The Snow Queen's Shadow

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