Flash Fiction Spooktacular

Snow White & The Evil Queen, Part One - S Liongate

The room was dark but the sound of crying was sharp. It drew me from my sleep; pulled my feet from the warmth of the covers to the stone floor. Clutching my nightgown at my chest as if it would muffled every thud of my racing heart, I strained my eyes; searching through the heavy darkness.

My churning gut and prickling skin screamed warning but my eyes saw nothing in the dark, ears only hearing the cries of my child. Fear constricted my throat. With weak shaking legs I moved towards the bassinet. My little girl, my darling babe - a Princess by all rights wailed. The shrill sound not a cry for milk, or comfort, but a siren of fear. A sliver of panic clutched my heart when I reached into the cot and my fingers did not find her right away, but a little stretch more had them brushing against her belly.

“Hush, hush.” I comforted her, holding my tiny wriggling baby close. “Shh.” I rocked her softly. Fear was still trickling into my heart; icy dew drops slipping down a thread of spiders silk. What if…? I shuddered.

Across the murky dark of the room, my sweet girl mewling against my chest, I tiptoed. Breath frozen in my lungs, I reached for the cloth I knew was on the wall. The black silk, cold and smooth under my finger tips, slipped easily from where it was draped. I’d done it so many times, I didn’t need any light. A slight gleam appeared before me. The surface of the mirror.

“Shh,” I kissed her forehead, held her close, ignored the numbness in my toes from the cold and the prickling chill of fear stabbing at my spine. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” In the darkness, the dead of night, there was almost no light to see by, but I didn’t need light to know what my words had called forth - the face that appeared.

The mirror spoke; voice licking my bones. My teeth felt like they might crack.

“The babe you cradle, safe and warm, the babe is the fairest of them all.”

In an instant, my blood chilled in my veins. Now I needed light. At my nightstand I struck a match. It hissed, flaring to life with violent hunger. Balancing my little one in one arm, I put the match to the candle and warm light flickered impatiently.

The nightstand had one draw. In that draw was a single object. A dagger.

Three Years earlier…

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom far far away a beautiful baby girl, a Princess in fact, was born. New to the world she yawned in her dying mother’s arms. Her mother, life fading fast, looked down upon her precious infant. Her baby’s hair was blacker than any night, her skin pale as the snow and her lips blood red. ‘Her name will be Snow White,’ The queen declared with her dying breaths, ‘for she is pure and sweet and innocent like the freshly fallen snow.’

The queen died that very night, holding her newborn babe. The Kingdom mourned, for the queen had been kind and generous. Snow White grew up doted on and adored, not knowing what it was to have a mothers love but not lamenting the loss for she could not recall the arms that held her on her first day in the world.

Snow White was happy, if not rather spoiled but her father, the king, was a little lonely. Enough years had passed since that fateful night for his heart to be open to love once more. And so the king searched for a new love. He found a woman who held all the virtues needed of a queen. When the time came and he was sure of his heart he brought her home to meet his daughter and that was where the trouble began…

“My darling Snow White, come, come meet Ula. We are to be wed and she will be your step-mother.” Her father smiled brightly, ushering his daughter over. Snow White eyed the woman next to her father, a little curious but otherwise unfeeling toward the stranger her father had just declared as ‘step-mother’. How could it be that she could have a step-mother when she had never had a mother? The thought was fleeting, surpassed by excitement - for the woman had brought a gift.

“It is lovely to meet you, Ula.” Snow White gave her best smile while gripping her fancy skirts to curtsy politely.

“It is wonderful to meet you too, Snow White. Your father has told me such lovely things.” Ula gushed. A modest looking woman with hair pinned back in a neat bun and a simple dress that covered her from neck to the tops of her shoes, Ula was not what Snow White had expected. Her mother had been considered a great beauty, just as she herself was, so it was a surprise that the woman her father had chosen as his second wife was relatively average. “Here, I have brought you a gift.” Ula smiled.

“It’s a mirror.” Snow White replied, barely containing her disappointment.

“A magic mirror…” Ula explained giddy with excitement.

“A magic mirror…” Snow White whispered, frosting the surface with her breath. Fascinated, she peered closer and closer and Snow White liked what she saw…

Back to the present…

“Step-mother,” Snow White spoke sweetly, emphasising my familial position, “what happened to Rose Red?”

At the breakfast table I sat even straighter. My black dress, mourning garb, was stiff and uncomfortable. The servants paused. No one even dared breathe. What happened to Rose Red? The question seated on everyone’s tongue but only Snow White dared ask. I didn’t look at her. Even the thought of meeting my step-daughter's gaze made me feel sick. She too wore a black mourning dress. She even wore a veil over her face.

Today was the seventh day of her father, my husband, the King’s passing. He had been sick for some time. Tomorrow we could shed our mourning clothes and wear our usual attire but I knew I wouldn’t. Black was my colour now. Black was my forever. I speared my egg yolk, spilling the golden centre onto my plate.

“Rose Red is fine. Eat your breakfast.” My voice cold and dead as I addressed the Princess.

“But, step-mother… her face.” Snow White pressed, much to my annoyance. The servants were watching.

My daughter was sleeping soundly, tiny fingers twitching, grabbing air. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair wet blond curls. I’d washed them myself that very morning. Removed the blood.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s not just a scratch, step-mother, that is a gash across my little sister’s face.” Snow White persisted. I could practically hear the servants mentally applauding her.

Sickening.

“She’ll be fine.” I ground out, fisting my cutlery rather than holding it delicately in a queen-like fashion. It wasn’t that deep, but it would leave a scar.

“Have you even had the Doctor look at her?”

“SHUT UP!” The table rattled as I slammed my fists down, stabbing the wood with both the fork and knife. Stone walls threw an echo of my voice back at me. A servant girl dropped the water jug she was holding. Rose Red, startled, screamed with all her might.

Snow White shrank in her seat.

“I’m sorry mother,” she sniffed, “I was just worried about my little sister.”

“Of course you were.” Sneering, I pushed back from the table any appetite gone. “Clean that up!” I snapped at the servant girl who was standing over the broken jug, mouth agape. Rose Red continued to scream as I scooped her up and marched to the throne room.

The King’s throne was covered in a black cloth, covered from the moment he had died until now; I ripped the covering away and took the seat for myself. It was cold, along with the room - along with my heart.

“Queen Mother,” a male servant bowed, “would you like the fire lit?”

“No.” Everyone needed to feel the coldness that had settled in my own bones. Let it be a warning to them. A threat.

“As you wish, Queen Mother.”

“Verick is it?” I continued before he could answer. “Have a priest taken to my chambers.”

“A priest, Your Grace? To your room?”

“Did I stutter, Verick? I want a priest in my chambers.” Rose Red squirmed, I adjusted her in my arms. “I want a wet nurse found immediately. Before lunch. And wine, bring me red wine.”

Verick, a servant of bland appearance; unremarkable head to toe, bowed and hurried from the throne room. Within the hour I was handing Rose Red to a wet nurse and sipping wine. In the expansive, freezing throne room there was nothing to do bar sip the wine and stare at the stone. Nothing to do but think. Thoughts churned in my mind, each one drained and squeezed of substance as I moved it through the mangle of my predicament.

“I will see the priest now.” I announced to the near empty room. Verick, shocked by the abrupt breaking of the silence, jumped a little. The wet nurse had long taken Rose Red to a warmer room. My poor suffering babe.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Verick moved to lead me out.

“I know where my chambers are.” I snapped.

“Of course. Your Grace.” He shrank back, leaving me to make my own way.

By the morning, the priest was dead.

“Should I have him removed, Your Grace?” Verick asked in a slow, careful manner. The priest’s body, upside down, spread eagle, headless was nailed to the wall behind the throne.

“No.” Today was the eighth day. Today royal duties resumed. Today the people of the kingdom would see. It would no longer be rumour but truth; something was wrong at the castle. “Bring me wine.” I did not lift my skirts over the pools of congealing blood, simply walked to the throne. “And Verick,”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Another priest, tonight, in my chambers.” For a moment I paused, looking at the priest’s severed head. It was placed upon the seat of the throne, back of the head facing me. I gripped it by the matted, bloody locks, lifting it up. It span. A slow twist, revealing a slack-jawed mouth and eye-less sockets. With disdain I placed it on the floor, next to the throne. “AND BRING ME SNOW WHITE.” I screamed at Verick’s back as he hurried off to do my bidding. She should be here. Where I can keep an eye on her.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Verick half-twisted and bowed as he kept moving out of the room.

“You,” I gripped my black skirts, holding the dress so that as I sat on the blood stained throne the material would fall correctly, “let the first one in.” The guard I glared at said nothing, his armour clinked when he bowed his head in acknowledgement and the door creaked when he opened it; hinges grinding as though they had been on the cusp of rusting shut.

The skinny farmer looked at me with terror. His face, tan from working in the sun, paled - no doubt at the sight of one or both parts of the deceased priest. He bumbled and tripped over his words while I watched, waiting for him to present his problem to the crown for resolution, with cold indifference. Everything changed when Snow White entered the room. She had thrown off her mourning garb, replacing it with a sleek blue day dress as bright as her eyes. Her raven hair was tied back with a simple blue ribbon. Her lips shone blood red without the need for even a single swipe of the make-up brush.

“P-princess.” The Farmer beamed, stopping mid sentence to greet her. “It is such an honour to meet you. My condolences for your loss.”

“Sweet farmer,” Snow White practically sang, taking the farmer's hands, “so kind of you to say.” She tilted her head and smiled, all white teeth and blood red lips before turning from the stunned man to take the seat next to me. Eyes, deep Aconitum blue, flicked from the mutilated severed head to my own. Snow White’s quick glance was full of hate.

“Continue,” I growled at the farmer when he did not resume, instead staring at Snow White with awe.

“Um, yes, I, the fence is broken, Queen Mother.”

“Then fix it.” It was beyond me how my husband had sat through such petty and unbefitting uses of his time.

“But it is his fence.”

“The broken fence does not irk your neighbour, in fact it benefits him, as his pigs fatten themselves on your crops at no cost to him. While you might not feel the cost or effort to repair the fence is yours to bear, it will resolve the issue.”

“But still, Your Grace -”

“Step-mother, that doesn’t seem very fair, after all his neighbour will now profit from having fat piggies while our dear subject here is without crops and out the cost of a fence.” Snow White interjected. The farmer nodded in agreement. He did not know what he was agreeing to. I heard the undertone in Snow White’s voice. The low pressing insistence at the back of her words.

“Thank you, Princess. It is true, he has much to gain at market from his fattened sows, while my toil will leave me with only a few coin and just enough food for winter.”

“Fine.” The tightness of my black corset kept me from taking the depth of breath I wanted. “You.” I pointed to a guard. “You will go with him to the village.” The farmer nodded. Snow White smiled. “Let the pig farmer meet the priest. Our complainant, here, will receive all the pig farmer owned in recompense.” From the corner of my eye I saw Snow White hide her face behind her hands. The farmer fell to his knees, shocked. The guard, face already hidden by his helmet, took the farmer by the back of his shirt and dragged him from the room. What my guards thought I did not know but Verick had a fake smile as he handed me a goblet of wine. “Next.” I swallowed a large mouthful of wine as the next villager entered.

A young woman with a small child on her hip. Tatty in a patched dress, that was likely her best, she fell to her knees.

“Please, Your Grace, my child is sick.” The woman implored, her face tear stained. “I have bought medicine after medicine, but nothing has worked and now I have nothing left. Please save my child.”

“You are very pretty.” My step-daughter spoke before I did. “She is very pretty, Step-mother.” There it was again, the undertone, a riptide beneath the calm exterior, a cliff edge hidden by how it lined up perfectly with the horizon.

“You think she is pretty, Snow White?” Disgust tightened each word making them clipped and cold.

“Yes, Step-mother.” The perfect Princess batted her eyelashes at me, folded her hands in her lap; had the audacity to look demure.

“Fine.” From the throne I rose, the blood had glued the back of my dress to the chair causing a crunchy ripping sound as I pulled away. “Verick, get the doctor for her child. You.” I extended a finger at the closest guard. “Hold her still.” From the concealed pocket of my dress I bought forth my dagger. A wicked thing.

“Y-our G,g,grace?” The pretty young woman stammered as I loomed over her.

“Please, Mother.” Snow White clung to my elbow, her pleading made my stomach turn. The woman thrashed and screamed and begged as I put the dagger to her face and began to draw a line. “Please.” Snow White implored again, her fingers digging into my arm. A scream, sharp as the bitter winter wind, burst from the kneeling woman as I dug the dagger tip deeper. Her sick child screamed too, in fear not pain. Streams of blood like ugly tears poured down her face, dripped from her chin and pooled in the creases formed by her agony. After a satisfactory canyon of brilliant red had been carved across the woman’s face, Snow White relinquished her grip on my arm. I wiped the dagger on my dress, indicating for the guard to take her and her babe to wait for the doctor.

Seated on the throne once again, I drained the wine from my goblet. “Next.” The word echoed, cold and almost empty; like the room - like my heart.