The Stepsister Scheme

at least light the oil lamps. A copper pipe ran along the front wall, about a foot from the ceiling. Bands of rusted metal secured the pipe to the wooden planks of the wall. The slow-burning oil came from a second pipe which disappeared into the wall above the door. Chains by the door opened and shut a tin hood, and the flint and steel built into the mechanism lit the wicks.
    Crude windows were painted on every wall, as well as the ceiling. The angles of the walls were distorted, as if giant hands had squeezed the rectangular room from opposite corners. The walls themselves were clearly an afterthought, clumsily erected to hide the fact that they were living in caves. Gaps along the edges had been filled in with plaster. Every time someone bumped a wall, Danielle had to sweep up more plaster dust.
    She grimaced and plucked a silver hair from her rag. On top of everything else, Brahkop the troll had a shedding problem. Every evening Danielle swept and scrubbed the floors of Stacia’s room, and every morning, enough troll hair littered the floor and bed to weave a small rug.
    Her lower back ached as she scrubbed harder, cleaning every last trace of vomit, then buffed the floor dry.
    Good-bye . She didn’t know if the fish could hear her. But after so long without a voice of her own, she would have been happy to talk to her own mop.
    She crossed the hall and entered the large common room. As always, her eyes were drawn to the far end, where Snow’s coffin sat upon a polished table that appeared to be made of stone. Stacia hadn’t bothered to create a lid. Either she hadn’t been strong enough, or she simply hadn’t cared.
    The table was deep brown, lined like wood, but hard as rock. Embers still glowed in the fireplace at the end of the hall. When lit, the flames reflected from the mirrored coffin, sparkling over the walls.
    Danielle fought to stop herself, to lock her muscles. Of all her duties, this was the most cruel. She would have happily mopped a thousand floors and swept an entire cave full of troll hair if she could have avoided this room.
    Her struggles were useless. Grabbing a clean rag, she walked to Snow’s coffin and began to dust her friend.
    Snow looked exactly as she had in the cave. She never breathed, though her skin remained warm to the touch. The cuts on her hand were still fresh enough that Danielle’s rag came away dabbed with blood.
    A yellow spider had begun to spin a web between Snow’s left ear and the edge of the coffin. A sudden fury overcame Danielle as she ripped the web. She tried to squash the spider, but it burrowed into Snow’s hair and disappeared.
    Danielle stared at the knife strapped to Snow’s belt, even as she wiped the dust from the hilt. If only she could break free long enough to seize that knife and—
    And what? She couldn’t fight her way out of the Duchess’ land, nor could she defeat Stacia. If she had the slightest control of her own destiny, she wouldn’t be here, wiping dust from Snow’s face.
    Danielle’s helplessness taunted her. Just as it did in Charlotte’s room, where Danielle’s sword was mounted over the bed. Every day, Danielle wiped the enchanted blade, wanting nothing more than to rip it down and fight. Every day, she failed.
    She wiped her forehead on her sleeve, only then noticing the blood on her arm. The jagged edges of the coffin had cut the skin so cleanly she hadn’t even felt it. She pressed her sleeve against the cut until the blood slowed, making sure none dripped onto her friend.
    Once she had finished with the coffin, Danielle turned to the rest of the room. Several other tables sat in the middle, each one carved from the same stone as Snow’s.
    She had wiped two of the three tables when Charlotte came hurrying into the room. Charlotte had mostly recovered from the battle in the cave, though her nose still had a small lump near the bridge. “Stacia insists you return to her room once you’ve finished here. She says it smells like puke.” She grinned, clearly enjoying her sister’s misfortune.
    “Of course, mistress,” Danielle said. Even as she despised the words, the mere act of speaking brought a huge sense of relief. So rarely did she hear her own voice, she sometimes began to wonder if she truly existed at all. At least with her stepmother, her body had been her own.
    Charlotte plopped herself down on one of the huge cushioned chairs in front of the fireplace. She clapped her hands, and a darkling emerged from the