Chapter 1
One
Stone in heart, chain in soul, you take your hunting knife in hand, and—
—drop it.
“Huntsman?” Snow White’s voice wobbles as she turns, and looks up at you, roses for cheeks, silk for skin. “Huntsman, what are you doing?”
You drop to your knees. You bow your head.
“Forgive me, princess,” you say. “Your mother ordered me to kill you and bring her your heart to eat. I refuse.”
“She’ll kill you for refusing,” she says.
“Let her,” you say. “I will buy you time. Listen to me, princess: you must run. Run into the woods. Run as fast and as far as you can. Be swift, and be clever, and be fair— the woods are full of dangers, but they are also full of magic. I think that magic will keep you safe. I think that magic knows… This story belongs to you. It always has.”
“You won’t come with me?”
“If I do,” you say, “I cannot save you.”
And she is the one who must stop the Fair Queen.
Only a princess can kill a witch. This story must be hers.
Something in the woods will see that. Something in the woods will keep her safe.
You’ve lived long enough to learn that stories—if they are powerful enough—do not end until they are satisfied with their ending.
Despite her tears—despite the fact that she has no one to guide her—Snow White takes off into the woods, running and running and running until the trees swallow her. Why keep running? Why resist, when the ending seems inevitable?
Because she knows what you knew, so long ago: that she has one glorious, wretched life, and she’ll hold onto it until the Fair Queen rips her heart out of her chest herself.
She doesn’t die here, you think, nocking an arrow and taking aim at a deer. That can’t be the way this story ends.
* * *
You serve the Fair Queen a stag’s heart.
She doesn’t taste the difference.