The Snow Queen's Shadow

remembered standing before the Nobles’ Circle as they debated when and how she should be executed.
    Every man and woman in that room had known what Rose Curtana was. They had seen her cruelty, the torments she visited on enemies and allies alike. Even upon her own husband. Even her own daughter.
    She touched her neck, remembering the way the links of the magic-inhibiting chain had pinched her neck, leaving raspberry-colored lines.
    Beatrice and Theodore had worked a bargain with Laurence, a minor noble from one of the southern provinces. They used their influence to help him gain the throne, and in return he spared Snow’s life. Snow came to live in Lorindar, and Beatrice placed both the new king and Snow White in her debt.
    And for years, Snow had smiled and flirted and laughed and pretended none of it mattered. She had lied to herself, and to all she encountered.
    “No more lies.” Her fingers tightened around the mouse’s body. Its heart pounded as fast as the beating of a hummingbird’s wings. With a sniff, she lowered her hand, allowing the mouse to scamper back into the woodpile.
    She rubbed her left eye. The irritation had faded quickly enough, though she could still feel the lump beneath the surface where the splinter from her mirror had lodged. She had feared at first it would steal the vision from that eye, but instead her sight had grown clearer. She could count every pimple and scar on the groundskeeper’s face from across the courtyard. When she looked to the sky, she could make out every swirl of gray in the dark clouds.
    She wasn’t alone. Armand had also begun to see the world’s true ugliness. When Snow concentrated, she could peer through his eyes, just as she had done with her mirrors before they broke. She had shared his disgust in the chapel earlier that day, as he gazed upon the wrinkled body of his mother. She had felt his hatred of the fat, greedy nobles who sat with him at dinner.
    Snow rose. The muscles of her arm and shoulder throbbed from carrying the heavy sack. She ignored the pain. She had retrieved most of her mirrors, but a handful of pieces yet remained.
    She started with the throne room. Now that Danielle and the rest were busy elsewhere, it was a simple enough matter to reclaim a mirror where it had fallen unseen behind the dais. She whispered a spell, calling every speck of broken glass to her hand, then carefully brushed the pieces into her sack.
    Next was the private dining room used by the royal family. Smaller and less formal than the great hall, the dining room was a warmer place, with brightly painted windows and a fire burning in the hearth. Jakob and Nicolette sat at the long, wooden table, arguing over a plate of mashed cod.
    “No fish!” Jakob pressed his lips tight.
    “No fish means no pudding,” Nicolette said wearily. Her face was worn, though she always donned a mask of cheerfulness, to the point where it made her appear addlebrained. Her blouse was stained, her hair a thinning nest.
    Jakob gave her a crafty smile. “Pudding first. Then fish.”
    “Nice try, Your Highness. You can’t—What is it, Jakob?”
    The prince was staring at Snow, his dinner apparently forgotten. “Aunt Snow?”
    Snow didn’t bother to answer. Her mirror remained where it had fallen in front of the fireplace. Snow had lost a dozen to overzealous servants, all infected with Danielle’s need to clean. Snow picked up the pieces of glass, dropping them into her sack before turning around.
    Jakob’s chair clattered to the floor. He ran toward the door, arms flopping like rags, but Nicolette intercepted him before he could escape. “What are you doing, Jakob?”
    “Bad Snow!” Jakob pointed.
    Snow frowned and studied Jakob more closely. She slipped a hand into her sack, carefully pulling out a narrow triangular shard the length of her finger.
    “Pay him no mind,” Nicolette said. “You know how the prince gets spooked sometimes for no reason.”
    “He has reason.” Snow approached slowly, and Jakob’s eyes grew wide. He squirmed and kicked, drawing a grunt of pain from Nicolette. “What do you see, Jakob?”
    Jakob bit Nicolette’s hand. She yelped, and he dropped to the ground. He fled, his clumsy movements making him look like a damaged marionette.
    “He’s really scared.” Nicolette was slow, a useful trait in one whose life consisted of such drudgery, but she watched Snow more closely now. She stepped to the left, putting herself between Snow and the prince.