The Queen frowned. “Have you followed him?”
“Once or twice, when it wouldn't arouse the suspicion of the others. He seems to have no clear destination in mind. Simply wanders, trying doors.”
“Thank you, Roxana. I'll instruct one of my servants to find a replacement for that harem girl we had to dispose of. Perhaps that will help put his mind back where it belongs.”
Roxana bowed. “Yes, my Queen.”
***
The Prince knew that given his station and circumstances, he should never feel frustrated. Should never have a bad mood, or be concerned about anything, or have any feeling besides constant satisfaction.
But there were, oddly and infuriatingly enough, days when things didn't go exactly as he would have them go. And when he was irritated, when he wanted to hurt and be hurt back, Shani was perfect.
At first he'd thought that Beckah might be a good choice, too, but when he'd pulled her head back by the hair a little too roughly, she'd given him a look just before she'd kissed him and that look had nearly made him send her away for the night. It reminded him far too much of Little Red.
For that moment, it had seemed like Beckah was taking all of this seriously, as if he'd tugged her hair because he specifically wanted to hurt her. She was just one of the women in his harem; it wasn't anything personal.
Even so, after that, he'd only called for Beckah when he was feeling particularly serene.
Fiametta was just . . . languid. He watched her sometimes, when he spent his days with all of his women, and she walked slowly and smoothly and made love the same way. If he'd had a frustrating day and wasn't in the mood for taking out his frustration, wanted it to fade instead, he called her.
Roxana was the exact opposite. She stalked around with a purpose to every step, and though he didn't really care to ask what that purpose was, he appreciated that she did make a splendid sight when she walked toward him that way without a stitch of clothing on her body. She preferred being on top and he was more than fine with her being there.
He never knew which Estelle he would get from one night to the next. One night she'd come to him with a smile, as if she had a quite amusing secret; another night her brown eyes would be clouded with worry for some unknown reason. He enjoyed seeing how quickly he could make that worry fade.
Her sister Cybele had always been the perfect ending to a particularly good day. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her with the slightest hint of a frown on her face and that was the way he liked it, the way things should always be around here. He remembered the day he'd picked her out of the line; most women he chose just took a step forward and gave him a smile and a nod of acknowledgment. Some laughed. Cybele had leapt forward, throwing her arms around him and giving him a kiss that had made him nearly embarrassed to be out in public.
Now there was a new one. A replacement for Cybele. He hadn't been on hand to choose her; one of his mother's servants had been running errands in the closest Village and had caught sight of her, certain that she would please him.
It was time to find out if the servant had good taste or not.
He walked to the harem's quarters and opened the door, eyes searching for an unfamiliar face. She stood near the circular couch, beautiful; dark hair and dark, wide eyes; voluminous sleeves nearly hiding her hands.
“Your name?” he asked, smiling as he approached her.
This. This was precisely what he needed. A pretty young woman, someone to talk with him about anything except what was supposed to matter; someone to share his bed and make him forget about locked doors and not Royal blood and Snow White somewhere alone.
She didn't immediately respond, and he took her hand, tracing his thumb across her knuckles. “Your name?” he repeated, voice softer, and then he kissed the back of her hand.
The young woman tensed-- no, no, she hadn't, he told himself. Because if she tensed then that would be something that mattered, something to think about and consider and he didn't want to think, couldn't think anymore, was it so much to ask that things be precisely as they once were?
She whispered, “Catherine,” and he let go of her hand.
“I'll be back for you at sunset,” he said, not meeting her eyes. She reminded him too much of Alice; no smile and no practiced theatrics, just worry and ideas and so clearly wanting to think of him as someone he wasn't.
“Get her ready,” he grumbled at the other women, and then he turned and left the room.
***
“Am . . . am I allowed to take a walk? I need to think.”
“Of course,” Estelle said. “Just--” She hesitated, didn't want to say 'be back at sunset'-- the girl wasn't a fool; she knew that already. But that wasn't the only reason she didn't want to say it. Catherine clearly did not want to be here, but while the Prince had listened to Alice, had shown absolutely no irritation at her flat rejection, today he'd barely seemed to notice anything around him. He'd spoken to Catherine as though she were smiling seductively rather than shaking in fear.
Something was deeply wrong, and she didn't want this young woman to have to deal with the consequences of that.
Estelle went to her wardrobe. Lately the Prince much preferred the color red. When he came back for Catherine, she would do her level best to change his mind.
Catherine walked aimlessly, wondering if the guards at the gates would stop her if she tried to climb her way out, or if they would just be so incredulous at the effort that they would let her go.
Probably not.
Looking out the curved window, she saw the sun lowering, and closed her eyes.
Sunset. Soon it would be sunset, and he would come back for her.
Her mother, she was certain, would curse her for her hesitation. The Prince was handsome, and most certainly wealthy. Almost anything else, mother would say, could be dealt with.
She tried another door, not even expecting it to open. She'd found a few cleaning supply closets, three unused bedrooms-- which she'd quickly left behind her; the sight of a bed was the last thing she needed at this particular moment-- and one staircase, but mostly locked doors.
This one stuck, and she almost let go of the handle. On impulse, she gave it a shove, and the lock gave.
It was a weapons room.
Catherine slowly made her way inside, her mind giving her a temporary reprieve from her problems as she gaped at all of the old killing tools.
There were swords, battered and rusted, but odd parts of them still gleaming in a way that told her they held power still.
Scars. None of the women in that harem room had evidence of so much as a scratch, let alone a blatant deformity. If she withstood a temporary pain, scarred her face, then he wouldn't want her anymore; it would save her from a lifetime of--
And then where would she go? Not back home.
No, not back home. Somewhere else. Somewhere entirely new. If only she could make him let her go.
Daggers and chains and sharpened metal and jagged glass and in the middle of the room, a guillotine.
She'd heard tales of it. Of how prisoners had once been executed in the Central Courtyard, with people from all of the Villages gambling for a chance to win tickets.
She walked slowly toward it, entranced. This thing had taken so many lives, quite possibly changed the course of history, and now it sat in a lower-level room of the palace, dusty and forgotten.
When she was a small girl, once she had prayed to Scheherazade to let her parents be taken to the guillotine.
It had been a horrible wish. But over the years, she had found very little reason to feel guilty over it.
Now, her hands barely feeling like her own, she pulled the rope and raised the blade. She had never seen an execution. Despite her morbid wish, never truly wanted to see one. But some small dark part of her had awakened in this room and was hissing at her, demanding to hear the thunk of the blade as it came down.
“So. Not running away after all. Just something worse.”
Her hands tightened o
n the rope as she took a step back, retreating from the tall silhouette in the doorway. “You . . . you followed me?” she asked, hating the obvious words the instant they were out of her mouth.
“Thought you'd head for the gates. Instead you come here? Afraid that's a bit big to hide under your dress,” the Prince said, gesturing to the guillotine. “You a spy for the rebels? Is that it?” He let out a choked, bitter laugh. “That would be right in line with the rest of my luck, wouldn't it?”
“No. No, I . . . this isn't--”
“Of course it's not. Come on.”
And for the second time in as many days, everything was lost. There would be no new life elsewhere now; he believed her to be a spy for the rebels in the forest. And if she managed to convince him otherwise, then she would be right back where she started, alone with him, and--
She released the rope and moved, shoving her hands into the hole where so many murderers' necks had rested.
And the blade came down.
So much blood. It bathed the battered wood of the guillotine and the old life-taker seemed to drink it in, relishing the chance to slice through skin and bone one last time.
She realized she was looking up at the blade now, that she'd fallen, and then the Prince's face was blocking her dazed view.
He had hold of her upper arms.
“Get off me,” she snarled, tried to snarl, tried to sound threatening, but her voice couldn't get past the pain in her hands, couldn't gather strength when so much of her was pouring out, and the words were barely a whisper.
But he obeyed, eyes frantic, and then he was gone.
“Red!” the Prince shouted, pounding on her door. “Red! I need your help!”
She opened the door, irritation plain on her face. Then she saw the blood.
Her eyes lit with interest. “And what have you been up to?” she purred.
“It's Catherine,” he said. “I followed her-- she came here-- the old weapons room you showed me, she cut off her hands, Red you have to help her. . .”
“I do not have to do any such thing,” she said, but he was already running to the next door down and disappearing inside, and she had to admit that she was curious.
Picking her satchel up from the floor of the closet, she followed.
She remembered when the two of them had been in this room alone. They'd been younger then. She'd told him stories of what all of the weapons had been used for and he'd been fascinated and a little scared and she hadn't been able to stop smiling about the latter.
Now the fright she'd given him back then paled in comparison. He paced back and forth beside the fallen woman, almost reaching down to her, thinking better of it and standing again.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as she knelt down amidst the blood.
“I . . . she--”
“And how precisely did this happen? I didn't mark you as one for violent games,” she said, smiling. “You and I might have something in common after all.”
“She-- she was frightened. She didn't want me near her.”
“And so instead of picking up one of the dozens of weapons within reach and turning on you, she hurts herself. Little fool,” Red muttered, resting her hands on the bloody stumps and closing her eyes. “You do realize that you'll owe me for this?”
“What price?”
“I'll decide that later,” she said. Then she hummed, low and dark, the tone of it making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. She curled her hands around Catherine's wrists, chanting now, and though it made no sense he half-expected bats to come in and start swirling around them.
Instead, Red opened her eyes. Opening her satchel, she poured a full vial of thick yellow gel into her palm, scrubbing at Catherine's wounds, leaving clean skin behind. “There,” she said. “It is done.”
“What-- what do you mean it's done? You can't--” He swallowed hard, gestured to where her hands lay on the cold stone. “-- put them back?”
Red laughed. “Sealing a wound is one thing. To perform magic of that sort would take far too much out of me.”
She gathered up her things, sneered at the blood on her nightgown, and started to walk away. The Prince grabbed hold of her arm and in an instant her satchel hit the floor and she had him backed against the wall, one hand at his throat and her other hand holding the tip of a knife against his stomach.
“Well, look at you,” she whispered. “Little boy, trying to be a grown-up. Apologize.” He glared at her, and she nicked his stomach. “Now.”
“I'm sorry.”
She let go of him and stepped back, picked up her satchel again. “Take her to your other toys,” she said. “If she's going to want coddling, they're far more suited to it than I am.” Then she turned and walked out of the room.
***
“Are you certain that there's nothing more we can get for you?” the Queen asked. “Such a dreadful thing to do to yourself. Really, my girl, had I known the entire idea panicked you so I would've sent you straight home.”
“Which is still somewhere you can go, of course,” the Prince said. “Though if you stay, I meant my words; I won't lay a hand on you.”
“I . . . I would rather stay, then,” Catherine said quietly. “I thank you for coming to see to me, my Queen. You did not need to trouble yourself so, but it is a great kindness.”
“You're welcome. I am glad to find you in good spirits. And quite glad to see how well you've healed in such a short time. Tell me, was it one of our potionmakers? Or perhaps Fiametta? She has quite a talent for a harem girl.”
“I do not know, my Queen. When I woke up I was with the harem.”
“But you were wounded in the old weapons vault. Surely anyone in the neighboring rooms would've heard the commotion.” She reached out and took hold of Catherine's wrist. “I see no bluish tone here.”
“. . . what?” Catherine asked.
“Knitting potion. It draws skin back together. Causes that skin to turn blue for almost a week after the salve is applied.” She looked to her son. “Little Red?”
He looked away, nodded once.
“I believe I've made my opinion quite clear on the use of forest magic. Particularly in my home.” She returned her gaze to Catherine's and smiled. “But since it was for a good cause, I will let it go this once.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said.
“Yes, thank you,” the Prince said.
“We'll leave you to get some rest.”
At her words, the Prince turned, and preceded her out the door. Once he was gone, the Queen paused in the doorway, not turning around. “This has upset my son greatly,” she murmured. “Cause him such grief again, and I'll slit your throat myself.”
Chapter Eight
Once Upon a Time...
Little Red peeked through the gap between the door and the wall, fascinated by the sight in front of her. Gold-Tree had always been so bright and colorful-- gold hair, green eyes, pink cheeks-- but now her grandmother and Cinderella were doing something to her that was taking all that away. Leaving her gray.
She was screaming.
Her grandmother held up a full vial, something they'd taken from Gold-Tree that looked like liquid starlight. And then Cinderella picked up a knife and drew it across the bound woman's throat.
Little Red's eyes widened. She was beautiful.
No, not beautiful. That was too soft a word, the word grandmother had used when she'd dressed her in that frilly ridiculous gown for the annual Ball and she'd seen herself in the mirror and wanted to snarl. No, Cinderella was striking. Her cheeks flushed, eyes bright and focused, for the first time she looked like a Queen in spite of-- or maybe because of-- the blood on her hands.
Then a slight motion behind the women made her focus on the opposing doorway. It was open just slightly, and she saw a familiar face there. She grinned, started to call out to her uncle, and then remembered that she wasn't supposed to be here.
She wouldn't have had time to say anything to him, anyway. He was alre
ady gone, looking upset.
No wonder, Red thought. He was Older. Everyone always told her she could do so much when she was Older, and here he was, already there, and yet he hadn't been invited to join the fun. She'd be upset, too.
Now grandmother and Cinderella were talking quietly, blood trailing down the neck of the body before them. Knowing that disposing of the carcass was the only thing left, Red turned and walked back to her room.
She didn't sleep a wink, too excited at the thought of what might happen when grandmother and uncle came to her as they always did of a morning. She would tell them what she'd seen, of course. And they would see how unaffected she was, how mature, and they would tell her that next time she would of course get a better vantage point to watch from.
Someday soon, perhaps she could even wield the knife.
Unable to keep still after that thought, she bounced up and down on her bed a few times, grinning. Then she saw the sky lightening outside her window and sat back down, feet swinging back and forth off the edge of the bed as she waited.
Finally, her door opened. But only her grandmother entered.
Little Red frowned. “Where's uncle?”
“He . . . I'm quite sorry, Red,” Mother Miriam said. “He's gone. Out to the forest.”
“To hunt? For how long?”
“To live, my dear.”
“What? No!” she protested, hopping down off the bed. “He can't be that upset about not getting to play last night!”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
“Last night! I followed you! I saw what you did to Gold-Tree!”
Mother Miriam quickly crouched down, wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, Little Red. I'm so sorry. Such a thing wasn't meant for your eyes.”
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