Chapter 54
Fifty-Four
The next time Cyrus needs his potion, you venture not into the Fair Queen’s lands, but Snow White’s.
The world does not seem to have noticed the change, but the people seem a little less burdened.
You would like to see her. Perhaps, as a prince, you could arrange that.
But in the end, you think it’s better if you don’t.
* * *
Before heading home, you spend a few days with him at the lake where you first met. At night, instead of sleeping in the hovel, you sleep under the stars, with his swan body balanced on your arm, his long neck curled against your chest.
* * *
When the potion wears off, you say, “I need you human for a few days.”
“Of course, Hans,” he says. Being human is easier now that it’s not his default. It’s easier to choose it now that it’s a choice. “What is it?”
“I need to see if it’s still there.” You swallow, unsure that you’re truly ready, unsure that you’ll ever truly be ready, but knowing you must do it all the same. “The gingerbread house.”
“Do you know the way?”
You found it by accident, then escaped through the woods without knowing where you were going. Even so: “I could find my way to it asleep.”
* * *
Once upon a time, a long time ago, you were a child.
A child who was afraid of the woods. You’re not a child anymore, and the woods have more to fear from you than you of them, and yet you’ve never gripped your horse’s reins so tightly.
Can you walk into a trap when you know it is a trap?
Can an enchantment still enchant you if you expect the danger?
You don’t know. Cyrus keeps apace beside you, silent, but watching you, wanting to say you don’t have to do this, except you both know that isn’t true. You do have to do this.
You have to do this, so you lead Cyrus toward the house.
A layer of mist skirts the trees. Even so, you know the way.
You know the way so well you guide him there in a few syrupy hours.
Time stretches here—you can’t explain it, but it feels different, as if minutes could be hours and days could be seconds.
The horses whicker. They shake their manes.
You stroke your hand down your horse’s neck and look at Cyrus, who’s looking at you.
And then, through the trees: the scent of cooking meat and spices.
Following it, you come to the edge of the trees, and there it is.
The house made of gingerbread. The spun-sugar windows, glistening in the hazy sunlight.
Your heart thunders. Your mouth waters. Your gullet burns with the deep-seated need to retch.
It’s the same house, but it’s changed: there’s a chimney now, built out of sweet crackers, and the roof is thatched with icing.
Through a glazed window: a silhouette moves within.
“I thought the witch burned in the oven,” says Cyrus. His voice comes harried, frightened. “We should go.”
“How did she live?” you ask. You rip your gaze from the house to look at your husband; both of you already know the answer. She was not killed by a prince or a princess, and so, she lives.
When you turn to look at him, you see something else.
Someone else. Two someones. A girl and a boy.
“Cyrus,” you say.
A girl and a boy, holding hands, clutching each other in the misty wood. Down the embankment. They have to ascend the ridge to see the house. They’re headed this way. They’ve probably already smelled the chimney smoke and its delicious promise. But it’s not too late. It’s not too late for them.
“Cyrus. Cyrus.”
“I see them,” he says.
“You can’t let them see the house.”
You dismount your horse.
“Hans, what are you—”
“Don’t let them near the house,” you bark. “Keep them away. I’ll find you after.”
“After what? Hans!”
After I do whatever princes do at witches’ houses.
You don’t look back. His horse whinnies, and then its hooves are clattering against the rocks, descending the ridge, away from you, away from the house.
He’s good with children. He’ll keep them away.
They’ll see his wing and think an angel has saved them.
The first time you saw this house, you ran to it like a haven.
Now you stalk toward it like a wolf. Teeth bared.
Heart pounding. You reach into your belt.
Find your gun. The silhouette in the window again, moving.
The smell of the gingerbread. Saliva building in your mouth.
Gut twisting. Have you ever been this hungry?
You could eat for ages. Eat, and eat, and eat.
NO, you tell yourself. The door opens. And there’s the witch, just as you remember her, silver-haired and stooped.
If you ever meet a witch, Hansel, the best thing you can do is run away.
No running away, this time. This time you take your gun and fire.
The bullet hits right between her eyes.
Over. It’s over. That easy. Her body falls to the porch and begins to melt like sugar in water. Shriveling up to nothing. How could it be that easy? All this time, that easy?
“Grandmother, no!”
Another voice. Another witch in the doorway. Dark hair streaked with threads of salt, not an old crone at all, but a woman your age. A woman who stands up tall and gazes with horror at the dissolving body. A choked sound of grief in her throat.
Eyes wide, you stare at her, this witch who looks so much like you.
I’ve been eating the house. It’s… changing me.
“You stupid prince,” she sneers, “what have you done?”
Nothing but hate in her eyes when she looks at you. But then she looks at you, and seeing you halts whatever wicked revenge she was planning. She stares at you the way you stare at her. That syrupy sense of time spirals around you, catching you both in its web of lost years.
“Hansel?” She comes to the edge of the porch. “Hansel.” Magic ripples in her wake, so thick you can see it in the air. “Hansel, you came back.”
The gun goes off. Did you pull the trigger? You must have, but your fingers are numb. Blood blooms where you hit her diaphragm. The huntsman trained you to put out the left eye of a fly… But the shock of her screwed your aim, and you hit too low.
Her wide eyes, which are your wide eyes, keep staring at you. She stumbles back against the doorframe. “Hansel, wait, don’t,” she rasps, “It’s me, your sis—”
You shoot again, and this time, you strike her heart.
A moment of shock, and then her body slumps.
With it, a horrible creaking fills the air.
The chimney falls first—crumb by crumb—and then the roof sinks in, all that icing melting to a thick, disgusting goo.
Your sister’s body melts and bubbles like a cauldron’s boil.
You step back, away from the walls as they totter, then you turn and break into a run.
The house falls down, and just as you leap onto the back of your horse, the earth opens, swallowing the whole thing, the whole foundation, and you kick your horse into a run, a run, it’s the only thing you can do, run, just—
Keep—
Running—
* * *
It is hard to say how far you ride before you stop your horse, dismount, and vomit into the mossy roots of the nearest tree.
Gretel. Was that really Gretel? Had she been alive all this time? And with the witch? Was she cursed, like you, to do a monster’s gruesome bidding?
You stumble toward another tree—one you have not soiled—and lean your full weight against it. Your stomach tightens, threatening another purge, but none comes. Slowly, you slide down against scratchy bark to sit in the grass and hold your head in your hands.
How could Gretel have survived the oven?
That question slows your panicked spiral. There is no way she could have survived it. Which means whatever wore her face and spoke your name was not your sister. An illusion of her, maybe. A witch’s trick designed to lure you to your doom.
But could a witch’s trick bleed as she did?