The Snow Queen's Shadow (2 page)

“Didn’t you?” Snow asked, giving her a sidelong glance. Talia had tugged her scarf down beneath her chin. Wisps of black hair framed a stern face, but amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. Snow grinned. “It reminds me of the time Queen Bea sent us out to find that frog who was impersonating a prince to harass young maidens.”

“I still say you should have let me cook him,” said Talia. “Fresh frog legs, soaked in butter and sprinkled with nadif spice—”

“I’ll take the cookies, thanks.” Snow made a face. “You keep your frog.”

“Snow? Talia?” The urgency in Danielle’s tone caused Snow’s stomach to tighten.

“What’s wrong?” Snow yanked the largest mirror from her choker, rubbing the glass clean with her sleeve. It was hard to make out much detail in the tiny glass, but Danielle looked like she was fighting tears.

“It’s Beatrice.”

Snow had foreseen this day a year and a half before, when a mermaid stabbed Queen Beatrice in the chest with a cursed blade. Snow had done everything she could, magically stitching the wound and using every potion and poultice she could think of to help the queen heal. Her efforts had given the queen an extra eighteen months of life, but even magic had limits, and death could only be denied for so long.

“We’re here,” Snow whispered as they reached the palace, counting on her mirrors to send her voice to Danielle. “Is Bea—”

“She’s still alive,” Danielle said.

Snow allowed herself one moment of relief before turning to Talia. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

Talia whirled, her eyes wide. Snow had seen Talia angry before, but rarely had that anger been directed at her. Not like this. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No, it can’t.” Snow stepped away.

“Beatrice is dying.” Talia’s rage slowly shifted to disbelief. “What could possibly be more important?”

Snow shook her head. “Tell Beatrice . . .” Bea would have understood, but not Talia. No words could make this right with her, and the longer Snow stood here, the less time she would have.

Talia grabbed Snow’s arm. “Beatrice took you in. She gave you a home after you fled Allesandria. She cared for you like her own daughter.”

“You think I don’t know that?”
And now it’s my turn to care for her.
Snow twisted away. Anger she could take, but the pain and disappointment in Talia’s eyes were too much. Talia would understand soon. “I’m sorry.”

Talia’s lips moved, as though she were searching for words. Instead, she turned her back and hurried down the hallway, the soles of her boots echoing on the tile floor.

“Talia—” Snow started after her, but forced herself to stop. Years of spellcasting had given her practice at pushing her own emotions and turmoil aside when she needed. Growing up with a mother who punished her for the slightest transgression, whether real or perceived, had only strengthened her self-control.

Most of the time, she simply chose not to use it.

Word of Bea’s condition had obviously spread through the palace. Voices were muffled, the cheerful gossip of the servants replaced by somber whispers. Snow heard more than one woman weeping quietly behind closed doors.

She made her way through the palace toward the royal bedchamber. Given Beatrice’s state, the room should be abandoned. Bea had been moved to a room on the ground floor after she became too weak to climb the steps, and King Theodore would be with his wife.

Once Snow reached the bedroom, she shut the door behind her and checked to make sure she was alone. She stepped past the bed to the fireplace, where a few coals glowed within the ashes. Taking an iron poker, she jabbed a brick in the back of the fireplace, opening a hidden panel in the wall. She squeezed inside and yanked the panel shut behind her until it clicked into place.

Sunlight shone from her choker as she made her way down a narrow stairway to the secret rooms hidden beneath the palace. Her light gleamed from weapons of every shape and size as she hurried through the armory toward her personal library and, most importantly, her magic mirror.

Tall as Snow herself, made of flawless glass and framed in platinum, the mirror dominated the wall where it stood. As she strode into the room, the glass responded to her will, showing her Queen Beatrice.

The library was a mess, with books strewn about the floor and falls of hardened wax dripping over the closest shelves where her candles had burned themselves out. Snow grabbed a discarded cloak of white fox skin from the floor. These rooms were refreshingly cool in the summertime, but come winter they grew cold enough she could see her breath.

A mummified cat was tucked away in one corner. A bundle of roses hung from one of the shelves, their petals dried and wrinkled. She had rolled the carpet up against the wall, and the stone floor was covered in chalk scribblings. For months now, every time Danielle came down, Snow had watched her fight the urge to scrub the library clean from top to bottom.

Pulling the cloak over her shoulders, Snow eased into the wooden chair in front of an old, heavily stained table. In the mirror, King Theodore sat beside the queen, holding her hand. His eyes were shadowed and shone with tears, but he had forced a smile for his wife. Danielle and Prince Armand sat on the opposite side of the bed, while Talia stood in the corner. It appeared as though Tymalous, the royal healer, had already retired from the room.

Snow wasn’t certain Beatrice could even see them anymore. Heavy blankets buried her from the neck down, almost hiding the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her skin was like wrinkled parchment. Her hair had thinned, and her body was little more than a shadow of the woman who had rescued Snow from Allesandria seven years ago.

In all of Snow’s planning over these past months, her one fear had been that she wouldn’t make it in time. That Bea would die suddenly, before Snow could reach her mirror.

Snow turned sideways, keeping the mirror in the edge of her vision. Her table held a single fat beeswax candle, dirty yellow and brittle from the cold. To one side sat a bronze mug, half-full of fairy wine. She took the candle in both hands, checking the silver wick that curled from the wax.

A quick spell ignited the candle. She wrinkled her nose as the initial puff of smoke carried the smell of burning hair through the library. She had spun Beatrice’s hair into the wick more than a month before.

A puff of breath guided the smoke toward the mirror. “Mirror, mirror, proud and tall. Mirror, mirror, seeing all. Help me reach the dying queen. Help Beatrice to hear my call.”

Talia would have teased her. Snow had never been much of a poet, but the clumsy rhymes helped her focus her magic. She blew again, and again the black smoke dissipated against the glass. Snow closed her eyes, pushing back against the pounding in her head. The third time she tried, the smoke passed through the mirror into the queen’s room.

Snow carefully returned the candle to the table. She watched the mirror closely. The smell of burnt hair had mostly faded, and neither the king nor the queen appeared to notice the thin trail of smoke drifting over their heads.

She reached over to pick up the mug of wine, finishing the contents in three swallows. Everything was prepared. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

The candle had lost a quarter of its height when Beatrice’s breathing changed, becoming strained. Theodore’s fingers tightened around the queen’s hand. He kissed her knuckles and knelt beside her, whispering so softly Snow could barely hear. On the other side of the bed, Danielle, Armand, and Talia crowded close. Armand’s cheeks were wet as he put his free hand on his father’s shoulder. Danielle called for Father Isaac, who stepped into the room, praying softly.

Snow swiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Between one breath and the next, Beatrice’s body appeared to relax. For the first time in months, the tension left her face.

The candle flame flickered higher, becoming a deep red. Snow pressed her fingers to the mirror. The pain in her skull flared as her spells responded to the queen’s death. “Follow the trail, Bea.”

The smoke, nearly invisible in the shadowed room, should have shone like a beacon to Queen Bea’s spirit. Snow had tested the spell dozens of times over the past months, calling the souls of mice, rats, birds, even an old hound she had discovered half-frozen in the streets . . . but never a human.

The flame began to shiver. Bea had discovered the trail. “It’s me,” Snow whispered. “Stay with us.”

The mirror would hold Beatrice for now, though it wasn’t an ideal solution. It was one thing to trap and hold a soul; the true challenge had been teaching herself how to create a body. She glanced at the discarded books, tomes that described everything from the making of fairy changelings to a spell that could form a new body from flowers, of all things. Snow had combined the different magics into her own—

The flame stilled.

“Bea?” Snow stood, toppling the chair. “Don’t turn away.”

Bea would be disoriented, like most souls newly freed from their bodies, but the touch of Snow’s magic should have been familiar. She brought the candle closer to the glass, thickening the thread of smoke passing into Beatrice’s room. “I know you can hear me.”

King Theodore straightened, sniffing the air, but Snow ignored him. Her heart pounded against her ribs as though fighting to escape. This was taking too long. In every test, the soul had moved into her mirror as the body exhaled its last breath. Either Beatrice was unable to find her way . . . or else she was choosing not to follow. “Think about your grandson. This is your chance to stay, to be a part of his life and watch him grow up.”

Nothing. Snow passed her fingers over the candle flame, which doubled in size. Every spirit for miles around should have been able to see it. “Beatrice, please. We need you. Don’t—”

The flame quivered and died.

“No!” A thought was enough to renew the flame, but it was too late. The trail had been broken.

Beatrice Whiteshore—the woman who had saved Snow’s life, who had given her a home and purpose and a family—was gone.

Snow pulled her hand from the mirror. Her fingers were numb, and cold enough to leave frost outlines on the glass.

She stumbled back. Her hip bumped the table. Her vision blurred, and she closed her eyes against the stabbing pain in the back of her head, the price she paid for overexerting herself. It was nothing compared to the pain of her failure.

It should have worked. It
had
worked, in every test she had performed. So many spirits roamed this world after death, refusing to heed the call of whatever followed. Snow had encountered them again and again: jars enchanted to hold the souls of the dead, ghosts who moved from one body to the next . . . she had once seen an entire army of the dead rise to serve their master.

Danielle’s mother had remained with her, surviving in the hazel tree Danielle planted in their garden. She had gifted Danielle with a silver gown and glass slippers, allowing her to attend the ball where she met Armand. She continued to defy death to this day, living on in the enchanted glass blade of Danielle’s sword, all for the love of her daughter.

What of Snow’s own mother, Queen Rose Curtana? Rose’s ghost had lingered for years, searching for a way to regain her power. She had plotted with Danielle’s stepsisters, hoping to possess the body of Danielle’s child.

But Beatrice had turned away.

“Why didn’t you stay?” Bea had been more of a mother to Snow than Rose Curtana ever was. If Bea had died naturally, taken by the ailments of age, that would have been one thing. But she could have lived for many more years. She should have lived. Would have, if Snow had been skilled enough to save her. If she had been strong enough.

Snow stared into the mirror. The glass showed only her own face. Black hair dusted with white. Red-veined eyes, swollen and shadowed. Faint wrinkles around the eyes, and laugh lines at the corners of her mouth. With every year, she looked more like her mother.

She picked up the candle. Clear wax burned her fingers as it spilled onto the floor. She should leave. Find Danielle and Talia.

The thought made her wince. Danielle would forgive her for not being there with Bea, but Talia was another story. Talia was angry and hurting. She had known Beatrice a long time. Almost as long as Snow had.

“You’re safe now,”
Beatrice had said on that first journey to Lorindar. Snow had woken from a nightmare in the middle of the night, screaming loudly enough to wake half the crew. The smell of burning flesh had been so real. She had thought she was back in Allesandria, reliving her duel with her mother. Beatrice had held her, running her hands through Snow’s hair and whispering softly,
“I’ll look after you.”

Snow flung the candle away. It broke into pieces, splattering hot wax over the stone wall.

She stared at the broken chunks of wax for a long time. There were other spells. Spells her mother had known, magic Snow had never tried. Slowly, she reached down to take the largest piece of wax from the floor.

She pressed the wax directly to the mirror, drawing a simple circle. She adjusted her hold, using a corner to sketch the more detailed symbols of binding. A modified summoning circle soon took shape on the glass. She finished the final characters, working Beatrice’s name into the runes, and tossed the wax aside.