Red Hood's Revenge

With one hand she tugged her scarf free, revealing the shine of silvered glass from her choker.
    At that signal, Danielle spun so abruptly that Lang almost walked into her. Forcing herself to relax, she said, “Before we retire, I would like to watch your daughter work, to observe this miracle for myself.”
    Lang flashed crooked teeth. “I wish you could, but to view such magic is to rob it of its power. I stole a peek myself the first time she told me of her gifts. The gold vanished in an instant, swept away like sweets before a glutton. The shock of Heather’s broken magic left the poor girl abed for days. Don’t you worry, though. How she does it matters less than the results, eh? Those results will fill your treasury for years to come.”
    Talia’s stance changed so subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed. Knees bent, one foot slightly forward, her eyes never leaving Lang Miller. Her hands remained tucked into her sleeves, where Heaven only knew what weaponry awaited.
    Snow finished unwrapping her scarf. A choker of oval mirrors and gold wire circled her throat. Lang’s smile faltered slightly at the sight. He might not recognize the power of Snow’s mirrors, but he knew such decoration was unusual for a simple palace servant.
    “Years, you say?” Snow tossed the scarf to the ground and reached into a pouch at her belt, pulling out a piece of straw. “Strange. Most fairy glamours fade within a week at most.” She snapped the straw between her fingers and flicked it to the ground.
    “Glamour, you say?” Lang’s grin tightened as he watched the straw fall. So intent was his gaze that he failed to notice Talia slipping up behind him until her arm snaked around his neck, pressing the tip of a curved Arathean dagger to his throat. His eyes went round, and a faint squeak escaped his lips.
    Danielle winced as a thread of blood welled and dripped down Lang’s neck. Despite Queen Beatrice’s warnings, Danielle intended to do this without bloodshed if she could. “Easy, Talia. We want them alive.”
    Talia snorted. “Alive and unharmed are two very different things.”
    “If it’s fairy magic, I’m as much the victim as yourself,” Lang stammered. “Perhaps the fair folk left a changeling in my daughter’s bed. She has been behaving most strangely of late, not talking to anyone, refusing food until she starts to waste away—”
    “If that’s true, then you’ve nothing to fear.” Danielle pushed her cloak back from her shoulders, revealing the sword at her side. The blade slid soundlessly from the leather sheath.
    “What’s this?” Lang raised his hands. “You’re not trying to rob me of my prize, are you?”
    “Your prize ?” Danielle turned, her voice soft. It was a tone that would have sent her son fleeing in fear, but Lang didn’t know her well enough to recognize the signs of her fury. He would learn soon enough. “I wonder what her parents would say to hear her described so. Shall we ask them, Lang Miller?”
    “My daughter—” Lang’s voice turned to a squeak as Talia jerked him around to face the door. He turned his head, trying to pull away from the knife. “What magic—”
    “Snow’s spells won’t harm Heather,” Danielle said. “Her magic will simply ensure that nobody can leave this room by magical means.”
    “I spent half a day preparing,” Snow said cheerfully, moving toward the door. “You’re right about the straw, by the way. Nasty stuff.”
    “Remain silent.” Danielle readied her sword and nodded.
    Snow yanked open the door.
    Inside, Heather sat playing in the straw. Behind her, a tiny man dressed in red sat at the spinning wheel. Had he been standing, his feathered cap would have barely reached Danielle’s midsection. Gold straw tangled the white mane of his hair.
    He cried out, jumped to the ground, and clapped his hands together.
    Nothing happened.
    “That won’t work.” Snow beamed. “The wards are similar to those on the palace wall, the ones that prevent anyone from using magic to enter the grounds. I removed those three nights ago, just for you.”
    “Rumpelstilzchen?” Danielle rested the tip of her sword on the dirt floor. “Also known as Tom Tit Tot, Whuppity Stoori—”
    Rumpelstilzchen covered his ears. “Stop it! What demons whispered those names in your ear, lady?” Spying Lang beyond the door, he hopped up and down, fists clenched. “Lang Miller, you ungrateful traitor!”
    “Actually, I’m the demon who learned what