Chapter 10 #2
Biting the inside of your cheek, you stare into the fire, at the snapping of its orange tongues.
You knew before you walked in here today that he was dead.
Hearing it shouldn’t shock you, shouldn’t devastate you—he wasn’t like a father—but he did care about you.
He cared about you, and he’s never coming home.
Barely above a whisper, you ask, “When did you kill him?”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“When,” you repeat, “did you kill him?”
The tears dry in her eyes. Her posture straightens. The facade of fragility, abandoned. Where once grief softened her features, resolve now turns her dagger-sharp, and her polished nails plunge through your chest and grasp your heart like a ripe peach faster than you thought possible.
THAT CAN’T BE THE WAY THIS STORY ENDS.
Try Again?
“I am afraid I am about you disappoint you,” says the Fair Queen. “Hurt you, even. Our dear huntsman…”
Her lower lip wobbles. Dewdrop tears glisten in her eyes. She does not look at you. Instead, she looks into the mirror, into the eyes of her own reflection.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you rip your gaze from her to stare into the fire, at the snapping of its orange tongues.
You knew before you walked in here today that he was dead.
Hearing it shouldn’t shock you, shouldn’t devastate you—he wasn’t like a father—but he did care about you.
He cared about you, and he’s never coming home.
He cared about you, and he’d tried to warn you, hadn’t he?
I didn’t know she was a witch until it was too late, he said.
You see it now. You’ve always seen it; you just didn’t know what you were looking at.
Now, looking at the Fair Queen, you see the old hag in the woods, and Gretel on her back, Gretel wrestling her, Gretel still astride her, falling into the oven’s open mouth—
Mind blanking with rage, you draw your hunting knife and lunge.
But her magic freezes you. Elbow bent, blade poised, you freeze, caught in the snare of some primal, ugly spell that burns through your muscles—burns up your neck, into your skull, where some arcane force boils your brain until you’re no longer a threat. You’ll never be a threat again.
THAT CAN’T BE THE WAY THIS STORY ENDS.
Try Again?
“I am afraid I am about you disappoint you,” says the Fair Queen. “Hurt you, even. Our dear huntsman…”
Her lower lip wobbles. Dewdrop tears glisten in her eyes. She does not look at you. Instead, she looks into the mirror, into the eyes of her own reflection.
I didn’t know she was a witch until it was too late, he said. If you ever meet a witch, Hansel, the best thing you can do is run away.
“Your Majesty,” you say softly, “I beg you, please allow me to go home.”
“Hans, sweet Hans,” she says, “how can I release you now? Now, when the most important member of my court has perished? You must replace him.”
“Please,” you choke. “Please, Your Majesty, I have not seen my family—”
“You would leave me?” Her tears turn her eyes to stained glass. “You would abandon me? After all the care I have shown you, you would show me none in return?”
Remember: sometimes, you have to make the obvious choice.
And right now, it seems like there is only one choice:
Run.
You scramble for the oaken doors, but no matter how you pull, they do not budge. Everything in your body screams run, but there’s nowhere to run.
“You have disappointed me,” whispers the Fair Queen. A moment later: sharp nails plunge into your kidney.
The huntsman taught you enough to know you won’t survive that strike.
THAT CAN’T BE THE WAY THIS STORY ENDS.
Try Again?
“I am afraid I am about you disappoint you,” says the Fair Queen. “Hurt you, even. Our dear huntsman…”
Her lower lip wobbles. Dewdrop tears glisten in her eyes. She does not look at you. Instead, she looks into the mirror, into the eyes of her own reflection.
I didn’t know she was a witch until it was too late, he said. If you ever meet a witch, Hansel, the best thing you can do is run away.
What did you do when you learned?
I did what I had to do to survive.
The truth won’t help you survive this, so you swallow it down.
“Did he finish his hunt?” Your voice scrapes out of your throat, a beaten, tear-strained thing. “Did he kill the beast?”
“He didn’t succeed,” she says. “But we must mourn him before we speak of such grisly things.”
“No, Your Majesty. I must finish this mission for him.”
You must prove your loyalty. You must prove your courage. You must flatter the Fair Queen, convince her she commands your entire life, your entire world. If you ever want to see Gertrude and Favorite again, you must live.
“I have so many enemies, Hans,” she says, her voice small and soft, her entire demeanor reflecting the fragility of a rehearsed victim. “People all over this land who would usurp me. My mirror… My magic mirror shows them to me.”
Her knuckles caress the ornate frame of the upright, wall-length mirror.
“I sent the huntsman to kill them,” she says. “Now, I shall send you.”
* * *
She dies so easily, the washerwoman with red hair.
One arrow to the chest, and she goes down no differently than a deer, dropping her basket of clean linens, soiling them with dirt and blood.
How can a washerwoman be an enemy of the queen?
you wonder, retrieving your arrow from her chest. You try not to look at her open eyes, but you can’t help it.
Emerald, the same as the queen’s, but natural—a thing born, not a thing made.
Hunting knife in trembling hand, you carve through her breastbone, open her ribs—she’s a deer, she’s a deer, she’s a deer, she’s a deer—and cut out her heart as proof of the deed.
* * *
Upon your return, the Fair Queen holds the washerwoman’s heart in her hand, inspecting its curves, testing the give of its muscle with her thumb.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” she says, “who’s the fairest of them all?”
“You, my queen,” rumbles a voice inside the mirror, “are the fairest of all.”
A grin as wide as a wolf’s and delicate as blown glass opens across her face.
Then she sinks her teeth into the washerwoman’s heart and eats it like an apple.