search of the library.

The library was one of the older rooms in the mansion, not one of the new rooms Gothel had built for her sisters after she sent her mother’s spirit to the mists. It was sad seeing this place, reliving Gothel’s story as they walked the paths she must have taken. Snow made herself comfortable in Primrose’s old customary seat in the library, the one near the stone carving of a tree that was slightly in bloom. The carving was the one display of life in this dreary place aside from the monstrous stone beasts that were carved into the walls of the older rooms. Snow smiled as she thought of Primrose, and she hoped Primrose was the sweet person she had conjured in her mind after reading Gothel’s story.

“I’m going to leave you to your search if you don’t mind,” Circe said. “I don’t have much time to make this place more inhabitable for Hazel and Primrose.”

Snow looked up at Circe with her sweet large brown eyes. “And you will look for Sir Jacob?”

Circe smiled and nodded. “Yes, I will look for him.” Snow bit her lip. “What’s on your mind, Snow?”

“It’s just I’ve been wondering. How were we able to enter the dead woods? Aren’t the boundaries enchanted? And even if the minions and Jacob are here, how would you summon them?”

Circe wasn’t sure. “I suppose the enchantment died with the last of the witches who ruled here.” That didn’t seem to satisfy Snow. Circe could tell she had more questions but didn’t ask. Circe, too, wondered how her mothers had entered the woods when they were still girls. For now it would remain a mystery. “I have the mirror in my pocket, Snow. Do you have yours?” Snow looked up from the book she had been perusing while they were chatting and nodded. “Call me if you need me. And don’t forget to keep that locket on at all times,” Circe said.

Snow shook her head and laughed. “I may not be a witch, but I was raised by one. I’ll be fine, Circe. Now go. I have a lot of reading to do.”

Circe left Snow to her books while she went through the mansion, repairing the damage with the wave of her hand. She expected this sort of magic to be difficult and exhausting, but it was almost effortless. As she swept through the mansion, her magic bringing the house back to its former glory, Circe felt like she was bringing the past back to life, preserving it for Primrose and Hazel, just as Gothel and Jacob had preserved Primrose and Hazel.

Circe found herself back in the courtyard, putting statues in their original positions, and to her surprise she found two striking young women standing before Primrose’s and Hazel’s crypts, right beneath the words Jacob had etched into stone:

Sisters. Together. Forever.

The women looked exactly as Circe had imagined them.

Primrose had vibrant red hair and a light speckling of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She had soft curves, apple cheeks, and an unmistakable energy about her. Circe could feel Manea’s blood running in her veins, though she wondered if the girl sensed it herself. Then there was Hazel. To Circe, Hazel was like an ethereal goddess of the dead. Her long silver hair cascaded over her shoulders and down to her waist. Her face was so pale and luminescent she didn’t seem quite human.

Simultaneously, both girls turned to face Circe and smiled. There was no fear or questioning in their eyes. It was as if they knew who she was.

“You must be Circe,” said the fiery beauty, Primrose.

Circe flinched. “How do you know who I am?”

Primrose and Hazel looked at each other and smiled. “We know all about you, Circe. We hoped we would find you here.”

Circe walked toward the lovely girls. Seeing the witches home, and alive again, made Gothel’s losing them, and their losing her, all the more real. “Then you know about your sister? I’m so sorry.”

The girls smiled again. “We know everything, sweet Circe. Please don’t worry. Of course our hearts broke for Gothel, but she chose her own path. As you are about to choose yours.” Circe wondered how the witches knew so much, but she felt it was rude to ask.

Primrose giggled. “It isn’t rude to ask, Circe. We trust you.” Circe stood silently, waiting for Primrose to continue. “We’ve been in the place between since we lost our lives. Gothel tethered us to this world by preserving our bodies, but our spirits resided in another place.” Circe was horrified. The idea of Gothel’s sisters trapped between this world and the next sent chills through her.

“It was difficult at first—until we learned to listen,” said Hazel, who had been, until that moment, silent. Her voice was serene. “I just wish Gothel was with us. I wish she had the same opportunity to listen, and learn. Time to rest, and to recover from what our mother did to us. I wish she’d had the same time we did to let Manea’s blood empower her as it has us. Then she would be here, and we could be witches together, as she always wanted.”

Circe’s heart ached for the three of them, sisters who would never be reunited. She didn’t know what to say. Grasping, she said, “You’ll be happy to know your beautiful morning room is just as you left it.”

Primrose and Hazel looked around. “It seems everything is almost as we left it, thanks to you.”

“Shall I walk you up to the house, then? I would like to introduce you to my cousin Snow White. She’s in your library, looking for the missing pages to a story that’s intrigued her.”

Primrose narrowed her eyes. “Missing pages? Are they important?”

“Well, Snow seems to think so. She’s been obsessed with reading stories about the dead woods since we read your sister’s story.”

“Well, if the pages were ripped from the book of fairy tales, I don’t think she will find them in our library. Jacob had everything that was important taken from the library and hidden away. He was trying to protect Gothel, to keep her safe from any stories or books that might hurt her or help her to foolishly try to resurrect us without the flower.” Circe had to remember these witches probably knew more than she did, having spent so long in the place between. She had to remember they were hundreds of years old. “Yes, though we feel as if we’re still your age. And I suppose in body we still are,” Primrose said with a smile. “Shall we go find these books and pages that Jacob wisely hid away from my deranged sister?”

Circe hardly knew what to say. It wasn’t surprising Primrose would hold that opinion of her sister, but she hadn’t expected to hear her say something outright.

“We love our sister, Circe. We do, but we see her clearly. We see her more clearly than she ever saw herself. We had nothing to do in the place between but listen and learn. Don’t mistake us, we do mourn her, but we’ve been mourning her for a very long time, long before she turned to dust and passed into the mists to be with our ancestors.”

The three witches walked the paths Circe and Snow had read about, past the weeping angels beneath the dead willow trees, their long hanging branches swaying in the breeze and making the sunlight dance. They reached the crypt Circe remembered from Gothel’s story, the one with the large anatomical image of a heart in stained glass. Circe gasped, startling the young witches.

“What is it, Circe? Are you all right?” Circe didn’t know how she felt about waking Jacob, if he was there at all. She wasn’t sure it was fair, even if they needed his help.

“He will be happy to see you, Circe. Call him.”

“Happy to see me? He doesn’t even know me.” Circe felt as if the witches knew far more than they were sharing.

“He knows of you. Your mothers spoke of nothing else. Wrote of nothing else in their missives.” Primrose and Hazel were smiling at Circe like she was an old friend, not like she was someone they had just met. It was strange, this feeling of familiarity they seemed to have with her, and how comfortable she felt with them. How oddly at home she was in this strange and beautiful place.

“But that wasn’t me. That was their real sister. That Circe, the one they wrote of, she died,” Circe said in a small voice.

“Oh, you are her, Circe. You are real, and you were always meant to be. Now, please call Sir Jacob. I promise he will answer if he is within,” said Hazel, urging Circe to be brave.

“What are the words?” Circe felt she was on the edge of something. She felt that in doing this, she would somehow be changing her life forever.

“You’re right, wise witch,” Hazel said, reading Circe’s thoughts. “Now use your own words and summon Jacob.”

Circe took a deep breath, and she said the words. Words that came not from a spell book, but from her heart.

“Sir Jacob, the living are in need of you once more. If anyone is deserving of rest, it is you. So, please, forgive our intrusion and know it pains me to rouse you from your slumber.” Primrose and Hazel smiled as they heard Circe’s choice of words. Circe could see they approved.

The door to the crypt opened slowly, with the terrible sound of stone moving against stone. Circe understood now why it had set Gothel’s teeth on edge when she heard it.

Jacob stood in the open doorway, squinting against the sunlight. He looked much the way Circe had expected. Exceedingly tall and large boned, and she could tell he had once been very handsome. He held his top hat to shield his eyes from the sun as he slowly made his way out the crypt door. As his eyes adjusted, he saw them. He saw his witches. His Primrose and Hazel. His face twisted into his customary strained smile, and it sent joy into Circe’s heart to see it. Both girls rushed to their dear old friend, hugging him around the waist. Then he looked up and saw Circe. She saw it wash over him: a look of recognition she hadn’t expected. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought the man knew her. Loved her. And was happy to see her.

“Well, the one made from three has finally come to the dead woods. But does she bring her mothers crashing down on us, as it was foretold, or have they been safely stowed away, as the ancestors hoped?”

Circe was taken aback, too confused even to answer.

Sir Jacob looked to Primrose and Hazel. “She doesn’t know, then?”

The witches shook their heads. “No,” Primrose said. “She came here with Snow White seeking answers about her mothers. I think it’s time she learned the truth.”