by Andi Adams
Marcel ran over to the princess and stuck two fingers to her neck. Her pulse beat under his touch, but it was weak at best. He'd been tracking her for the entire morning, disregarding the Captain's threat of a time limit. Marcel had watched her, and, though he was impressed with how long she'd lasted, he knew it wouldn't be long before she made a fatal error or nature's forces would get the better of her.
He looked up toward the sky, exhaled, and allowed his shoulders to sink slightly.
The queen only needs the princess to be dead in order to free my son. Maybe it would be enough if she wasn't murdered, but simply died on her own, of her own cause.
Marcel shook his head. He knew it wouldn't be enough.
The queen needed proof.
14
When Marcel returned from his quest for the princess, Agrippine didn't see his face or his hands, only the box he held. He stood in front of her with his arms outstretched, holding the oak chassis and the jewel-encrusted dagger. The blood had been wiped clean. But it was no matter, he brought her the heart.
She grabbed for the items like a rabid animal, salivating. She opened the box to see a pink organ, small in size, resting upon the ermine lining. She ran her fingertip over the smooth membrane and smiled with delight.
"Your Majesty, I want to see my son," Marcel said. "I want him released. You must keep your end of the bargain. That was the deal."
"He will be free… when I am ready to free him. I have to ensure you kept up your end of the bargain, Marcel. That's how this works,” responded Agrippine, her eyes never breaking contact with the box.
"What? No! You have the proof." Marcel's voice grew louder, more forceful. "It's in your hands. What more do you want?"
"You know, Marcel, I don't like your tone. Guards, kill him."
The guards seized him by the arms and pulled him from the queen's bedchamber.
"No! You can't do this!" Marcel said. "We had a deal. I want to see my son! Oliver! No, No! You can't!"
His pleas and wild cries echoed all the way down the corridor until she was left in sweet silence.
She traced her nails over the grain carved box, pausing for a moment to massage a knot in the wood.
The nighttime invaded the dusk, sweeping in as if succumbing to Agrippine's impatience. Her table had been set with her finest dishes, the napkins folded and the silver polished. She stepped up to the window once again and an ominous feeling of dread swept over her. A cold sweat formed upon her brow.
It will work. It must. I followed the every word as my mother and the Mirror instructed. I will not fail.
She took a long hard look at the moon, which was expansive as it swelled to its fullest breadth. She spun turned from the window and barked an order at her handmaiden.
"Bring the meal in now. Leave it upon the table and then go. I do not want to be disturbed."
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
Plates of food mounted upon the queen's table. Rolls, and meats, cheeses, and leafy greens, abundant in their splendor, were no match for the featured dish. Agrippine pulled the organ from the box and rested it upon a bed of root vegetables, which was eggshell in color on one end and slowly faded to a deep shade of eggplant. The heart, pink and still engorged with blood encrusted within its vessels, looked ornamental on the plate. Agrippine licked her lips in ravenous anticipation.
"And do not dare enter my chamber again until you are summoned. I will call for you if I need you. Now get out."
The door closed behind the servant girl.
As soon as she was sure she was alone, she lifted the organ to her mouth with her bare hands, enjoying the crude odor of blood. Agrippine sank her teeth into the gamey flesh, the muscle tough and grisly. A remnant of sanguine fluid dribbled from her open mouth and onto her raven-black bodice. After three mouthfuls, she drew in a breath and paused to assess any noticeable changes in her visage.
She chewed, swallowed, and waited.
Glancing at the image painted in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall, she noticed an all too recognizable reflection. The same height, weight, same aging complexion – the one that continued to wither with each passing day. A foreboding twinge struggled its way to the surface of her consciousness. Her pulse quickened, and the increased beats of her heart marked the moments of her waning patience.
No physical change, outward or inward, as she had been promised. Yet the mirror's prophecy was not lying about Genevieve being the most fair – it couldn't. The magic was foolproof. It was her only source of truth and reliability. She trusted her mother and the magic, but her instinct told her something wasn't right.
"I need to wait, give the magic more time." But anxiety continued to grow like a bubbling broth boiling under the fibers of her skin.
She snatched up the fork and shoveled several more pieces into her mouth, not bothering to chew before swallowing. With her cheeks frantically full, she threw the fork to the ground, rose from the table, and backed away as if she'd been burned. She waited another moment, desperate for any inkling of the spell's success. Her heart plummeted when she realized her plan had failed– the magic had failed. For the first time since she could remember, tears welled in her hardened eyes. Frustration and despair clenched the back of her throat, and she struggled to breathe.
This… cannot be. I waited. I obeyed. I did everything I was instructed to do. The magic cannot fail me. What else do I have if not that?
Her fingertips tingled. The sensation of being pricked by pins traveled like a flame over gasoline through her lithe limbs. A feral vigor awakened her mind, but her body was not hers to control. An external force pulled her arms wide and her chest taut.
She rose on her tiptoes at the hand of the unnatural strength, and it stretched her length, pulling the muscles in her legs, arms, and stomach tight. Her head snapped back, spilling her crown onto the floor with a jangle. She was lifted a few inches off the ground, her rigid body marking an X in the air. A whirring of deep rumbles sounded from the chest that held the mirror. It rattled until the cover unhinged and whipped open. The mirror ascended, just as Agrippine had, emerging from the ivory chest.
A gust of wind tore through the bedchamber and blew the queen's hair about to mark the only movement of her motionless body. The wind spun her limp frame around and around, faster and faster, until she seemed almost trapped in the vortex of a cyclone. Her hair reached upwards, elongating her length.
Finally a flash of light exploded from the mirror, showering the room in blinding illumination. And in an instant, the light zapped back into the mirror, the wind ceased, and the queen crumpled in a heap on the ground.
The mirror fell, gently floating down through the air to land on the bedroom floor with a quiet tink only a few feet away from her sunken shape. The stillness hummed an eerie silence, while the queen remained motionless upon her chamber floor.
15
In a place between consciousness and death, Genevieve could hear commotion swirl around her like vapor.
"Sib… Sib… is it dead?"
"She sure looks dead to me." A firm finger poked her in the shoulder. "Yeah, she doesn't stand a chance. Can we go? It's hot out here."
"Grog, just give me a minute." An audible huff. "If you are hot, go home. We can take it from here."
The shuffling of feet.
"Her skin. It's so… pale."
"Yeah, she looks like hell. Even if she's alive, she's probably better off dead. Let's. Go." The man they called 'Grog' hoisted his satchel over his shoulder with a grunt and started to walk away. A distinct step and a clunk. Step. Clunk.
"Get back here, Grog," a voice said, authoritative in its tone. "I changed my mind. You cannot go. We are going to need your help to lift her and carry her home."
"Excuuuse me? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but that is not happening, Sib. You can forget it."
"This is not a request. Drop your bag and help us. She is sick – looks like she's suffering from severe desiccation. Seems to have been without flui
ds for too long in this heat. I need to treat her ailments properly, and I can't do that in the middle of the woods, so come now."
"Okay, okay. Ugh." His duffel bag clunked on the hard ground. The sound of metal clanging metal in the bag resonated as it hit.
More shuffling of feet.
"Eron, Flic, Tyne, everyone grab on to her somehow, and we'll carry her back to the cottage. Eron, you at the head. Flic, take under her shoulder blades." Flic assented to his appointment by sliding his tiny hands under her back. "Tyne, you at the hips. Grog and me, we got the legs." A groan from Grog. "Okay, on three. Ready?"
The sound of grunts and whimpers, footsteps and cracking joints, filled the quiet forest air.
Am I dreaming?
Fading in and out of consciousness, her weight slumped uncomfortably onto what seemed to be tiny hands – many tiny hands. Children perhaps? Genevieve wanted to speak up, wanted to open her eyes, possibly protest, but the effort was futile. Therefore, she had no choice but to keep her eyes closed and wait.
After what seemed like hours of being jostled about, which just added to her nausea and disorientation, they arrived at a small cottage tucked in the shadows of the wood. A little puff of smoke billowed from the stone chimney. The air smelled of burnt chicory and citrus. The indigo tones of evening slowly slipped in, and Genevieve remained blissfully unafraid in spite of the fact she was in the hands of strangers. Literally.
Once ushered into the house on the hands of the petite brigade, she was brought to a small palliasse positioned in the corner of the room. The straw inside the mattress was heaven compared to the hard ground she had endured over the past few nights, and the cottage was certainly warmer than the outside night air. As they laid her atop the lumpy bed and placed a tiny bolster under her neck, Genevieve noticed her feet dangled off the end of the mattress by a sizable margin. The clanging of bottles and vials mixed with the scurrying of feet should have been enough to stir her, but her eyes were so heavy.
"Eron, grab the the vial of efficant, the lillium powder, and the sydria crystals. Hurry." She recognized the speaker as the one they called 'Sib.' His tone was pleasant, but commanding. "Flic, I'll also need a clean rag, a handful of plumiums from the garden, and some fresh water from the well. Go."
A disgruntled voice piped up from several feet away. "I don't know why you're going through all of this trouble. We don't even know her, and it took you a month to concoct that efficant."
"I can always make more, Grog. It takes a little time, but it's not too complicated, you know that. And why are you so against me helping this young girl? I'm not asking anything of you, am I?"
"Well, you haven't asked anything of me yet, unless you count carrying her half-dead carcass all over the damned place. And I am already anticipating having to give up my food, my bed, and my space, whatever, for this stranger. You're too generous, Sib. You don't realize there are five of us, not just you, and we're all inconvenienced every time you decide to act philanthropic."
"Can you quiet down?" a different voice said, its tone deeper, more earthy. "She might hear you. And, Grog, so unlike you to be such a curmudgeon." The one they call Eron, perhaps? The others snickered at his sarcasm.
"Are you all going to gang up on me about this? Fine. Do whatchyou want." The sound of fading footsteps marked his leaving.
Once Grog was gone, Eron continued, "Still a few more things to grab. Flic and I’ll be back in a blink.”
"All right, Tyne, while Flic and Eron are grabbing the other supplies, could you help me roll her on her side? I want to take a listen to her breathing." They positioned themselves on either side of her. Tyne grabbed her opposite shoulder from across the bed and pulled her on her side. Sib placed his ear to her back. "Now don't let her go, she'd smush me for sure."
"You got it, Sib." And the tiny hands, shaking with effort, dug a little more deeply into her shoulder.
"All right, let's put her down. Her breathing is regular, but weak. She seems to have symptoms of desiccation indicated by the dryness of her hands and the sallow color of her skin. I mean, just look at her lips. Hmm.…" Sib continued to force her eyelids open, push on her tongue with his pudgy fingers, and bend her elbows to assess of the severity of her ailment. The other men finally returned.
"Here, the lillium powder, the vial of efficant, and the sydria crystals," Eron said, wheezing a bit as he reported to Sib, clearly winded from the hustle. "What do ya want me to do with 'em? Oh, and Flic's got the rag, the plumiums, and a bucket of water."
"Excellent, excellent. Tyne, I need you to mix the lillium with the efficant and then slowly stir in the sydria. In that order, got it? Once you do that, pour the mixture on to the rag and put it on her forehead. And, Flic, I want you to chew up the plumium leaves and then spit them into the bucket of water. We'll feed her sips of the water until the bucket's empty. It may take a while, for we must do this slowly. Too much water too fast will certainly make her ill again. We'll take shifts, but she'll need to drink it all."
They nodded in assent and quickly got to work.
After about an hour, Genevieve found herself dozing in and out, catching bits and pieces of their conversation. When she'd stir, they'd gather around her, and the one who'd been tending to her most closely, would assess her by tapping this and poking that.
On about her third or fourth stir, the man tapped his little hand against her cheek. "Stay with us. Hey, hey. Open your eyes."
Genevieve obeyed as best as she could.
His face crinkled into a smile, which was blurred in her squinted vision. "Good."
"Do you know your name?"
"I…. I…." Genevieve started.
"It's okay. Don't rush it. Take your time."
She managed to say one thing before slipping back into darkness, "Call me Snow."
After drinking two full buckets of the plumium-infused water, and sleeping for days, Genevieve felt almost as good as new. She awoke to an empty cottage, the sunlight streaming in the small picture windows in the front of the house. The fireplace was still stoked with a fire, and on the table was left a plate of some dark rye bread and a punnet of berries similar to what she noticed growing in the garden outside. The blooms sprawled up the side of the house, and the fragrant scent of ripened honeysuckles and mint leaves tickled the late morning air.
She stood to stretch. It had been days since she last stood, and the room tilted a bit as she climbed out of bed. She steadied herself with her hand on the knob of the headboard, and as she rose on her tiptoes, she enjoyed the sensation of blood flowing through her legs.
She glanced around the tight living quarters, far more meager than the means to which she was accustomed. But it was cozy, and warm, and preferable to anything she had left behind. However, her eyes caught the unwashed plates, tiny cups, cast iron skillets, scraps of food, and other debris that littered the kitchen. Elfin hats and miniature tunics were strewn about the other rooms, on the beds, and heaped on the floor.
Genevieve's impulse was to call for the serving staff to address the mess tout de suite. But there was no waitstaff. No one, but her. Where would she even start? She had never cleaned a mess in her life. Things were picked up for her. Laundry was attended to, her bed was always made, even the food was prepared by others. She never much considered all of the daily tasks she had taken for granted, from the assistance she received while dressing to the hand-sewn garments upon her back.
Well, only one way to learn, I suppose.
She opened the windows to allow fresh air into the cottage. The sweet smell of the air was already making her feel like new. A small bird hopped onto the ledge. Red wings. Gold breast.
"Hey, I know you," she said, examining it quizzically.
The bird hopped closer, not startled when she reached out her hand.
"But how did you…?" Genevieve eyed the bird with great curiosity. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you… you were helping me out there in the woods. You were trying to lead me to water, weren't you?" The
bird hopped even closer, perching itself on the inside edge of the sill.
This is madness. Am I talking to a bird? Am I really to believe this animal was trying to help me? Oh dear, I fear I'm losing my mind.
"Well, whether it's my imagination or not, it's nice to have some company. You can stay for a bit, until the men get home.” The bird, as if understanding her every word, flew inside the house and settled on the mantle of the hearth.
She began with the easy chores — picking up the clothes and folding them into neat little piles. She had no idea which items belonged to whom, but she tried to arrange them by size and figured they could sort their own belongings from there.
Next, she tidied the beds. There were five in all, each mattress stuffed with straw, a far different feel than her wool-stuffed mattress back at the castle. However, this new straw bed felt exceptional to her, which perhaps had more to do with her gratitude rather than her physical comfort. She noticed a threadbare cloth laid on the floor by a bed in the corner. It too had a tiny pillow at one end and a tiny quilt ruffled on top.
Oh, this must be where the man slept, the one whose bed I took these past few days.
Her heart warmed at his kindness, and she smiled as she knelt by his makeshift cot to fold his bedding. She didn't even know these men, and still they showed her a kindness far greater than she'd ever known.
She continued her work by haphazardly dusting what little furniture they had and then decided she would make them a hearty dinner to return home to after a long day at work.
She stood frozen in the kitchen, tangled in thought. Umm…how do I even start to cook a meal? What do I cook? How do I cook it? What started as productivity slowly spiraled into self-defeat.
I am useless. Completely useless.
She plopped herself on the edge of the bed where she had slept and pouted for a minute. After growing up with all of these luxuries at my disposal – cooks, servants, tutors – I have learned nothing of value. She wished desperately to have Oliver and Marnie back in her life, not only to take care of her, but to teach her the things she needed to know. I should have learned more. I should have paid better attention. I shouldn't have taken it all for granted. The "should haves" fired rapidly in her brain, a constant stream of consciousness which she couldn't seem to quiet.
