The Snow Queen's Shadow

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