by Jim C. Hines
Snow rose. The muscles of her arm and shoulder throbbed from carrying the heavy sack. She ignored the pain. She had retrieved most of her mirrors, but a handful of pieces yet remained.
She started with the throne room. Now that Danielle and the rest were busy elsewhere, it was a simple enough matter to reclaim a mirror where it had fallen unseen behind the dais. She whispered a spell, calling every speck of broken glass to her hand, then carefully brushed the pieces into her sack.
Next was the private dining room used by the royal family. Smaller and less formal than the great hall, the dining room was a warmer place, with brightly painted windows and a fire burning in the hearth. Jakob and Nicolette sat at the long, wooden table, arguing over a plate of mashed cod.
“No fish!” Jakob pressed his lips tight.
“No fish means no pudding,” Nicolette said wearily. Her face was worn, though she always donned a mask of cheerfulness, to the point where it made her appear addlebrained. Her blouse was stained, her hair a thinning nest.
Jakob gave her a crafty smile. “Pudding first. Then fish.”
“Nice try, Your Highness. You can’t—What is it, Jakob?”
The prince was staring at Snow, his dinner apparently forgotten. “Aunt Snow?”
Snow didn’t bother to answer. Her mirror remained where it had fallen in front of the fireplace. Snow had lost a dozen to overzealous servants, all infected with Danielle’s need to clean. Snow picked up the pieces of glass, dropping them into her sack before turning around.
Jakob’s chair clattered to the floor. He ran toward the door, arms flopping like rags, but Nicolette intercepted him before he could escape. “What are you doing, Jakob?”
“Bad Snow!” Jakob pointed.
Snow frowned and studied Jakob more closely. She slipped a hand into her sack, carefully pulling out a narrow triangular shard the length of her finger.
“Pay him no mind,” Nicolette said. “You know how the prince gets spooked sometimes for no reason.”
“He has reason.” Snow approached slowly, and Jakob’s eyes grew wide. He squirmed and kicked, drawing a grunt of pain from Nicolette. “What do you see, Jakob?”
Jakob bit Nicolette’s hand. She yelped, and he dropped to the ground. He fled, his clumsy movements making him look like a damaged marionette.
“He’s really scared.” Nicolette was slow, a useful trait in one whose life consisted of such drudgery, but she watched Snow more closely now. She stepped to the left, putting herself between Snow and the prince. “I should take him back to his room to let him settle down.”
Snow struck almost absentmindedly, slicing Nicolette’s cheek with the broken mirror. Nicolette gasped and grabbed her face.
Snow could sense the tiny sliver working its way deeper into Nicolette’s flesh. Snow gave a mental push, helping the mirror’s magic to clear Nicolette’s mind and vision. For an instant, she saw as Nicolette did. Saw the bloody lines carved across Snow’s face, the way Snow squinted through her rheumy left eye. Age had wrinkled the skin by her eyes, and the gleaming ebony of her hair had begun to fade, replaced by strands the color of a dirty mop. Even her mother had never appeared so ugly.
She pushed Nicolette aside, doing the same with the images in her mind. Jakob had run toward the kitchen. She hurried after and yanked open the kitchen door, releasing a wall of hot, humid air. Woodsmoke darkened the air from the brick oven burning on the far side of the room. Coals smoldered in the larger fireplace to her right. A half-butchered lamb lay upon the wooden table in the middle of the room.
The kitchen staff stood like slack-jawed statues. Jakob was here, hiding behind one of the cooks, but they couldn’t tell whether he was playing another game or if there was some genuine threat. Snow licked her lips, wincing as her tongue touched one of the cuts left by her mirror. Nine people, not counting the prince. Most with knives or pots that could be used as weapons.
Snow slipped a hand into her sack and pulled out a larger shard of glass. The edges cut her fingers, but she paid the pain no mind. She slammed the glass to the stone floor, where it exploded into a silver cloud.
Snow pursed her lips and blew. Tiny fragments flew up, speckling skin with dots of red. In the time it took to draw a breath, her power spread into everyone in the room. Everyone save Jakob.
Snow stepped around the table, past the oven. Jakob was squeezing into the corner between the oven and the wall. He tried to push her away.
She pulled another shard from her sack and placed it directly against Jakob’s forehead. A drop of red welled from his skin where the glass had kissed it, but unlike the others, he appeared unaffected by her magic. He trembled and pressed harder against the wall.
“Interesting.” Snow held no illusions about her own power. Any magic could be countered . . . just as any counter spell could be overcome. Jakob was a sniveling brat, with no magical training, meaning his ability to resist her mirror was something inherent. Something in his very blood. “What do you see when you look at me, Jakob?”
He shook his head.
“You saw it in your father, too, didn’t you?” She thought back to that conversation, heard through Armand’s senses. “Not as strongly, but you saw.”
A servant boy of ten or so years peeked in through the door. “The princess would like desserts served soon . . .” His voice trailed off as he took in the kitchen staff standing dumbstruck, and Jakob whimpering in the corner. “What’s wrong, Jakob?”
Snow frowned. The boy was familiar . . . that dark skin, the long reddish hair . . . “What’s your name?”
“Tanslav, ma’am.”
Tanslav. Ah, yes. Snow had helped to rescue this boy from Rumpelstilzchen earlier this year. He had been one of many children taken by the filthy fairy thief, but Danielle and Beatrice had been unable to locate his family. So Tanslav had made the palace his home. “You’re friends with the prince, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Snow waved a hand, and specks of glass peppered Tanslav’s face. He started to cry out, but Snow’s power clamped down, tightening his throat. “Pick up that cleaver, Tanslav.”
Blood trickled down Tanslav’s cheeks as he obeyed.
“Cut your arm.”
Jakob covered his eyes, but Snow yanked him around, forcing him to watch. “I can make him slash his own throat. I could do the same to your father. Do you understand?”
Jakob tried to tug free, but Snow merely tightened her grip. He whimpered, then nodded.
“Come along,” said Snow. “I’ve a great deal of work to do, and you’re going to help.”
CHAPTER 4
TALIA HURRIED THROUGH THE CORRIDOR toward the private dining room. According to a page named Andrew, Snow had been seen heading in that direction a short time ago. But when Talia entered, she saw only Nicolette standing beneath the window, blood dripping from her cheek.
“What happened?” Jakob’s food sat unfinished on the table. One of the chairs lay on its side.
“I’ve always hated these windows,” Nicolette said, her voice distant. “So garish.”
“Was Snow here?”
Nicolette turned. “Did you know your skin is almost the exact shade of cow dung?”
“What?” Talia wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. Nicolette had never insulted anyone that she could remember.
“Maybe that’s why Beatrice kept you,” Nicolette continued. “Like an exotic pet.”
Talia’s fists clenched. “How did you cut your face?”
Nicolette absently touched two fingers to her cheek. “Perhaps it was to prove that you Aratheans could be civilized. Don’t worry; I’m sure Danielle will keep you on now that Beatrice is dead. She’s always had a weakness for animals.”
Talia stepped forward, sinking into a low sik h’adan fighting stance, her body straight, her weight slightly forward. “Where are Snow and Jakob?”
“Might as well invite ogres into the palace.” Nicolette jabbed a finger at Talia’s chest. “Princess Cinderwench might
consider you a friend, but I—”
Talia caught Nicolette’s finger and twisted, lifting Nicolette to her toes, then bending her backward. Nicolette yelped and grabbed Talia’s wrist, but she was off-balance. The slightest pressure and Talia could dislocate the finger.
Nicolette swung her other arm. Talia slapped the blow aside with ease. She swept Nicolette’s feet and twisted her about, bringing her face-first to the floor. Nicolette spat and swore as Talia switched her hold, clamping wrist and neck to pin Nicolette in place.
Armand had been cut picking up one of Snow’s broken mirrors. Nicolette’s cut could have come from glass as well, judging from the smooth edges. “Snow was here. Where did she go?”
“I’m not her keeper. How should I know?”
“No, but you’re Jakob’s.” Talia pressed harder. “Where are they?”
Shouts drew Talia’s attention toward the kitchen. She bounced to her feet. Nicolette started to rise.
“You should stay down.” Talia pushed her way into the kitchen to find a riot. Two people lay unmoving on the floor. The rest were shoving and punching everyone they could reach.
Talia grabbed the closest, a boy named Tanslav who held a bloody knife in one hand. He started to swing at her, but she struck the wrist of his knife hand with her forearm. The knife clattered on the counter. A kick to the inside of the knee took his balance, and she tossed him to the floor. She grabbed a half-carved lamb from the table and yanked it down on top of him.
She backed away long enough to shout for the guards, then waded back in. She saw no sign of Snow or Jakob.
A woman swung an iron pan at Talia’s head. Talia ducked and waited for the next swing. When it came, Talia stepped close, hooked her arm, and flung her out of the way, stripping the pan from her grip in the process. Talia hefted the pan, nodded with satisfaction, and moved toward the next combatant.
By the time the guards arrived, Talia had left five of the staff strewn about the kitchen. All were alive, though they would be in pain for several weeks. She moved back, allowing the guards to separate the rest.
She crouched by the head chef, who was groaning and clutching his head. Talia grabbed his ear and tilted his face toward her. In addition to cuts and bruises from the fighting, bloody speckles covered his face, making him appear diseased. She had noticed similar marks on the others. “What happened?”
“This is my kitchen,” he spat. “I say when the meat is done. I say how much spice is too much.”
“Too much? Food in this country is tasteless!” She caught herself. “Were Snow and Jakob here?”
“They left.”
“I passed them on the way here,” said one of the guards. Like the others, he was dressed more formally in a bright green tabard over a polished breastplate. They clanked like church bells wherever they walked. “Snow was taking the prince toward the northeast tower.”
Talia pushed back her sleeve before remembering her bracelet was still sitting in her room, along with the broken mirror. She grabbed the guard’s arm. “Find Princess Whiteshore. Tell her to get to the tower.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Probably.” Talia hurried away. First Armand, then Nicolette, now the entire kitchen staff. And Snow had been cut worse than anyone else by her broken mirror.
She checked with a passing laundress to confirm that Snow and Jakob had indeed entered the tower. A single guard stood at the base of the staircase, but Talia was a familiar figure, and he allowed her to pass with nothing more than a nod of greeting. She ducked beneath the brightly dyed green plume that sprouted from his helm. Lorindar’s fashions were strange.
Once on the stairs, she slowed. Her shoes made no sound on the tiled steps. She walked sideways, keeping her back to the inner wall.
She checked each door as she passed: first a darkened storeroom, then the weaving room where two girls worked on a half-finished tapestry stretched across the loom. Talia scowled at the spinning wheel tucked in the corner before quietly pressing the door shut. The next room was the candlemaker’s workshop, and that door refused to budge.
There was no lock on the door. If someone had barred it from within, she should at least be able to rattle it in the frame. She pressed her palm against the edge. The wood was warm to the touch. She could hear Jakob crying on the other side.
If she climbed down the outside of the tower, she could enter through the window. But that would take time, not to mention she’d be scaling the tower in full view of everyone on the walls and in the courtyard.
Forget subtlety. Talia backed away, clenched her jaw, and slammed into the door. It gave ever so slightly. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, Talia tried again. Each time the door edged inward. It didn’t seem to be blocked. It was more like the wood had swollen into the frame.
On the fourth try, the door swung open and crashed against the wall.
“I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” said Snow. She sat on a wooden bench in front of a small fire pit in the center of the room. A metal grate covered the pit. The air smelled of beeswax and dyes. Dipped candles hung from pegs in the walls and from beams crossing overhead, making the room feel crowded. Thicker rolled candles were stacked on shelves behind Snow.
Frederic, the candlemaker, stood at the window like a statue. Only the shallow rise of his chest and the occasional blink told Talia he was still alive. He had been cut along the side of his neck.
Prince Jakob sat on the floor, his back to a small water barrel, knees clutched to his chest. Blood oozed from a cut on his cheek.
Snow waved a hand. Talia jumped to the side, barely avoiding the door as it slammed shut behind her.
“What did you do to the prince?” Talia asked. The only light came from the moon outside the window, and the coals glowing faintly orange in the fire pit.
“Nothing.” Snow sounded genuinely puzzled. She turned to study Jakob, and her forehead wrinkled. “Nothing at all.”
Talia stepped forward.
“Don’t do that.” Snow lifted a shard of mirrored glass as long as her forearm and pointed it at the prince. Red cloth was wrapped around the base of the glass to form a makeshift hilt.
Talia froze. “Jakob, are you all right?”
Jakob shook his head without looking up. “Aunt Snow hurt me. She hurt Tanslav and Papa.”
“That’s not Snow. When the mirror broke, it did something to her.”
“Oh, Talia.” For an instant, Snow sounded like herself, both amused and exasperated. “My mother created that mirror because she wasn’t strong enough to contain its power herself. I am. I don’t need it anymore. Look at me. For the first time since that mermaid flung me against a wall, I’m casting spells without pain. You should be happy for me.”
“You’re casting them on your friends,” Talia said. “On the people who love you.”
Snow brushed her nails through Jakob’s hair. Jakob tensed, and he held his breath until Snow pulled away. The moment he relaxed, Snow’s hand flicked out, and a second cut appeared on the prince’s cheek.
Talia lunged forward, but Snow placed her blade beneath Jakob’s chin, halting her in midstep. “Such a strange child,” Snow whispered. “Armand was mine with a single cut, yet Jakob sits here untouched by my magic. Don’t you want to know why?”
“Not particularly.” Talia folded her arms, slipping two fingers up her sleeve to reach the flat throwing dagger sheathed on her arm.
“That’s always been your problem. You’ve no curiosity, no sense of wonder.” The hand holding the glass dagger never moved. “He’s not casting any spells, nor is he warded. It’s not human magic, at least none I’ve ever seen. I’d love to cut him open and see how he does it.”
It was Snow’s body. Snow’s voice. Even the lilt in her words was Snow’s, teasing and taunting as she pointed her knife at the prince.
Talia stepped sideways. “What did you do to Armand and the others?”
“I helped them to see.”
“To see what?”
Snow’s smile raised the hair on Talia’s neck. “The world as it truly is.”
“You sound like your mother.”
Snow frowned, her confidence flickering so quickly Talia nearly missed it.
“Is that it?” Talia pressed. “Your mother’s spirit—”
“Is long gone.” Snow flicked her free hand, dismissing the idea. “What will you do now, Talia? If I were anyone else, you’d already have thrown that knife you palmed.”
Talia grimaced and adjusted her grip on her knife.
“Can you do it?” Snow asked. “Can you kill the woman you love?”
Sarcasm dripped from her words, twisting in Talia’s chest. “That woman would never torment a child.”
“If I’m not Snow White, then who am I? A fairy changeling, perhaps? Or a witch wearing your friend’s face?” Snow smiled. “I was the one who helped Queen Bea find you in that nasty cargo ship where you were hiding. I got drunk with you the night you first realized Bea was dying. You sang that ridiculous Arathean song about your old god, the one with the three extra heads.”
Talia took another step, trying to get close enough to interpose herself between Snow and the prince. “Don’t worry, Jakob. You’ll be back with your mother soon.”
Jakob shook his head.
Snow’s smile returned. “He knows better, Talia.” She tilted her hand, digging the point of the glass shard into Jakob’s skin. “If you care to test your fairy reflexes against me, keep moving.” Moonlight quivered on the ceiling, reflected from her blade.
Talia raised her hands. Whatever was influencing Snow, she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. Otherwise she would have already struck. “You can’t hide here forever.”
“I don’t intend to. But before I depart, I had hoped to leave a gift for King Theodore, to thank him for his hospitality these past seven years. A single scratch, and his grief will end.”
“You’re leaving?” The question slipped out before Talia could stop it.
Snow leaned forward. “I could do the same for you, Talia. I know the pain of leaving your home, your lover, everything you’ve ever known. Tell me, does your heart still ache for the twin sons you’ve twice abandoned?”
