by Jen Calonita
Ingrid stared at the basket overflowing with perfect red apples. The apples were so ripe they practically oozed at the touch. Not a single one was bruised; none had the faintest indent or even a rotten mark. Katherine never would have allowed it. She fawned over the apple trees in the orchard as if they were her children, making sure they were watered and pruned daily. The farmer and his wife adored Ingrid’s sister and were pleased with the work she did around the farm. When Katherine took an interest in the apple trees the farmer had failed to nourish, the very next year they’d produced a good apple harvest. And now, just a few years later, Katherine’s apples were said to be the best in the kingdom. She’d come up with her own hybrid, which she named Red Fire. They had a hint of tartness like a green apple would, but ample sweetness to balance the flavor. There was even a rumor that the king himself ordered Katherine’s apples by the bushel to have them juiced for his morning breakfast. At least that’s what Ingrid had heard at the market. It wasn’t like anyone from the castle ever came down to this simple corner of the kingdom to grace them with their presence.
Since the farmer had taken them in at Ingrid’s behest several years back, she and Katherine had worked hard to earn their keep. Katherine instantly took to farm life, but it wasn’t long before Ingrid found it dull. While her sister called farming “being one with the earth” and loved the challenge of getting a reluctant plant to bloom, Ingrid grew tired of always having grime beneath her nails and soiled skirts. She didn’t want to spend her life turning soil and harvesting corn, spending her days roasting in the sun.
She tried to talk to Katherine about moving on from the farm, but her sister wouldn’t hear of it. “They’ve been so good to us, Ingrid,” Katherine would say in that pragmatic way of hers—as if that meant they owed their very last breath to a couple who treated them like hired help. Six days a week, they rose before the sun to pick ripe fruits and vegetables and toiled in the fields till the sun began to set. On the seventh day, they should have been resting, but instead, they were forced to head up to the village to sell their bounty.
Truthfully, Ingrid didn’t mind the seventh day, because it was her one chance to escape the farm. The farmer trusted them to venture into the village on their own to sell Katherine’s precious apples and the other produce, even allowing them to take the wagon. If only she could’ve taken the wagon and never returned to the horrid place. . . . But she couldn’t leave Katherine.
“There are twice as many bushels this week as there were last,” Katherine said before they set out for market day. She had arranged the apples in the basket as carefully as she would cradle a fresh batch of eggs. “Uncle Herbert couldn’t believe how many we sold last week.”
“He’s not your uncle,” Ingrid snapped, and Katherine stopped fussing over the fruit to look at her. “Sorry. It’s just—he’s not. He has no dowry for you. He will not find you a hand in marriage. He owes us nothing, Katherine, and one day he will take the life we’ve become accustomed to and pull it out from under us just like Father did. If you’d realize that, you’d want to leave as badly as I do.”
Katherine sighed. “Oh, Ingrid.”
They’d had this argument before.
Sun slipped through the cracks in the barn and shone on Ingrid’s younger sister. Though the hours in the sun had tanned her complexion (as she always refused to share Ingrid’s large, worn straw hat) and hard work had callused her hands, Katherine sported these features with pride. Her dark hair was always tied simply and practically off her face, no matter how many times Ingrid had told her to wear it in the latest fashion like she tried to do. Despite this, Katherine endeared herself to all she met—from the farmer to the people at the market, unsure whether they wanted to spend the money for a premium apple. (The farmer insisted Katherine charge double the amount for hers.) Perhaps it was the sweetness that radiated from behind her amber eyes. But those eyes no longer worked on Ingrid.
“I’ll be nineteen at the end of the next month,” Ingrid said as she helped Katherine lift the baskets into the back of the wagon. “It’s time I make a life for myself. If you want this one, you can have it. I want more.”
Katherine frowned. It was not something she did often. “Where will you go? What will you do for food and clothing? Maybe if you ask Uncle—Herbert—for help finding work in the village, you could continue to live here and still have more freedom.”
Ingrid tilted her head. She hadn’t considered that option, but it could be the best one . . . for now. “Maybe.” She dropped the tarp over the back of the wagon, and the two began the long ride into the village, arriving just before the morning rush.
The marketplace was set up in the shadow of the churchyard. Some vendors sold out of the backs of their wagons; others walked around with baskets. Katherine preferred to set up a table and let people touch and smell the food they were buying. “It gives them a choice,” she always said. Ingrid had initially thought she was foolish. Who wanted to buy corn that someone had already half husked? Once again, she was proven wrong, because Katherine’s method always produced a line. Today, the villagers were waiting before they even arrived to set up their table.
“Hello, Katherine!” the owner of the butcher shop called as the girls began to unpack their wares.
Everyone knew Katherine. It was Ingrid’s name they had trouble remembering. She understood neither of them were the fairest in the land, but Ingrid pinched her cheeks in an effort to give them the right shade of pink and kept her clothes clean. She studied books and could hold a conversation, unlike so many of these peasants. Was it really so hard for them to remember her name, too?
“Hello, Sir Adam!” Katherine said, because she, of course, remembered everyone’s names as well.
“Your apples look even more beautiful this week than last. Anything new on the market?”
Ingrid hated ridiculous questions. “The crop is the crop,” she said plainly. “We don’t magically grow beanstalks overnight.”
Adam looked at her strangely, and she knew she had gone too far. Katherine touched her shoulder.
“Why don’t you let me sell this morning while you look around?” Katherine said lightly. “I’m okay here by myself.”
The move would help Katherine as much as it did Ingrid—Katherine always sold better when she was solo. She had that kind, patient persona that the villagers lapped up like a street dog with a bowl of water.
Ingrid glared at Adam. “Fine.” She grabbed a handful of apples and stowed them in a small sack. Sometimes she could sell them to the other stalls. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t give away the produce.”
That was another problem. Katherine was a sucker for a poor soul. If someone drooled over her apples but couldn’t afford to buy one, Katherine sometimes took pity and gave it to them for free. It drove Ingrid mad. They’d never been given handouts. Why should others get them?
Aimlessly wandering the stalls of the market, Ingrid turned up her nose at the fish on ice at one stall and someone selling soaps at another. It was the same offerings week in and week out. Even the freedom of the market was beginning to lose its appeal. She stopped momentarily at a jewelry stand to admire a strand of black pearls on display. She’d never seen ebony-colored pearls before. They certainly weren’t from around here. She touched one of the pearls with the tip of her finger.
“See anything you like, pretty lady?” the shopkeeper asked.
“Yes, these are—”
“He was speaking to me,” a woman next to her said.
Ingrid looked up. The woman was clearly a noble. Her violet dress was made of fine silk, and she wore a gorgeous sheer ivory scarf wrapped around her head. Several white pearl bracelets adorned her matching ivory gloves, her face was beautifully made up, and she smelled like roses—obviously wearing perfume. Ingrid’s mouth opened slightly. This was the type of woman who garnered attention and respect. This was the type of woman she wanted to be.
“What would you like today, madam?” the shopkeeper asked the no
blewoman as they both ignored Ingrid.
“These.” The woman held up the black pearls. She hadn’t even tried them on.
Ingrid walked away, feeling dismayed.
Life was not fair. She could be that type of woman—commanding, beautiful, controlled—if given the resources. Resources she clearly would never have living in a musty farmhouse. She wished she could become someone else entirely.
“Wish, my lady?”
Ingrid kept walking. Whoever it was clearly wasn’t talking to her. That much she’d learned.
“I said, would you like me to grant your wish, my lady?”
Ingrid turned around.
The man was old, his face weathered and his grayish-white beard far too long. His gray eyes held hers with interest. She shifted her gaze to his small, cluttered stall filled with trinkets of every shape and size. He also had mirrors, vases, trunks, and small bottles of what appeared to be spices. She looked back and saw that he continued to stare at her.
“Are you talking to me?” Ingrid asked.
He didn’t answer the question. “You look like someone who wants her wishes granted.” He motioned to her sack. “I’ll grant one if I can have an apple.”
She was no fool. “You expect me to believe you’ll grant my wish in exchange for a piece of fruit?”
He smiled thinly. He was missing several teeth. “Yes. I could even offer you something better than a wish, if you’d prefer. I could offer an apprenticeship with me.”
Ingrid couldn’t help laughing. “And why would I want that?”
“To get away from the farm, of course, and to chart a new path,” he said, and she stopped laughing. “That is what you want, isn’t it?” He stepped out of the stall and moved toward her. “I can teach you how to grant your own wishes. I can give you power.”
She felt her body shiver. It was as though he knew her intimate thoughts. How was that possible? She looked closer at the wares in his booth. She spotted the black feathers, the cauldron, the potion bottles with the poison symbols. She suddenly noticed how nervous the villagers were as they passed the stall. This man was feared, and for that, she was in awe.
Could it be? The rumors of the black arts her father had spoken of long ago . . . had they been true?
“What do you want in return?” she asked, attempting to sound more confident than she felt.
“As I said, I need an apprentice,” he told her. “My eyes are not as good as my head anymore. I need someone to help me prepare . . . things . . . and in exchange I will share all I have learned in this life.” He took her hand in his. His nails were dark and dirty. She had to tell herself not to pull away. “Do we have a deal, young Ingrid?”
She didn’t ask how he knew her name. Her heart pounded. “Yes.”
“Ingrid!” Katherine’s voice rang out in the aisle. She rushed to her sister, and Ingrid dropped the man’s hand. Katherine’s face was flushed with excitement. Her smile faded as she looked from Ingrid to the man and back, but it brightened again in an instant. “I’ve been looking for you! You will never believe what just happened. The king has personally requested my apples be served at his next dinner! He loves the Red Fire.” She laughed gaily and grabbed her sister’s hands. “Isn’t today magical?”
“Yes,” Ingrid agreed, looking at her new teacher instead of her sister. “Magical, indeed.”
The queen wanted her dead?
It was inconceivable. It couldn’t be possible! She must have heard the huntsman wrong. But he’d had a knife pointed at her and now he was kneeling on the ground, weeping.
Could it be true?
Her heart was beating so fast she feared it would burst out of her chest. The wind seemed to pick up and roar in her ears. Every nerve in her body told her to leave him, but she felt rooted to the spot. This did not make sense. Aunt Ingrid wants him to kill me?
Curiosity got the best of her. “Why?” she whispered, her voice shaky.
The huntsman didn’t look up. He had slipped back into his habit of avoiding eye contact. “She’s jealous of you, much like she was jealous of your mother, the old queen,” he said. He paused, seeming to struggle to find the words. His long sigh turned into a sob. “She suffered the same fate the queen wanted for you, I’m afraid.”
Her mother? Snow felt her knees buckle. “No! That’s impossible!”
“It’s the truth,” the huntsman swore, and he bowed his head again. “You’re not the first the queen has tried to strike down.” He looked around. “Your mother’s death came at the hands of my family, I’m afraid to say.”
Snow was too stunned to speak. This man was clearly out of his mind. Her mother hadn’t been killed. She’d fallen ill . . . hadn’t she?
She remembered her father’s voice breaking as he gave her the news. Snow had already been in bed, waiting for her mother to come say good night, when her father had come in with tears streaming down his cheeks. She immediately knew something was wrong, but she never would have imagined something had happened to her strong, radiant mother, a woman who had always seemed so full of life. She’d seen her mother that morning before she’d headed out for the day on official business—what type of business, Snow did not know. But that was not unusual. The queen was always off meeting with folks in the kingdom and outside of it, listening to concerns, mediating differences, attempting to solve the latest problems that had arisen . . . including a terrible plague that had sprung up. She had kissed Snow’s cheek and gone on her way, saying she’d be home before dark. By evening, she was dead. But the plague had been rampant at that time, killing so many others in the surrounding kingdoms, and it was said to be fast-acting. Snow had been shocked, but she’d never questioned the cause of her mother’s sudden death. . . .
She looked at the huntsman again. Could he be telling her the truth? Had her mother been killed by her own sister instead of a disease?
Suddenly, she felt a pressing need to hear what he had to say about her mother. If Queen Katherine had been betrayed by Ingrid, who had then taken her crown, Snow needed to hear it. She felt a surge of adrenaline mixed with sudden anger course through her veins. She wasn’t leaving this place till she knew exactly what had happened all those years ago.
“Huntsman, tell me what you know,” she said, her voice stronger than she’d ever heard it. She knew the situation was delicate. The knife still lay on the ground where it had fallen, mere feet from the two of them. “Please, sir. You owe me that much.” She could feel her hands shaking again. She tried to keep them steady.
The huntsman stared at the ground. “Your mother died at my own father’s hands, I’m afraid. He was the castle huntsman before I, but his work for the queen went deeper than hunting and foraging for food. I am told she tasked him with killing the queen so she could marry your father.”
“No,” Snow said, her voice breaking. It felt like the world was spinning. “No!” she said more forcefully, willing the words to not be true.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the huntsman said, his voice cracking. “My father confessed this to me on his deathbed.” His face crumbled. “It seems my father was her personal slave, much as I’ve become. Your aunt told him that if he aligned himself with her, he’d have great power when she sat upon the throne. And he believed her. He died this past winter, but he didn’t want to take this evildoing to his grave. This deed had tortured him for years.” His eyes were wild. “Once I knew, who could I tell such a thing? Would anyone believe me? The king had long since disappeared. The stories of the other things done to her own people are foreboding. I have a family. I couldn’t . . . she’s too powerful.” He wiped his brow. “But I won’t repeat my father’s mistakes. I will hide my family away before I return to accept my fate. I won’t put your heart in a box and hand it to her like a prized pig on a platter.”
Snow closed her eyes tight, the idea almost too much to bear. Her mind was whirling. How could this be possible? It was sickening. Her mother had trusted her own flesh and blood. She’d made Aunt Ingrid her lady-in-w
aiting. She was Snow’s godmother. She had been given a home in the castle. Her job had been to help protect her sister, but instead, her aunt had ordered the unthinkable. She’d stolen her mother’s crown. Her husband. Her daughter.
Why?
Because she’s the Evil Queen, a small voice in her head said. There was a reason Snow heard people whisper the nickname. Her aunt showed no mercy. Snow knew this. It’s why a small part of her had feared being in the queen’s presence these past years. For so long, she had lived in her aunt’s shadow, frightened the woman would one day tire of her completely and throw her out into the streets. Funny, though—she never would have dreamed Queen Ingrid would have her killed.
“I’m so sorry, Princess,” the huntsman cried. His green eyes no longer appeared strong and stoic. They looked sad and fearful. “I know the consequences I will face if she finds out I didn’t do her bidding, but I can’t kill you. I will not continue to destroy our family name at her behest.”
Benevolent Queen Katherine, her beloved mother, was gone because of her aunt’s jealousy and rage. How could Snow have been so blind? She froze. What about her father? Had he really run off, or had her aunt done away with him, too? Who else had died because she had been busy keeping her head down?
“Please, Your Highness,” he said, startling her once more. “You are our kingdom’s only hope. You’re the only one who can stop the Evil Queen!”
They both heard the branch snap at the same time and startled. Snow looked around. No one was there. Not in the meadow, not in the neighboring grove. But there were the beginnings of a fog seeping out of the woods, like a snake weaving its way through the grass. They both saw it.
“You must go quickly!” the huntsman shouted, his voice stronger. “The queen . . . she has eyes everywhere. She could be watching. She might already know the truth. Run, child! Run away! Hide! In the woods! Go!”
A new feeling washed over Snow. One she wasn’t familiar with—it was the will to conquer. First her aunt had taken her mother, then her father; now she wanted Snow and her home. The Evil Queen wanted to take everything from her.
