Faerietale

by Stephanie Rabig

  "Come, come, let's try it on!" She picked up the comb and then held out her hand for the coins. "You are certain of this purchase?" she asked, giving Serena an amused glance before returning her attention to Beauty.

  "Quite sure," she said, handing the old woman her silver pieces and then turning around, deftly gathering her hair and twisting it up so the comb could hold it in place.

  The woman slid the comb into her hair, and Beauty immediately let out a startled cry, pressing a hand to the back of her head. "You stupid crone!" she snapped. "You stabbed me!"

  The gray-haired woman moved around in front of her, smiling. "Soon you'll wish that was what I'd done."

  Beauty opened her mouth, intending to berate her for such a cruel trick, but then she felt her teeth move inside her mouth, move and elongate and grow, blood dripping from her gums, and she closed her mouth again and pressed both hands over it, struggling to not cry out.

  But it wasn't just her mouth. Her entire body was changing, shifting. Her back twisted and she heard fabric tear as she hunched over too far and the skin just over her spine expanded up and out into an ugly lump of flesh. Fur sprouted from her hands, covering up the ring her mother had just bought her for a birthday present, and she could feel that same dark thick fur erupting from the skin on her face.

  People were screaming. Serena's voice rang above the others as she scrambled to get away from her and Beauty tried to reach out, tried to beg her to come back, but the voice that begged came out sounding nothing like her own.

  Not knowing what else to do, she ran, her newly-malformed feet making her stumble more than once along the path toward home, her mother's bag lying forgotten in the dirt.

  ***

  Her own mother almost didn't open the door. But finally, she saw something of her daughter's old self in her new face and she slowly let her inside, her face pale. "What-- what happened?"

  "A witch! Mother, a witch, she . . . the comb, it's--"

  "Well, get it out!" her mother snapped, moving around behind her and giving it a hard yank. Beauty yelped. "It won't--"

  "I know!"

  She ran to her room, taking in great gulps of air at the sight of her beautiful dresses and racks of jewelry and all things that either wouldn't fit anymore or would simply look foolish.

  "It will fade in a few days?" she asked. "Don't most curses? Longer than that requires quite a powerful magic, doesn't it, so--"

  "Beauty--" She sounded as if she'd nearly choked on the name. "-- I'm sure I don't know. I hope you're right."

  She couldn't meet her eyes.

  Beauty turned away and grabbed the scissors off her dressing table. Lowering them to her left hand, she began trimming away the fur, cutting it as close as she could to the skin.

  The instant she moved the scissors away again, the fur grew back. Even longer this time.

  With a shriek of rage, Beauty pitched the scissors at the wall and dropped down onto her bed. "I hate this!" she wailed. "Maybe I should just go."

  It wasn't the first time she'd made the threat. Before, however, it had always been because her mother hesitated in buying her something she'd set her eye on. She'd lamented then, and suggested how so many people in the other Villages admired her loveliness and would be sure to appreciate claiming her as one of their own. And her mother had always told her to stop being silly, that of course she could buy whatever she liked, that if it would make her smile then that was worth anything. She was always prettiest when she smiled, after all. Her mother would say those things and take her hands and stroke her hair.

  Beauty knew she wouldn't stroke her hair now, or touch her at all. She didn't suppose she could fully blame her. But she did sorely want to at least hear that everything would be all right.

  Instead, her mother's face lit up. "Yes, I think that might be best, dear."

  Beauty stilled, not wanting to see the relief in her mother's expression, unable to look away. ". . . what?"

  "Just until the curse is lifted, of course. Here, let me pack you some food."

  She started to hurry back into the kitchen, but paused when someone knocked on the door. Beauty, who had started to follow her mother, ran back to the relative safety of her room and pressed her ear to the thin wall, listening.

  "Oh, Faith, I'm so sorry! I just heard about what happened. How are you?"

  It was Brianne. Michael's mother.

  "It's a shock," her mother said. "I'm getting by."

  "And it is-- it definitely is a curse? It's not anything contagious?"

  "No, no. If it was I'm sure I would've gotten it by now." She laughed; a high, nervous thing. "She said it was a comb. Apparently it's stuck in her hair now, keeping her . . . keeping her like that."

  "How dreadful."

  "It'll be all right. She's going elsewhere until the curse is lifted."

  "Oh. Good, good, that's for the best, I think."

  "It is. And she was the one who suggested it! Such a selfless girl."

  "You did a wonderful job raising her, truly. She's . . . she's the envy of the entire town and I know my son will be more than happy to wed her once this unfortunate business is dealt with."

  "I'm so pleased to hear that."

  "But where will she go?" Brianne asked. "She can't very well travel to a neighboring Village. They'll stone her!"

  "She'll just have to stay in the woods. There's an old cabin not far from here; I believe it's abandoned. She can stay there, just for a few days, I'm sure. Now, I have to go help her pack, but thank you so much for coming by."

  "I'll be sure to bake you a nice loaf of bread. And of course you're invited to dinner anytime you like. Poor thing. What a stressful day!"

  "Thank you."

  Beauty heard the door close, and she grabbed at the comb and tried once more to yank it out. It didn't budge. Listening to her mother's approaching footsteps, she pictured the shadow-drenched forest and closed her eyes.

  The Queen smiled at her from the throne, her expression giving away nothing. Though Snow White had felt some measure of nervousness after getting the summons here, the sight of her mother once again putting on her 'everything is fine' face simply exhausted her.

  "So," the Queen said pleasantly. "What have you been up to while we were gone?"

  Snow stopped in front of her, keeping her gaze on her mother's. "We are intelligent women. Do not insult us both by pretending otherwise. We're both fully aware of why I've been summoned."

  "Very well," she said, and though her voice was still mild, Snow felt a twinge of satisfaction at the way her eyes had narrowed. "There were strangers in this palace. In the harem, with access to your brother and to you. And instead of allowing Mother Miriam and I to question them, you help them escape. Did it ever occur to you that if they didn't want to speak to me, that was an even greater reason for you to detain them?"

  "No, it occurred to me that if they didn't want to speak to you, it was probably because they'd heard about things like what you nearly did to that poor farm girl."

  "That 'poor farm girl' was in possession of one of the most powerful magical talismans this realm has ever seen."

  "And that would've justified her death?"

  "No. But she refused to remove the shoes, which means that she knew their power. And she insisted on leaving the palace. Who knows who she planned to give those shoes to? Can you imagine if someone like the Forest Witch gets her hands on them? And according to the Knight of Shadows, this black-eyed woman can go through Doors that he didn't even know existed. You said you're intelligent. Do I truly need to explain the dangers of having someone with a power like that running free?"

  "As opposed to locked safely in one of your dungeons?" For the first time, Snow looked away. "And what is to become of my brother? Has he already received a summons?"

  "I do not blame him for his part in sheltering the intruders. Thinking is not his strong suit at the best of times; add in an attractive woman and it becomes hopeless." She smiled. "Do you know that once when he wished t
o go choose a woman for his harem, he would have selected one who had an anti-royalty insignia tattooed on her wrist if I hadn't stopped him?"

  "Dare I ask what happened to her?"

  The Queen gazed at her steadily. She'd meant the anecdote to be something amusing, something to ease the tension in the room, but finally she had to admit that Snow White didn't want it eased. "To the best of my knowledge she's carrying on with her life back in her Village. Do you honestly believe I kill anyone who disagrees with me? Half of my realm would be gone. No matter how good the ruler, satisfying everyone is impossible. Now, I want your word that you will not defy me again. But I'm not going to get it, am I?"

  "No."

  "Are you in contact with Dorothy, or any of the other rebels?"

  She remained silent, and the Queen abruptly stood up. "Are you?"

  "If I were, I would not endanger them by revealing it. Though I suppose it would not be beneath you to torture your own flesh and blood over such things."

  "If I needed to measure your well-being against the safety of this realm, then yes, you would lose. Fortunately, I don't believe you've betrayed me to such an extent."

  "Then I am dismissed?"

  "Yes."

  The Red Queen watched her daughter stride out of the room, and bit back the urge to call to her, tell her to wait, to pull her into her arms and hold her as she'd done when Snow had been a child.

  But the child was gone now, replaced by a woman who'd been poisoned against her. She'd tried everything she could think of. She'd given Snow White everything a young lady could possibly want, things she would've killed for when she'd been her child's age. But she still saw loathing in those dark eyes.

  And while she'd spoken the truth to her when she'd said she didn't believe Snow had betrayed her, it hadn't been the full truth. She knew she hadn't betrayed her yet. But it would happen. And soon. The question was what could be done about it.

  Snow had seen to it that the prospect of keeping things as they were was too dangerous to entertain. She couldn't let her be free, couldn't let her cause irreparable damage out of some naïve sense of justice.

  Some Kings and Queens of the past had kept rebels and malcontents safely locked deep in the palace, sending food and water in every day. But such a fate would be horrific for a spirit like her daughter's. Same for the immobility potion. And more than one potion would cause death, but all caused varying degrees of pain. The needle of the spinning wheel at the top of the tallest tower would cause anyone who pricked their finger on it to fall into a deep sleep, but that spell could be broken. And she already knew far too well the chaos that resulted from casually-broken spells.

  "Guard!" she called. The young man who marched into the room bowed deeply and then waited for his orders. "Bring me the Huntsman."

  He was unfailingly loyal, wouldn't breathe a word about this mission. And he was skilled, even without the gift she'd given him. It would be a quick, merciful end.

  She dashed at the tears standing in her eyes-- it wouldn't do to display such weakness-- and waited.

  ***

  She was in a playful mood today. The Wolf could tell because she had blood dabbed at the base of her throat, a macabre perfume. It was a lighthearted warning, the only one she ever intentionally gave him. Some days she was more intent on her hunt, and would cover herself with the scent of dirt and leaves. It didn't help, but he admired her tenacity.

  "Hello, Little Red."

  "Good morning, uncle!" He heard the leaves whisper a warning, ducked down in time to let the hatchet arc harmlessly past his head. "How are you?"

  "Could use better company, but other than that I'm well. You?"

  She laughed. "That was a pretty display in the Third Village. Trying to convince the villagers you're something other than a craven beast?"

  Another warning, this time in the cry of a bird as it flew overhead, and he stepped around a tree trunk, deftly avoiding the arrow aimed at his heart.

  "You're getting slower in your old age, uncle," she teased. "I almost had you that time."

  "You think so? Your eyesight's poor for someone so young."

  A half-amused, half-irritated grumble, and she swept a knife out of her boot and flung it at his face.

  He dodged, listened to the blade bury itself into the leaf cover a good distance away. He walked over to the pile of underbrush, reached down when he caught the scent of her among the leaves. He picked up the knife and spun, throwing it. It sank into a tree trunk three feet away from Red's face. She didn't flinch. Merely smiled.

  "You never honestly try, do you?” she asked. “One of these days you'll regret that."

  ***

  The Prince awoke from a nap to find Red sitting at the end of his bed. She was staring intently at him, a small smile playing across her lips. She held in her fingers two wine glasses, stems overlapping; and sitting in her lap was a bottle. She had cast her red cloak aside, and wore only a red gossamer gown that clung, smoky and transparent, to the curves of her pale skin.

  The Prince stared; blinked; swallowed; spoke. “This . . . would be a dream, then,” he said.

  Red laughed, a soft, throaty laugh, and leaned forward to set down the glasses. “Not quite,” she said. “I've just had a very good hunt. I wanted to celebrate.”

  The Prince sat up, for once terribly aware of every flaw on his body. Sleeping shirtless, he resolved, was perhaps not the best plan if Red was going to start appearing like this. Unless she liked him shirtless. “You're not usually one for celebrating,” he said, eyeing her narrowly. “Whatever hunt you were on must have gone very well.”

  Red lifted her brows and smiled. “It did,” she said. She settled back against the end of the bed, moving to uncork the wine. As she moved, her skirt shifted just a little, revealing the smooth skin of her leg.“Very, very well.”

  The Prince's mouth was terribly dry all of a sudden. His eyes were locked on her, on the edges of the dress. It was a peculiar dress – a mere tunic, peasant-like even; some gauzy red thing flimsy enough to tear with his hands, if he just reached out. . .

  “That outfit,” he managed, his blood beating loudly in his ears. “It seems a bit impractical for forest travel.”

  “It's not my usual garb,” Red conceded, lifting a glass and pouring some wine. She nodded towards the glass, silken hair brushing her shoulders. “Drink?”

  “Please.” The Prince grabbed greedily for the glass. It felt cold in his fingertips – cold, and unbearably real. He hadn't been quite certain until that moment that he was truly awake. He lifted the glass and swallowed several mouthfuls, hoping to ease the dryness of his tongue.

  Red had not stopped staring at him.

  Not a thing had changed about their relationship since she'd returned to the palace. One instant they were coy and flirting; the next, threatening death and hellfire to one another. But that was what kept it interesting, what kept the fire alive. She intoxicated him. She was defiant to him without ever relenting. It wasn't the same with his harem girls, who could play at boldness, but always with the intent to give in when he pushed too hard.

  It didn't matter how hard he pushed Red; she'd never give in to him. He knew this, and always had; but deep in the secret places of his heart, he always hoped she'd change her mind.

  Flushing, the Prince set down the glass on his nightstand and settled back into the cushions, trying to relax. He settled with his hands behind his head and tried a cocky smile. “So, what are we celebrating?” he asked. “Or is this really an excuse for you to come in and admire my chest? I know it's quite nice, but I have to say, the stare is really a bit unnerving.”

  “Unnerving?” Red repeated softly. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes locked firmly on his. He watched as she pulled the glass away and gently licked some remaining drops of wine from her lower lip. “What's unnerving about it, Prince?”

  The Prince's breathing was unnaturally shallow and fast. Air wasn't coming to him quickly enough – couldn't come quickly enough. “It'
s just . . . you're not blinking.”

  Red smiled. “Sorry,” she said, glancing coyly away. “Old forest habit. Intimidation tactic.”

  “No need for that here,” said the Prince, lifting his hands palms up. “I surrender. You have me. Do with me what you wish.”

  She chuckled and set her glass aside, sprawling out on the bed. She propped herself up on her elbow, her hair falling across one of the pillows, her gown shifting smoothly across her skin. “Dangerous promises, my Prince,” she said. “Especially when I'm in a celebratory mood.”

  The Prince raised his eyebrows, and tried to keep his gaze locked on her face. “And are you going to tell me why you're celebrating? Or keep me guessing all night?”

  Red smiled. “Haven't decided,” she said, reaching out and running a finger along the blankets covering the Prince's leg. “I do so enjoy keeping you guessing.”

  The Prince swallowed loudly, loud enough that it nearly seemed to echo in the sumptuous chamber. “So I noticed,” he half-squeaked.

  Red looked up. Her smile had turned a little cool, but the mischief in it was clear. “You look a bit warm, Prince,” she said. “Shall I remove these blankets for you?”

  The Prince's breath caught in his throat. “If you wish,” he said, huskily.

  Red smirked and pushed the blankets away, slowly, watching them tumble to the floor. “There. Much better.”

  The Prince watched as she tugged her skirt up higher, somewhere around her thighs. He stopped breathing when she shifted and stretched out alongside him on the bed, glass back in her hand.

  “To victories,” she said, lifting the goblet.

  The Prince nodded weakly and clinked his glass against hers. “Victories,” he choked out. He brought the glass back to his lips and swallowed too large a mouthful. He half-coughed, half-sputtered the wine, but managed to keep it down. “So,” he said, too brightly. “What was the victory?”