Fairest of All (7 page)

T
o the Queen the days felt like months and the weeks like years while the King was away. The castle was so quiet. She missed the days when it was filled with Snow’s joyful laughter as she was chased by her growling father, who was pretending to be a dragon or a warlock.

Soon, she told herself, soon he will return and with him life will once again fill the stone walls of the castle.

But for now, the castle might as well have been lifeless. The Queen sat in a comfortable throne alongside the fireplace in her chamber, lost in one of her favorite manuscripts, The
Song of Roland
. But everything about it reminded her of the King, and so she set it aside and called upon her servants to draw a bath for her.

Far more quickly than she had anticipated, a rap was upon her door.

“Your Highness, Your Majesty…” said the timid, quivering young girl in the doorway. The Queen had not seen her before and realized she must have been a new servant.

“Calm down, dear, I am a Queen, not a witch,” the Queen said, smiling.

“Yes, well, this here”—the girl held out a large, wrapped package that was nearly as tall as she was—“this arrived for you here today. The guards have examined it, and it appears to pose no…no danger….”

The girl put the package down and stared at the Queen, who looked at the package skeptically.

“From whence does it come?” the Queen asked.

“It arrived with this note,” the girl said, holding out a rolled parchment, which twitched like a windblown leaf in the girl’s shaking hand. “I am not…not privy to what it says herein, and so I am not aware of its…its origins.”

The Queen quickly grabbed the parchment and unrolled it.

The parchment was much larger than necessary, and contained the note:

FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY

The Queen raised an eyebrow.

“You say you do not know what it contains?” the Queen asked.

“I do not, Your…Your Majesty,” the girl said quietly, “but the guards have confirmed that it is harmless,” she reminded the Queen.

The Queen paused for a moment, then continued, “Very well, then, bring it in.”

The girl struggled with the large package, which was wrapped unevenly in ragged linens, making it impossible to determine the actual shape or size of whatever was inside. A few men rushed over to assist her, and it took four of them to get the package into the Queen’s chamber.

“Will there be anything more, my…my Queen?” the girl asked.

The Queen shook her head, and the girl curtsied and quickly left the room, followed by the men.

The Queen paced before the package. It could have been from any one of the guests who attended the solstice celebration. A token of gratitude and good will. The guards had checked it, after all.

So why was she so hesitant to open it?

The Queen stared at the awkwardly wrapped gift. She reread the parchment. Then she steeled herself and tore the linens open at their seams.

“Good morning, my Queen,” the face in the mirror said, staring out at her from behind a cloak of frayed linen.

It smiled an evil, cunning grin.

The Queen screamed and recoiled from the mirror.

“You have been lonely,” the Slave said.

“What is it to you, demon?” the Queen responded.

“You have been thinking of your husband, wanting his company. But I am all you need, my Queen,” the Slave said.

“What could you offer me, evil one?” the Queen snapped.

“As I told you, I see all in the kingdom. I could tell you what your daughter’s favorite memories are, or your sister, Verona—I could reveal her deepest secrets to you. But it is your
husband
you have been thinking of mainly these days, is it not? I could tell you where he is, what he is doing. Let me do so.…Ah, yes, the most recently I can see him is a few days prior to this. Hmm…I wonder why that is so? He is aboard his steed. His sword is raised high in the air. Oh! An arrow has nearly hit his cheek. He looks to be grazed. Yes, there is blood, a great deal of it, dripping from his jawbone. And a great deal of noise. But he is proud and brave. A true warrior. He is bleeding, but he will continue to fight. He will be safe. They make quite a ruckus out there on the battlefield, do they not? Oh, now, what is this? A man with a lance, coming up right behind him. I say, I do not think your husband sees his attacker. If only we could warn him. If only we could somehow prevent the spear from entering his back and impaling him straight through so the weapon emerges from his chest…to prevent him from…”

“Fiend!” the Queen screamed. “Stop this at once! You speak these lies as if they are the immortal truth!”

The Slave smiled slightly and knowingly, then fixed his stare upon the Queen.

“No!” she cried, grabbing a nearby glass jar for oils and ointments and shattering it against the mirror. “Lies!” the Queen cried.

Verona rushed into her room. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was streaked with tears. “My Queen,” Verona said through a quavering voice. Then she flung her arms around the Queen and rocked on the floor with her. “You’ve heard the news then? The terrible, awful news?”

The Queen looked up into Verona’s tearful eyes.

Verona continued, “His body is in transport now.”

The Queen covered her mouth with her shaking hand, her eyes wide, staring at Verona in disbelief.

He couldn’t possibly be dead; she had just seen him a few short months ago. He was just injured; yes, injured and on his way back to mend his wounds. The Slave in the mirror was a liar! And the messages from the field were never reliable. Someone always got something wrong. He was hurt, but it was nothing serious. And he was returning to her. Here. Home. Now.

“No, he’s coming home! He’s coming home,” was all the Queen could say.

Verona shook her head. The Queen’s face, hair, and clothes were soaked with tears that belonged to both her and Verona. The pain in her chest tightened its grip as she slowly absorbed the reality of her husband’s death.

Gone!

She would never see him again, never hear his bright laugh, never again sit by the fire and watch him play dragons with Snow or tell her stories of the witches who lived in the forest.

“You may leave,” the Queen said to Verona with as much composure as she could gather.

Verona put her hands on the Queen’s shoulders.

“Please let me stay with you.”

“No, Verona, I need some time to myself.”

T
he moment Verona left the room the Queen felt the great weight of grief and anger. She could not breathe. Surely she wouldn’t survive this pain. One cannot hurt so profoundly and live on, she thought; it was unfathomable to spend the rest of her days in such agony, without her dearest love by her side.

It was better to die.

But then what of Snow White?

And how could she even face the child? Tell her such horrible news? It would crush her—clearly break her heart. The Queen stood up on weak knees, and, clutching the walls and railings, she made her way slowly down the stairs, which seemed to sway beneath her.

Out in the courtyard, Snow was sitting at the well. The Queen felt an unusually sharp pang upon seeing her now. Snow watched a little bluebird eat bread crumbs upon the well’s wall. She looked transfixed and in her own world, a world in which her father was away, but still alive.

The Queen was acutely aware that she would be changing this child’s life forever, shattering her world with a few words:
your father is dead
.

She played it in her mind as she approached the girl. Her daughter. She would now be all that Snow had in the world.

When she finally reached the child, she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud; if she did it would make it real, and she couldn’t face such a harsh reality. She wanted to be strong for Snow, but uttering such gut-wrenching words would cause her to break down completely.

So, she buried her grief deep within her. She choked on the words as she forced them from her throat.

“Snow, my sweet girl, my little bird, I have to tell you something.”

Snow looked up from the bluebird she was feeding and smiled at her mother. “Hello, Momma!” Snow said, smiling brightly.

The Queen struggled to remain composed as she took a seat next to the girl on the edge of the well. Snow White’s face brightened.

“Is it Papa? Is he coming home today? Can we have a party just like we did at the start of winter?”

“Little bird…” the Queen’s voice broke and trailed off.

“Momma, what’s wrong?”

The Queen shook her head, and closed her eyes tight to dam the tears.

Snow looked at her mother with sad, black eyes and said, “He’s not coming back yet, is he? Not now?”

The Queen shook her head. “Not ever.”

“I think maybe you’re wrong, Momma, he promised he would come home soon, and Papa never breaks his promises.”

The Queen’s grief intensified. She choked it down and felt it grip at her, slicing at her insides like pieces of glass. She felt broken, no longer able to contain her tears.

“I know, my poppet, but I’m not mistaken. He couldn’t help it, my darling, he isn’t coming home this time.”

The little girl’s lip quivered and she began to shake. The Queen held out her arms to her, and Snow White crumpled into her mother’s lap and howled an unearthly sob. The child was shaking so violently that the Queen felt she might crush the little girl for holding her too tightly. As she hugged Snow she wished to take the child’s grief and lock it away inside her with her own.

She was hopeless and helpless.

As she led Snow back to the castle she realized she was walking into another world altogether—a world that would be forever altered. She couldn’t imagine it. She felt lost, floating in a nightmare, numb and inhuman. She looked at herself in a mirror that hung in the grand hall, simply to remind herself she was still
in
the world. All of this felt as if it couldn’t be happening. And yet, it was.

Verona appeared at the end of the hall, distraught.

“Verona, please come collect Snow,” the Queen said. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me!” Snow cried. Verona came to the Queen’s side to gather the girl. But Snow clung tightly to the Queen’s legs. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me! I’m scared,” she screamed as Verona pried her off her mother.

The Queen remained steely and cold and made her way to her chamber, where she soon collapsed under the terrible sneering gaze of the Slave in the mirror.

A
s the days went on, the Queen would feel the King’s hand in hers as she slept. She sometimes heard his steps upon the stairs, or his rapping at her chamber door. Occasionally, she heard a laugh that she thought belonged to him. In these moments, she told herself that it had all been a terrible mistake and that he was home, alive, with her. But those moments quickly faded as the hazy cloud of despair dissipated and reality forced itself upon her.

She would make promises to the gods vowing to be a better wife if she could have her husband back. She felt wicked for shaming him at the winter solstice festival. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. He had to have known. She couldn’t stand the thought of him not knowing.

When the time came, she could not look upon his body. Instead, she asked Verona to do the deed for her. And she put off making the funerary arrangements for as long as she could. Days—or had it been weeks?—had passed since his death and the Queen was bombarded with requests for details about the funeral. They seemed to come by the quarter hour from all the lands, piles of them brought in on silver trays by women with swollen eyes, the entire household grieving, the castle haunted by attendants wearing black armbands, puffy white faces, and quiet dispositions.

Everyone tiptoed around the Queen as if she might break at any moment. Perhaps some of them wondered how she hadn’t done so already.

And all this time, the Slave in the mirror did not show his face. Strangely, she had begun to desire his presence. If he could see all in the kingdom, then why not beyond it? And beyond
that
to the great unknown? But now that she longed for his image to appear, he was nowhere to be seen.

Her longing—her agony—was so great, but only Verona saw her cry. The Queen would lock herself in the morning room looking out past the garden toward the courtyard and the well—just looking at the flowers stirring in the breeze—remembering her wedding day. A servant would bring a plate of sandwiches and tea, removing the untouched dishes only a short time later.

Sometimes she would think she saw the King walking his customary path back home to her. She would imagine herself running up to greet him, kissing his face as he lifted her into the air like a little girl. The piles of letters that continued to accumulate sat unopened in front of her.

“My poor girl.”

An older woman with bright silver hair pulled into two large buns on either side of her head was standing on the threshold of the morning room. Her hair glistened in the sunlight, her eyes twinkled with tears and kindness. Who was this woman? An angel, coming to claim the Queen?

Then a familiar face stepped up behind the woman—Uncle Marcus. The woman must have been Aunt Vivian.

The Queen stood to greet them, and Marcus pulled her close and embraced her. He felt warm and real; she felt safe and protected in his arms. Her heart threatened to break under the weight of his kindness.

“Hello, Uncle, I’m so happy to see you,” she said flatly, as if she could hardly believe she’d ever feel anything close to happiness ever again.

“We’re here now, dear. Me, and your Aunt Viv, we’re here to help you.”

“You name it, dear and I will do it,” said Vivian. “
Anything
, my dear, if there is anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been where you are, dear. Sick for months. Couldn’t get out of bed. Oh, I know all the tricks. We’ll have you back up and running as soon as possible. You mark my word, darling.”

The Queen nodded absently.

“Why don’t I start by opening these letters for you? No sense in you having to go through these now. No sense at all. I’ll take them all if you don’t mind.”

The Queen suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ring for refreshments or have someone show you to your rooms,” she said, her eyes glassy with grief.

“That’s all been taken care of, dear. Verona saw to it. Don’t you worry about us dear, we’re here to help you. Now, what can I get
you
? Perhaps some hot tea; that pot looks cold. And I think we should get some food in you. You look as if you’ve not eaten properly in weeks,” Aunt Viv said.

The Queen shook her head.

“Don’t bother going against her, Majesty,” Marcus said. “She will have you stuffed before you can say no. Acquiesce. I learned a long time ago it is much easier. And tastier, too.” Marcus patted his paunchy belly.

The Queen smiled for the first time since she’d lost her husband. It was a weak, almost forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was nice to have someone older to count upon. Someone who had been so close to her husband.

With Aunt Viv’s help, funeral arrangements were finally made. The King’s body was taken to the mausoleum on a rainy morning. It was carried in an ornate horse-drawn carriage that had brought the King’s father and all his father’s forbears before him to their graves. Ahead of the carriage were two large shiny black horses, who seemed to be mourning the King’s loss along with the rest of the kingdom.

Inside the carriage, the King’s coffin was covered with flowers. Red roses. The Queen’s favorite. He had requested it in the papers he had left before his first campaign away from her. The Queen wore a black dress with deep red beading. Her hair was pulled into a lavish braid and coiled upon her head. She was shielded from the rain by servants who held a thick black cloth over her head. Snow, the broken child, was outfitted in a dress of the deepest red. The Queen wondered if the girl would ever be happy again. And, if so, would she have the right to be?

The Queen, who had not appeared publicly since the King’s death, stood, with Verona’s help, as the body was stowed away in the mausoleum. Verona put her arm around her Queen—her friend—and led her and Snow back to the carriage, to be transported back to the castle.

“’Tis a pity—”

“Such a shame, really—”

“So young, so—”

“Beautiful, he was, and now…gone.”

The Queen looked up.

The sisters.

“We needed to be here,” Lucinda said.

“We hope you don’t mind,” Martha continued.

“After all, we parted on such sour terms, last visit,” Ruby finished.

The Queen was too exhausted from grief to feel anything but apathy toward the sisters. Now was not the time to become incensed.

“Thank you,” the Queen replied.

“We assume—” Lucinda continued.

“You have received our gift?” Martha finished.

The Queen nodded absently, not even truly processing which gift they were speaking of. Not thinking about the mirror at all.

“He can be a bit coldhearted and brutish, that father of yours,” Ruby said. “Please do let us know if he needs taming.”

Verona glared at the sisters standing there, soaked from the rain. She was tired of their cryptic talk and riddles. She jerked the Queen and her daughter closer to her side, ushering them away from the sisters and into their carriage. The sisters took quick, short, birdlike steps away from the funeral, and the Queen wasn’t sure if it was her grief playing tricks on her or if she really did hear laughter coming from the sisters as they went away.