The forest service had cleared the mudslide, and Sabrina maneuvered her rented red Jeep around the twisting roads with ease. Her dress cupcaked around her waist, taking up both front seats, but she wouldn’t dream of returning to Matrimony Manor in anything but the gown in which she’d be wed.
The sheriff hadn’t doctored the photographs. As the gates opened up before her, she saw that the forest had closed in, but she wasn’t afraid of the trees anymore. She was supposed to be here. She was more certain than she had been of anything in her whole life. It was like coming home.
First, she double-checked the mansion for Linda and Charity, but the sheriff had told the truth about that, too. They weren’t there, and Sabrina found no sign of their bodies, nor their escape, as she explored, taking care to step around the carpets of glass. At the dining table, she found their bowls and silverware, as though abandoned in the middle of a romantic evening.
Good for them, wherever they were. She hoped they were safe, but their well-being was not the reason she had come.
Outside, she searched the ground for the hints she’d left herself: the strips of bright ribbon, shredded and spread, that led into the glade. A path. Like Hansel and Gretel, she searched for hours for each patch, ground as they were into the dirt, until she found herself, finally, face to face with the prize she planted.
Tristan’s body had morphed even more since she’d dug a hole and set his dead body upright into it, making sure to cover his fused and rooted feet with enough dirt to keep the tender tendrils safe. His skin was white bark now, mottled with pretty patches of well-sunned red, but there was no denying it was him. Even budding at the far lengths of his limbs, even twisting where his torso became chest became neck, Sabrina recognized him. Where his mouth once was, a knotty growth remained. She had kissed those lips enough to know them anywhere.
Her wedding dressed bunched around her as she leaned forward and rested her forehead against him. She wrapped her arms around his trunk. He was her happily-ever-after, and she would do everything she could to bring him back.
“Will you accept this ribbon?” she said as she tied her white sash around him.
The canopy seemed to whisper, yes.
Acknowledgments
Holy smokes. Wow. There are so many people I want to thank for following me and the show on this journey toward true love.
Thank you first of all to the producers: agent Kristopher O’Higgins at Scribe; editor Rob Carroll and PR expert Samantha Carroll at Dark Matter INK; and marketing guru D. L. Young. Thank you for helping to make this story and its release be all that it could be.
Thank you to the wonderful cast whose presence helped shape this beast: Chris Panatier, first reader; my inspiring DSOP friends; my Stonecoast teachers Liz, Caro, Dora, David, Jim; my Stonecoast bestie, Katie; and all my writer friends at all the writer cons. You’re all fan favorites, deserving of every happy ending headed your way.
Thanks—so many thanks—to those who work behind the scenes, the crew: Emily, Drew, Cera, Jacob, Andrew, Fran, Kim, Fabian, Alicia, Melissa, Becca. All the work you do, all the daily frights you’ve given, have inspired me in every way.
And thank you to my family. Without your chaotic energy, and support, I wouldn’t be the person I am today: Mom, Dad, Rachel, Tommy, Carolyn, and Bob. Ian and Silas: don’t read this until you’re older.
And thanks most of all to William. As always, my muse. My one. You’re always here for the right reasons.
—Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam
About the Author
Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam is the author of the collection Where You Linger and the novella Glorious Fiends. Her short fiction has appeared in over ninety publications, including Popular Science and LeVar Burton Reads, and has been nominated twice for the Nebula Award. By day, she writes for video games. By night, she tries to dodge the chaotic parkour performed by her needy cats, Ichabod and Wednesday.
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