She had spent the entire day searching and whispering Sarah’s name into the bushes.
Jon stood in the compound and watched the chariot disappear, his face unreadable.
The journey lasted for hours.
They crossed one river, then another. Seven rivers. Seven mountains.
When they passed a certain kingdom, Isidora sat up nervously.
“That is your kingdom,” she said. “You told us you were from there.”
The groom said nothing.
The chariot kept moving.
“Where are we going?” she asked again.
Silence.
Soon the sky darkened. The trees grew tall and thick. The road disappeared into deep forest.
“There is nobody here,” Isidora whispered, her voice shaking.
Then suddenly she screamed, “Help!”
The groom slowly turned toward her.
His eyes glowed red.
His teeth lengthened, sharp and unnatural.
“If I hear your voice again,” he growled, “I will feast on your flesh.”
Isidora covered her mouth instantly.
One of the men behind them laughed.
“Let her scream. No one will come.”
The horses suddenly burst into a violent run. The chariot flew deeper into the forest, and whatever Isidora had married was no longer pretending to be human.
But far away, Sarah had not died.
The next morning, in a village many miles away, an old woman went to the river to wash clothes. As she stepped into the shallow water, she noticed something pale lying near the bank.
At first she thought it was a log.
Then she saw long dark hair.
She screamed and ran as fast as her bent old legs could carry her. On the path, she nearly collided with a young man.
It was the prince.
“Grandmother, what is wrong?”
