Chapter 2
Chapter two
A Mirror and A Murder
Queen Liora’s chambers were warmer than any other room in the castle.
She had sent her attendants away shortly after waking that morning.
Braziers burned in all four corners, filling the air with the scent of juniper and mint.
Thick rugs muffled the sound of footsteps, and heavy curtains billowed faintly around the canopied bed.
The only truly cold thing in the room was the mirror.
It hung on the far wall, tall enough to show a person from head to toe, framed in dark, intricately carved wood.
Its surface, when Liora was not speaking to it, looked like still water in a deep well: reflective, but with a shadowed depth that made it hard to look away.
Now, the queen stood before it naked. Her skin, warmed by candlelight, was the color of cream.
Lips plump and crimson beneath two perfectly symmetrical almond eyes, veiled in long dark lashes.
Her hair cascading down to the small of her back, ebony and glistening.
Her backside was round and full, curving up over flared hips before turning sharply inwards to a narrow waist. Her legs and arms elongated and slim, leading to pointed fingers and toes.
Her breasts were full and high, nipples pink against pale skin.
She possessed a body nearly unmarked by the hunger pangs of her poor, peasant start in life.
Although childbirth temporarily stretched her skin, her youth and ritualistic oil care cured her of any sagging.
Yes, the queen was truly beautiful in face and body.
A look that had turned the heads of nobles and peasants alike.
And she knew all this. She had studied herself the way soldiers studied maps.
Liora dipped her fingers into a bowl of perfumed oil and began to smooth it over her shoulders, down her arms. The oil glistened on her skin, catching the light as she moved.
She watched herself with intent concentration, as if seeking imperfections.
Liora turned sideways, running her oiled hands over the flat plane of her stomach, the swell of her hips.
Her thoughts flicked back, unbidden, to the winter market many years ago, when she wore rags and had frostbitten fingers and the hunger in her belly had been for bread, not crowns.
Men had stared at her then, too. She had learned quickly that their eyes were a kind of coin, and she could spend what they offered.
“Mirror, soul of silver and glass,” she said, voice low and almost entranced, “who in this land shall I never surpass?”
The surface of the glass shivered, the way pond water ripples when a stone is dropped.
The dim reflection of the room blurred and then sharpened again—into the image of Liora herself.
Not a different version. Not a kinder one.
Simply her, as she was, flawless and formidable.
A slow smile curved her lips. She tilted her head this way and that, admiring the way the light picked out the angles of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Who else would it be?”
“Peasant,” one merchant’s wife had spat at her back then. “Shameless.” Now those same kinds of women bowed to her.
“The king would give you anything,” she whispered to her reflection. The glass did not answer. It never did. It only showed her what she already knew. “A kingdom, a war, his heir. All for this.” She cupped her breasts, lifting and dropping gently. “For me.”
She crossed to her dressing table, where gowns in rich jewel tones hung from carved hooks. She chose one of dark amethyst that clung to her curves, the color making her eyes look even blacker. As she slid the fabric over her skin, there was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” she stated.
The man who stepped inside moved with the easy grace of someone used to wearing steel. Hunter bowed his head out of habit, the deference he gave her practiced but sincere. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“Hunter,” she said, settling onto the cushioned stool before her smaller, ordinary mirror. “Come in. Close the door. It’s cold in the hall.”
He did as she asked, though the room was already warm enough that a bead of sweat slid from his temple. Up close, the scars on his forearms and hands were more visible—pale silver lines mapping old battles. It was duty that brought him here now.
“Out there,” Liora said, nodding toward the window as she dipped an eye brush into kohl, “your king walks in the snow with my daughter.”
Hunter stepped nearer, curiosity getting the better of him. From this height, the courtyard looked like a child’s toy scene. He could just make out the portly figure of Wilhelm crossing the yard with a much smaller, cloaked shape skipping at his side.
Liora’s mouth twisted. “Such a doting father,” she drawled. “I suppose he means well.”
Hunter glanced at her reflection, but his gaze was respectful, not lingering. “He adores you both, Majesty.”
“Mm.” Liora leaned forward to draw a precise line along her upper lid.
“Yes, I’m aware.” She looked up then, past her own image to the scene outside.
Wilhelm had stopped in the middle of the courtyard to say something to the girl.
Shay tilted her head back, laughing as snowflakes landed in her hair.
Liora’s eyes narrowed. “Look at her skin,” she said lightly, though her fingers tightened on the brush. “So pale it almost disappears against that snow.”
Hunter followed her gaze. “Aye,” he agreed. “Like a little ghost.”
“As white as snow,” Liora repeated. She laughed, the sound bright and sharp. “Snow White. That’s what she looks like. That’s what I shall call her from now on.” The name tasted bitter and sweet on her tongue—an endearment and an insult all at once.
Outside, Shay laughed again, the sound lost on the wind. Inside, the queen smiled at herself in the glass, at the man who served her husband, at the kingdom she believed rested entirely in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand.
Hunter smiled faintly, because the queen was amused and because he was loyal enough to echo her. He shifted his attention back to the window, measuring the distance between king and guard, between stables and gate, as any good captain would. “Fitting, Your Majesty.” Hunter echoed, “Snow White.”
The first time Shay rode Grimm outside the castle walls, the world felt big enough to swallow her whole.
Snow had stopped falling an hour before, leaving the sky a pale, watery blue.
Sunlight broke through in thin shafts, catching on ice-rimmed branches and glittering the blanket that covered the fields.
The air was so cold it bit the inside of Shay’s nose.
Grimm stamped in place as the stable boy tightened his girth.
His breath steamed in short puffs, dark ears flicking back and forth.
“He’s eager,” Shay said, running a mittened hand down his neck.
The black colt—still young, but broadening—arched his crest and snorted, tossing his mane like a proud peacock’s feathers.
“He matches you today, Highness,” the boy said, grinning. “Black against the white.”
Shay laughed. “We’ll disappear together.” She could feel the eyes of the guards on the battlements as she put her boot into the stirrup. Hunter had doubled the patrols since the last rumors of raiders along the river. But for this one day, no one had tried to tell her no.
“Ready?” King Wilhelm called from the gatehouse arch, his cloak hitched against the wind.
“Yes!” Shay swung up into the saddle. The familiar warmth and breadth of Grimm’s back settled under her, comforting as a hug. She squeezed her calves, and he immediately started walking.
“Stay within sight of the walls,” Wilhelm said, commanding and protective.
His gloved hand closed briefly over her ankle, grounding.
“The guards and I will watch you from the tower. Any trouble, you turn and ride back. Straight line. You understand? And stay away from the western ridge. The mining caravans are moving today, and those men are too rough for a princess’s eyes. ”
“Yes, Father,” she said dutifully. She liked how he always explained things like she was capable, not fragile.
He gave her a brief, approving nod and stepped back. Wilhelm lifted his hand. “Let them see you, Shay,” he said, voice booming through the open gate. “Let them see how strong the blood of this kingdom runs.”
She could not yet grasp the politics hidden behind his words.
She only knew that when the gate chains clanked and the portcullis rose, something inside her rose with it.
Shay clicked her tongue. Grimm surged forward.
For a moment they were under the shadow of the gate, stone pressing in on both sides, cold dripping from the arch like water.
Then they burst out into white light. Grimm’s hooves threw snow behind them as he broke into a canter, then—when she leaned forward and let the reins slip—a full, pounding gallop.
Wind tore at Shay’s cloak and burned her cheeks.
Her hair whipped out from beneath her hood like a black ribbon.
She laughed, the sound snatched away by speed.
The castle shrank behind them: walls, towers, banners all turning into a gray line against the sky.
Ice crystals kicked up by his hooves hung in the air like diamond dust, pricking at her exposed skin with a thousand tiny, freezing kisses.
Ahead, the field rolled away in gentle dips and rises, dotted with dark, leafless trees.
A flock of pigeons rose from a hedgerow, their wings a disorganized flutter.
Shay steered Grimm along the edge of the frozen creek.
The ice gleamed, frosted white. She imagined they were racing some thin, silent twin of themselves, reflected in the glass.
“You’re magnificent,” she told her steed, leaning forward to pat his neck.