by Taryn Tyler
I felt my foot along the edge of the wall, looking for a safe foothold. Every stone I touched moved. I lifted my knee, trying higher up.
There. A small one but I only needed it for a second. Just long enough to push myself up a few more inches. I could see the top of the wall already. And then I could reach it. I gripped the top edge and pulled myself up, first one knee, then the other onto the hard, bumpy surface.
I stood. The pale green of dawn traced the edge of the sky. The manor ward was quiet. Soldiers passed back and forth across the inside of the gate. Smoke rose from the kitchens. I could make out the shingles of the stable roof across from me and the dark silhouette of Lucille's iron smith lighting the furnace in the forge. Dogs barked from the kennel.
“You took your time, Snow.”
My insides twisted. My soul frosted with fear. I turned toward the voice. “Lucille.”
She smiled from where she stood on top of the wall. Like silk. Like fine china. Delicate and serene. “Good morning.”
“Where is she?” I demanded. “Where is Rose?” My eyes strayed to a sash in her hands, pale blue, embroidered with purple and green. It was Rose's –the one she'd made because we hadn't had enough fabric left to make dresses after I'd made clothes for Otto. I'd seen her working on it for months, stitching and restitching every intricate detail.
Lucille stepped toward me. She lifted the sash. Her smile grew sweeter. The first hints of morning sun gleamed gold off of her hair, painting her face with soft shadows. A piece of silver glinted off the side of her head. Mama’s silver comb. Another trophy she had stolen from my life.
I stepped forward, reaching for the sash. My fingers closed over the smooth fabric. I had admired it so much when we'd gone to town that Rose had insisted we buy it even though we could have bought twice as much of the brown fabric. The wild violets –my favorite of all Rose's flowers –were stitched in wide, neat petals with perfect care. “Where is she?” I asked again, almost choking on the words. My throat felt swollen.
Lucille jerked the sash back before I could loosen my grip on it. I stumbled into her arms as if she'd whisked me in after a dance spin. My back pressed against her stomach. I could feel her breath against my neck. She held me still, pressing into my stomach with one of her perfect, soft hands, while she pried the sash out of my fingers with the other.
I swung my elbow up toward her jaw but the motion was too late. She swung the sash over my waist, pulling it tight around my ribcage. I gasped for air, reached for her hands to pry them off, but her hold was too tight. Lucille held my arms against my back, pulling the sash tighter and tighter. I squirmed inside her grip but her hold was too strong.
My head swam as I struggled for air. Pain tightened inside my chest, growing stronger and stronger until it was almost all I could think about. The sash cut into my ribcage, bruising and then cracking the bones beneath the unnatural strength of her grip.
“I trusted Constanze last time I wanted you dead and then I trusted Hans.” Her lips pressed up against my earlobes as she spoke. Her words squirmed, unwanted, inside my ear. “I won't make that mistake again.”
I tried to scream but there was no air for it. Pain in my chest. Pain in my head. Stronger and stronger every second. I could hardly move. The sun grew bright. Too bright. The world spun, twirling slower and slower until I couldn't see anything anymore. I felt my head swing forward, hanging slack from my neck. Lucille let go of me at last, and then I was falling over the edge of the wall.
I reached up with my last remnants of strength, grasping for anything that would hold me up. My fingers closed over a tangle of hair and something else. Something cold and hard that slid out of Lucille's hair along with my fingers.
But I was still falling. Down, down, down. Into darkness. Into oblivion. I couldn't breath. There was nothing to hold onto and then . . . there was nothing.
Rose
I didn't sleep. Even after the poison wore off I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. I had never seen such intricate carvings before. I had never seen such ornate craftsmanship. Wooden creatures, strange and otherworldly, twisted together over my head. I could see the harsh pupils in their eyes and the sharp gleam of their claws.
“ I love you.” He had said, over and over, thrust after thrust. The word made me feel sick all over. Sicker even than the bruises and bleeding on my thighs and wrists and breasts. Sicker even than the pain in places in my mind and body that had never felt pain before.
I stared at the ceiling. I had tried to light him on fire the moment the poison had allowed me to move but my song, --my light, my magic, my innermost self –was gone. Nothing remained but a deep, hollow emptiness that seemed to reach on and on, forever into nothingness. I tried to listen to the trees. I tried to feel the thrum of the earth --to see what the creatures of the wood saw-- but all was silent. I was lost. I was alone.
A knock rapped against the door. I sat up. I picked my torn shift up off the floor and --shaking --pulled it over my head. My whole body shook as if it were afraid it would shatter into pieces with each movement. I staggered to the door and pressed against the latch of the
heavy oak.
Slowly the door creaked open.
He stared at me from the corridor with his playful brown eyes
and crooked smile. The corridor echoed with the sound of his breathing. I tried not to hear his heartbeat. I tried not to let my breath fall in time with his as he stepped toward me. The floor pounded with the sound of his feet over the carpet.
My heart should have been beating. I should have been afraid. He smiled. That same ridiculous smile. His eyes glinted with danger and lust. He reached his hand out to stroke my face.
I stepped back, pushing his hand away in the same jerky, involuntary movement. The back of my hand hit the a tray I hadn’t even noticed he was holding. It went crashing to the floor. Globs of thick white porridge fell out of silver bowls. Silver cups of hot milk spilled over the rug. Sausages and toasted cinnamon buns rolled across the floor. “I'm not drugged anymore.” I said. My voice was clearer than I had expected it to be, cutting with the precision of a needle.
Boris's forehead wrinkled. “I saved your life. Mother was going to kill you. She was going to eat your heart. If I hadn't let Hans out of his cell to distract her she would have.”
It was hard to look at him. Hard to see his smile and cheeks and nose without shutting my eyes and hoping every memory of his existence would go away. Without feeling them . . .
“You should have let her kill me.” I said.
“Why?” He asked. “I love you, Rose.”
Those words again. I shuddered, forcing myself to keep my eyes open, watching every hint of movement in his face and body. “Where is Snow?” I asked. “Has Lucille . . . found her yet?”
“I don't know.” He said but the answer came too quickly.
“She's dead.” I heard the words fall out of my mouth but I didn't feel them. My entire body went numb. Numb and cold and still.
“Rose--”
A whisk of silk drifted through the open door. Lucile stepped into the chamber. She wore no plain blue wool this morning. A long, glittering green train draped down her back, dragging against the ground like a carpet of moss. Her sleeves hung off her shoulders to reveal the pale smoothness of her neck and arms. A silver necklace with engravings to match her rings hung around her throat. “It's my turn now, Boris.” She reached for my wrist.
Boris's smile twisted into a snarl. “I won't let you kill her.”
“She doesn't want you, Boris.” Lucille spoke his name with contempt. “She never did. Your distraction last night bought you a night with her not a lifetime. You knew that or you wouldn't have been so impatient to make use of it.” She reached for my wrist again. Her fingers twisted tight around my skin, digging into my bones and bruises. She pulled me toward the door. I didn't resist.
“Mother--”
Lucille lifted her other hand. Silver rings glittered on her fingers. “Stand back
. There are other girls. It is no concern of mine if they don't like you either.”
She pulled me out into the hall. Boris stared after us, his lips bent into a pout, his eyes wide with hurt and hatred. I couldn't take my eyes off him.
I'd never wanted to forget any sight more.
“If you want to make yourself useful.” Lucille said. “Fetch me Snow's body.”
She slammed the door and his face was gone. I released a breath I hadn't known I was holding.
Lucille dragged me through a long twist of corridors. Her grip was inhumanly tight, grinding into my wrist as she glided past each door, floating like a cloud of mist. I felt swallowed by the power of the magic that engulfed her. It was stronger than anything I had ever reached for. Stronger than anything I would have dared to touch. Cold. Harsh. Unforgiving. A power that saw no alternative but its own will.
I twisted myself in her grasp as she pushed me along in front of her. “I could be carrying his child.” I said. “Your grandchild.” The idea sickened me but in spite of everything I wasn't ready to die yet. Was there anything I could say to make her spare me?
I craned my neck to see her expression. A shadow flickered over her face then disappeared as she forced me around the next turn. I had expected to be taken down into the dungeons but here was a flight of stairs. She pushed me onto them and I marched obediently upward. She followed. The soft swish of her train dragged after us.
“You said my Gran was fortunate to have me to love her in her old age. My child might love you in yours.”
Her hold on my wrist tightened. “You think I enjoy having even Boris to remind me of my true age? My body will be young long after any child you could ever have has rotted in her grave. Why would I want to watch something so obscene.”
“You want to be loved.” I said. “Boris doesn't love you. Neither did his father or any of the other men you order about. They fear you. They desire you. But they do not love you.”
She prodded me to move faster up the stairs. The swish of her train slithered like a snake.
“That's why you hated Gran so much. You saw how Otto –a child untouched by the contaminations of life –loved her even though she had chosen age and you had chosen youth. You knew that no matter how many admirers you had no child would ever love you. You hate children because they remind you of what they have and you don't, what you will never get back no matter how many of their hearts you devour.”
We reached the top of the stairs. She flung open the door and twisted me around to face her. “I can take their youth.” She said “Just as I will take yours along with every last remnant of your power.”
“That's not what you want.” I said. “Not really. You want the other thing they have. The only thing you can take over and over but never keep. Innocence.”
Lucille's gaze remained solid, un-braised by my words. She let go of me, pushed me into the chamber, and slammed the door shut. I listened as her train slithered back down the stairs and the engulfing force of her power faded.
At last I could breathe again. I turned around. I stood in a small plain room without a bench or stool or chamber pot inside. A woman with pursed lips stood across from me.
“Greta?” I wasn't shocked. I wasn't sure I could be shocked anymore. I wasn't sure I could be anything.
Her face was as expressionless as it had been all those years we had lived together in the village. She stepped toward me and I did what I hadn't done all night long. What I hadn't done standing over Gran's grave or listening to Lucille talk about Snow's body. I burst into tears.
Snow
I woke with a gasp. My head ached. My chest ached. My heart pounded and pounded beneath my breast. Air. Sweet, beautiful, gorgeous air. I drew in another long, greedy breath, letting it reach into every inch of me. My head. My toes. My fingers.
“Hold still.” Whose voice was that? I knew I'd heard it before. One of the hobgoblins. The eldest, white-haired one. Glen. I remembered his silhouette weaving with his brothers' against the cave walls. Had I fallen asleep after the dancing? The earth was hard beneath me, covered in crisp, dry leaves.
I opened my eyes. The sun seared into them, bright and blazing. I squinted, trying to make out the two short figures standing over me. One was Glen, the eldest hobgoblin, grave and concerned. The other was Trouble. He was scowling. Bunched up in his hand was Rose's sash. Bits of blue and green and purple rippled in the breeze.
And then I remembered. Lucille on top of the manor wall. Her hands over my mouth, trapping the air inside. Her grip on the sash, squeezing my ribcage and lungs.
Falling. Falling toward the ground with nothing to hold onto. I lifted myself onto my elbow, gritting my teeth at the pain in my ribs. “I'm alive?” I asked.
“Ha!” Trouble said “We save her life and she doesn't even notice. How's that for thanks? We caught you coming down. Me and him and two more of my brothers. Twisted his ankle.” he pointed to Sludge, the cook, sitting on the ground a little to the side, leaning against a tree. “And just about broke my arm, you great big heavy girl. Then we had to pull this off you.” He handed me Rose’s sash.
I stroked the embroidered green vines, gripping the gauzy blue fabric that had nearly killed me. My breath was still short and shallow, my heart beating and beating like a battle drum. “Thank you.” I managed to say.
“Well,” Trouble tapped his foot impatiently. “Aren't you going to ask what we were doing here?”
I shivered slightly in the morning sun. My skin still felt hot to touch. “What about Rose?” I asked instead.
Glen shook his head. “Your prince --Otto-- said she might have been taken. We haven't found her.”
I collapsed back onto the ground, closing my eyes. How could I hope to get her back when Lucille had defeated me so quickly? How could I ever have imagined that I could stand against her?
“Well how could we?” Trouble's voice was terse, constrained, as if he had to force the words to come out at all. “We had you to look after --not that that was our idea, mind you. Your prince sent us after you. Said to help you find the –find Rose and make sure you didn't come to any harm while he gathered that army.”
“You're the one who said we should--” Glen stopped talking abruptly. I opened my eyes again to see the two brothers glaring at each other.
“We were just doing what Otto told us to.” Trouble insisted.
I must have fallen on the outside of the manor. We were somewhere in the wood. I could see the canopy overhead, blocking all but a few patches of the sunlight. I pulled myself up again, ignoring the pain in my chest. The leaves stirred beneath me. They crumbled beneath my weight. My hand hit something cold. Something cold and hard and small.
Mama's silver comb, ripped from Lucille's head as I fell.
I rested it in the palm of my hand and lifted it off the ground. The form of a running deer was imprinted onto the side. How long since I had last held it? Since Papa had first pressed it into my hand, telling me what a good wife my mother had been? It felt a lifetime away.
“How far are we from the manor?” I asked.
“Not far.” Glen answered. “We smuggle Lad inside with the morning guard to find out what he can.”
“And hopefully something to eat.” Sludge muttered from beneath his tree. “Hard work, this rescuing. It's a wonder you bothered so many times with that rascal.” He tilted his head toward Trouble.
Trouble glared at him. “At least we managed to rescue her without ruining her beard or destroying her coat.”
“She doesn't have a beard or a coat, you idiot.”
I shuffled over to a fir tree and leaned my back against the trunk. The last thing I wanted to do was wait but I had no chance of climbing the manor wall again until my heart stopped racing like a stag on the run and I could manage a decent sized breath. Perhaps Lad would be back soon with news of Rose.
Trouble handed me a skin of water. I took it gratefully and gulped it down. The skin was small but the water inside was still fresh and c
ool.
We waited an hour. Glen paced. Trouble grumbled. Sludge sat against his tree, whittling a stick, while I sat against mine, watching the sun rise higher and higher over the trees. I began to hum, trying to remember the weave of Rose's song, trying to paint its comfort and mystery into the still, warming forest air.
“Will you stop that noise?” Trouble asked. “As if we didn't have enough to worry about.”
I sighed, fingering my mother's comb in my hand. So far, the only thing I'd been able to take back from Lucille. It was far from the most valuable thing she'd taken. Would she believe I was dead again or would she send someone to collect the body and make sure? Perhaps we should move in case her men came looking for us –but then how would Lad find his way back to us?
I lifted the comb and ran it absently through my hair. It caught in the knots, tangling into the strands. I pulled it out, then stuck it in again, stroking it through my hair until all the tangles were gone. When I had finished I stuck the comb on the top of my head, just behind my ear, so that the silver deer could be seen resting over the strands of black. So that if Lucille found me she would see that I had taken it back from her –that she couldn't keep everything she took.
The tip of the comb pricked against my scalp. The skin broke. My head tingled. It felt numb. My skin burned hot. A chill ran through me. Confused, I lifted my hand to take out the comb, but my arm, already lethargic from loss of air, didn't move.
'Help.' I tried to say 'I did something very foolish. Help me pull the comb out.' But my lips wouldn't move either. My eyelids slid shut. I leaned forward and felt myself falling again. Falling with my nose headed straight for the ground.
Rose
Greta put her arms around me, cradling me as she never had when I was a child. I buried my face into the crook of her shoulder. She pulled tear soaked hair away from my face. Her breathing was deep, steady, and familiar like the constant pulse of her spinning wheel.
