The Last Huntsman: A Snow White Retelling

by Page Morgan

  I opened the door to the tavern, a sack of flour in each arm, and slammed the door behind me with a kick of my leg.

  “If you’re angry about my being here, I could find another place to board.”

  I swiveled around. The huntsman had snuck up on me just as he had on Bram in the alleyway.

  “I wish you’d quit doing that,” I said.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Doing what?”

  “The way you walk.” I went into the kitchen. “It’s like you don’t even touch the floor.”

  He followed, taking an apple from a bowl on the table. “The emperor has no use for lumbering, heavy-footed men. I was trained to be invisible.”

  How someone like him could go unseen was beyond me. Not just because of his handsome face. It was as if he charged the air around him. I couldn’t be the only one who’d ever felt it.

  “Trained for what, battle?” I asked. His eyes coasted back and forth over my face, his mouth turning into a frown.

  The sound of my father’s footfalls came from the stairwell. The huntsman slid far away from me and took another bite of his apple as my father came into the kitchen.

  “You’re a bit idle, traveler.”

  “Forgive me,” the huntsman said, unruffled by my father’s directness. “I was just asking your son what kind of game I might find in the forest.”

  My father squinted at him. “You hunt?”

  “I’m a huntsman, yes. We could barter. Fresh game in exchange for room and board.”

  The kitchen was filled with the crackle of the coals in the hearth, the yeasty scent of rising bread, and my father’s stony contemplation.

  “What’s your name?” Father asked.

  “Just Huntsman will do.”

  My father snorted. “Will it, now.”

  I’d wondered about the huntsman’s real name, but my father’s skepticism made me stop and think: Perhaps I should have been more curious about it than I had been.

  “It would save me a considerable amount of storgs otherwise spent at the center market,” my father said. “I’ll try you out for a week—if you’re planning to stay that long.”

  “A week sounds about right,” the huntsman replied.

  My father poured himself a mug of quass and left, their deal settled.

  “You have a name,” I said as soon as he’d gone. “Why are you being so secretive about it?”

  He lowered his apple and looked pointedly at my clothing. “You’re asking me about keeping secrets?”

  He had me there and knew it. Everett was the only name I’d ever known. But really, being Everett was how I hid. It was my shield. And now I knew Huntsman was his.

  That evening, the huntsman sat on a stool at the corner of the bar and ignored the attention every female eye was throwing him. Women weren’t common at Volk’s, but they were tonight. All to catch a glimpse of the stranger their men had told them about. One of them was Trina Petrev.

  Trina’s blonde ringlets shone under the chandeliers. She was dressed finer than the other girls, her father able to afford tailor-made dresses from Pendrak. She kept adjusting herself on one of the chairs closest to the bar, sitting taller, shoving out her melon-like breasts so that the huntsman might take notice of her. He didn’t.

  He hunched his back slightly, his face turned toward the red ale in front of him. The ale I was drawing from the tap overflowed in the mug and drenched my hand just as another patron walked through the propped open doors. Bram. Before my father could see, I mopped up the mess, dried my hand, and delivered the mug.

  “Quench your thirst, Bram?” my father asked as he came up to the bar. His voice was lively, though I knew it was an act. He didn’t like Bram any more than I did.

  Bram leaned against the bar. “My thirst and my curiosity. I hear you have a boarder. Someone with hunting skill.”

  The huntsman lifted his chin. Bram followed my father’s eyes to the corner of the bar.

  “Welcome to Rooks Hollow,” Bram said. “What do you think of the forests?”

  I shut out the drone of the rest of the tavern; the plucking of the gusli strings some old man played in the far corner, drunken laughter, the tapping of feet on the floor.

  “Some of the best I’ve seen.” The huntsman’s voice was relaxed and easy in comparison to Bram’s, which was a little too loud. “Do you hunt?”

  Bram gave hollow chuckle. “You were probably covering my territory today.”

  I frowned. The woods were wide and deep and plentiful, and on any given day there might be dozens of village men and women scouring them. Bram was competing, though for what I couldn’t figure.

  The huntsman fought a smile. “It’s fine terrain.”

  Trina Petrev checked her complexion in a small, round compact mirror, and then rose from her seat. I’m sure she saw Bram as her opening, and she wasn’t about to let the chance to speak to the mysterious and attractive stranger slip by.

  “Bram,” Trina said as she slid up beside him. She hooked her hand on his shoulder. “The season’s nearly over and you haven’t taken me out on the water like you promised. You know how desperate I am to go.”

  She glanced at the huntsman, her red lips stretched into a smile.

  “I’ll take you out, Trina,” Bram said. “Just been busy with the shop.”

  He faced me all the sudden, a disgusted sneer in place on his lips. “Well, Everett, you going to pour me a drink, or stand there staring at Trina all night?”

  He knew I was doing no such thing. I hadn’t seen him since the alley. I was sure Bram was both curious and angry about what had happened. Maybe he even thought I’d knocked him unconscious somehow. I filled a mug and he drank it, his pupils practically on fire as he stared at me.

  The huntsman got up from his stool and started to part through the crowd, toward the stairs. Trina couldn’t hide her disappointment. Bram held out an arm to stop him, and the huntsman stepped backward right into Trina. She made a small noise as he trampled her toes, but she was smiling and blushing once again when he steadied her and apologized.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow in the forest,” Bram said. The huntsman nodded, his dislike for Bram plain on his face.

  He looked across the bar at me before continuing on through the crowd and up the stairs. Trina’s perfect posture slumped, and she turned to leave.

  “See you, Bram.”

  He didn’t seem bothered by the snub. Just drank his ale at the bar and watched me pull taps and serve rabbit stew for the next half hour. Finally, he drained his mug and left Volk’s without another word.

  I was cleaning the floors at half past one in the morning when I saw a shimmer of gold by the base of the bar, underneath the iron foot beam. Using the broom’s bristles, I swept the object out. It slid over the floor and came to a stop at the tips of my boots. A compact. The one Trina had checked her complexion in.

  I crouched and took the cool, gold compact in my hand. It was circular and palm-sized, and etched with a floral pattern, Trina’s initials woven in with the roses and vines. I supposed this meant I’d have to find her and return it. Lucky me.

  I stood up, the gold compact heavy. On the inside cover there would be a mirror. I hadn’t looked in my mirror for days. I hadn’t thought to, not since seeing the huntsman in it. I placed the compact on the bar, still wet from the cloth I’d just run along the top, and worked on sweeping up a smattering of hazelnut shells. My father was upstairs, asleep. The huntsman, too. The entire village had retired. It was just me. Alone, with the mirrored compact.

  Frederic. Of course. I could ask to see him. I could find out where he was. The way he’d cautiously glanced around after I asked my mirror to show him the last time, as if he’d known he was being watched, had unnerved me. But asking now could help the huntsman. It could help me.

  I stepped around the pile of nutshells and approached the compact. The tremors in my arms made it feel more like lead than gold when I picked it up. I clicked open the cover, and the mirror flashed.
At first, it only reflected my image, the sheen of sweat on my nose and chin, my tired eyes.

  “Show me Frederic,” I said softly, the tip of my tongue oddly numb. The surface shivered. It rippled and spun with vibrant colors. It made me dizzy, and the sensation of my head, tipping forward, caught me off guard. I lost control of my posture and stumbled against a stool. The extra heartbeat inside me whenever I used my loft mirror wasn’t there this time. My own pulse seemed to slow to a crawl.

  I watched, transfixed, as the image of a stoic, bearded man appeared. Seated, his eyelids closed, he jostled side to side, in a carriage. The floor of the tavern seemed to tilt side to side, too. But then Frederic’s sleepy haze snapped. He was awake in an instant, his torso leaning forward from the cushion of his seat. Nothing had changed. The carriage hadn’t stopped moving. But once again the emperor was aware of me, even though he couldn’t have possibly seen me.

  I stumbled again, pulled toward the hand holding the open compact. My face drew closer, as if it was caught in some magnetic force. What was happening? The legs of the stool tripped me, and I crashed to the floor, the room still spinning violently, the mirror still open in my hand. It was all I could do to utter the word, “Clear.”

  The mirror slammed onto the floor, my face next. And then...nothing.

  16

  Tobin

  A clattering in the tavern had me sitting up in bed. I’d been thinking about the Bram fellow, a fall wind coming in through the open window to cool my room and my temper. He’d been the one in the alleyway with Ever. I shoved off the blanket and swung my feet to the floorboards, listening. Had he returned to the tavern?

  Barefoot, I pulled on my shirt and buttoned it as I stalked down the hallway. Ben Volk snored, oblivious, in his room. Ever’s father was unlike any man I’d met. He was brusque with Ever, insulting her at every turn. But even though I didn’t know why Ever had to disguise herself, I was certain Ben’s sole purpose was to protect her from something. Someone. He despises your emperor. Ever had said it in the barn loft. Not for the first time, I considered that maybe her secret had to do with Frederic.

  Downstairs in the tavern, all but one chandelier had been extinguished. The edges of the room were darkened, the chairs overturned and hooked on tabletops. On the floor, near the corner of the bar, Ever lay on her stomach, unconscious. I rushed over, kneeled beside her, and grasped her shoulders.

  “Ever?” I pressed two fingers against her neck. A steady pulse. “Ever, wake up.”

  She moaned, her eyelids fluttering. I rolled her onto her back.

  “Father?” she mumbled, but then saw me. “Huntsman. What’s…what happened?”

  She sat up and brought her hand in front of her. Her fingers were clasped around a small, gold compact; the kind women keep. The etched cover was open, and Ever frowned into the mirror.

  “Take it,” she moaned. Though confused, I did what she asked, and then snapped the cover shut.

  I lent her my good arm to help her stand. She staggered to the side, but I caught her and pulled her against me. “Are you hurt?”

  Ever closed her eyes and rested her head against my chest. I went rigid as she rocked her forehead back and forth, her hot, quick breaths reaching through my shirt and warming my skin. Her hands came up to her cheeks, perhaps to rub her eyes. But they flattened against my chest instead, the pressure of her fingertips tremulous. I spread my hands over her shoulders.

  Ever’s muscles suddenly tensed. Her head jerked back, her palms leaping from my chest as if they’d been burned.

  “I’m—” She eased out of my hold. “Sorry. I’m all right. I think.”

  I handed her the compact. Reluctantly, she slipped it into her trouser pocket without looking me in the eye. “I think I…I fainted.”

  I righted the stools that she must have crashed into, and then she lowered herself onto one.

  “You fainted while looking at yourself in your mirror?” I grinned. Even Ever smiled, though distractedly.

  “It’s not mine. I found it on the floor,” she said, the color returning to her cheeks. “It belongs to Trina Petrev.”

  “Who?”

  Ever took off her cap and waved it in front of her face as she might a fan. She looked like she was beating back a cold sweat.

  “Trina. The girl at the bar earlier, talking to Bram.”

  “Bram is the one who cornered you in the alleyway.”

  Ever slumped her shoulders and nodded. “I don’t know why he hasn’t told anyone about me yet,” she said, wearily untying her neck scarf. I moved a few paces away and tried not to pay attention as she slipped it off.

  “He probably likes being the only one who knows your secret. Well, almost the only one.”

  Ever stuffed the striped kerchief into the bowl of her cap. I’d been right about her neck. It was slender, the skin smooth. I pictured my lips on her throat before I could smash back the image and refocus.

  “But I only know a part of your secret, don’t I?” I asked.

  “The rest of it belongs to me and my father,” she said swiftly, defenses rising. “No one else. I can’t tell anyone, and I won’t.”

  I held up my hands. “I didn’t ask you to tell me. I’m not Bram.”

  The rigid plane of Ever’s delicate shoulders softened. I’d said the right words.

  “How did you know?” she whispered, looking at me sideways. “That I was a girl? How did you figure it out?”

  “I suppose it was your eyes. Your mouth, maybe.” My eyes dipped to them, and I held back a grin. “You blushed when I asked you to take off my trousers.”

  And I’d been attracted to her, though I decided to keep that to myself as Ever’s color heightened at the memory of removing my soaked trousers. The silence in the barroom grew charged. The rose colored peaks of her cheekbones made her look a very unconvincing boy right then. I needed to change the subject, fast.

  “Are you going to give it back?” I asked. She narrowed her eyes, confused. “The compact. Are you going to give it back to the girl?”

  Her brow smoothed out. “Oh. Yes, I’ll have to.”

  Ever pushed herself off the stool and retrieved a broom leaning against the bar.

  “Let me help clean up.” I reached for the broom. “I can’t sleep anyway. And if you faint again, I’ll try to catch you before you hit the floor.”

  Ever smiled, shyly shaking her head. She handed me the broom. I reached for it, and before I realized what I was doing, my other hand had come up to cup her cheek. The tips of my fingers brushed over the points of color there. Ever inhaled sharply. Her round eyes opened as far as they could possibly go, jolting me to my senses. What was I doing?

  I let go and turned my back. I started to sweep without a word, and listened to Ever move away and busy herself behind the bar. She didn’t speak to me, and I couldn’t think of a single word to say to her, either. When I was finished sweeping and mopping, and after Ever lifted a long-handled candle snuffer to the chandelier, we climbed the stairs. I walked behind her in the dark, wanting to apologize. Wanting to touch her again. I didn’t, and Ever went into her room and closed the door.

  17

  Ever

  The loft was still and quiet, the air stiff with the first, unanticipated frost. The harvest hadn’t even ended yet. In a few hours, just before sunrise, the farmers would take to their fields with horror. Each blade in the meadow glistened silver under a clear moon. It was too late to warn anyone now. And besides, the frost was quite beautiful.

  I pulled the quilt closer around my neck, and folded my hands as far into the soft warmness as I could. It had been two nights since the golden compact showed me Frederic in his carriage; two nights since the magic of the small mirror sent me hurtling toward the floor, unconscious. Why didn’t I feel dizzy and helpless when I looked into my loft mirror?

  I slipped my hand from the protection of the quilt and felt the cold skin of my cheek. When I thought of the huntsman’s hand there, the way his thumb had swept so g
ently over my skin, it was as if I could still feel the impression of his fingers. It had been sudden, and brief. He’d drawn his hand away like he’d touched fire and hadn’t met my eyes since.

  Leaning against the frame of the loft door, I searched the back of the tavern. The window panes reflected pale moonlight; no lamps were lit in Father’s room, or the huntsman’s. Or in any other window I could see along the winding main road. I was alone in the village of Rooks Hollow, and like ridding myself of the gold compact when I’d returned it to Trina, it gave me a sense of freedom. What might it be like, I wondered, to be alone? To not have to hide. Would I feel like I did whenever I was with the huntsman, safe and understood? Or would I feel as I did when I was with Bram, awkward and threatened?

  In the distance came the startled snorts and whinnies of horses. The bleating split the air again and again until I saw a light flicker at the stables down the road, where many of the villagers’ horses were kept. Below me, Hilda’s soft snort joined with the others. With the quilt still around my shoulders, I shuffled down the ladder to the stalls. Hilda’s black snout and mane hung out over her stall door. She jerked her neck, and then shook her head back and forth when I tried and rub her thin, white blaze.

  “What is it, old girl?” I whispered.

  Hilda snorted again, ducking back inside the stall and turning in a frustrated circle. I left her and went to the opposite end of the barn, the door open to the bright moonlit sky. More lights popped on in homes, and the horses at the village stables still fussed loudly.

  And then I felt it—the cadenced pounding of the earth. It vibrated through my stocking feet, up the bones of my calves and thighs. A growing roar built near the stables at the southern edge of the village, and another low thunder seemed to come from the other direction, toward the village square. The soil beneath my feet rattled. The still, frosty air fractured with the cries of more horses and now, the shouts of men.