A Winter's Tale

By Janice Statham

Cloaked in the perpetual dusk of winter, Blanca made her way across the snows to where the old queen had died. The cliff had become a broken, tumbled place. Now it was little more than a simple slide of stones into the valley. Poised at its crest, she thought she could almost see the yellow-white of bones poking from the rocks below.

A length of ivory thigh, perhaps, or trick of the eye? She did not want to think that she now looked down on the half-buried corpse of the woman she'd once hated and had now come to understand. But if those were the old queen's bones, her task had just become much easier.

Grunting at the ache in her back, Blanca made her way slowly down the slope. She'd become old since the queen's death; each movement was a tiny agony. In the cold it was worse, and it was brutally cold now. Her breath hung white and heavy in the air as she pried loose the old queen's bones.

She held the skull for a long, silent moment. Was there any recognition in those hollow graves where eyes once sat? And if that loose hinged jaw could speak, would it call her murderer? She had not killed the queen herself, had not ordered the actions of those that had chased her off the cliff. Still, they'd done it for love of her.

They all loved another now. Even her husband, he who she'd made king. Oh, how his face now brightened when her rival entered the room, how his hand trembled with joy as he stroked her enemy's long, dark hair.

Her own hair still bore a crown of gold, but what did that matter if the hair itself had turned as white as snow? Her husband no longer saw her as his queen. She was only a wizened crone. An inconvenience.

Numb fingered, she set the skull aside and dug deeper. The rest of the bones were tangled shroud-like in a swath of dark cloth. She tore the rotted robe loose. It was then that the silver cylinder fell free and bounced across the stones.

Ah, yes. Dig for buried treasure and you might find it.

Bones forgotten, she snatched the cylinder and scrambled up to the hill's peak. Victory quickened her steps and for a moment almost eased the pain of stiffened joints. Almost, but not entirely. Perhaps if the pain had disappeared completely she might have turned away from her task, but each step brought to mind her rival's face.

The castle guards said nothing as she passed. They'd long since become used to her comings and goings, her demands that no escorts accompany her. Even if they had said something, she would not have heard them. She thought only of the silver vial. Did it hold what she needed?

She shooed servants from the kitchen. They, too, left without a word. Just as the guards had become used to her trips into the wilds, the cooks had become used to her frequent forays into their land of serfdom. So long ago, before she'd become a queen, she'd been little more than a serf herself. She envied little of that former existence, but the sounds and smells of the kitchen still fascinated her. To this day, her own hands prepared the Yule-tide meal. And although Yule was long past, no one would think a baked treat so unusual to be suspicious.

Quickly she mixed the ingredients and rolled the pie crust out flat and thin. What filling to use? Not apples. Some other fruit would be best. A nice mince-meat tart, perhaps.

She shaped the crust in its tiny pan and laid out the filling. Sugar, nutmeg, a dash of cinnamon. Then, at the last, she slipped the cylinder from the folds of her cloak and removed its cap.

A single drop, nothing more, but surely enough to seal her rival's fate. It splashed against the pie filling and the fruit sizzled. Smoke swirled in the air, a brilliant, verdant green. She smothered it with pie crust.

An hour of pacing as the pie baked and finally it was done. Singing softly, she took the golden, sweet smelling thing from the oven and to her rival's room. One quick knock, then another. She did not wait for a reply.

Blanca's rival sat upon the end of a great canopied bed, brush in hand, hair dark but gleaming about her shoulders. She smiled at her visitor, raising delicate brows in silent question.

The new queen set the pie at her rival's bedside. "I baked this for you, my darling. Would you have a piece with me?"

"Now? So close to the evening meal?"

"It shall be our tiny secret. Please? Taste it for your mother."

Innocent, almost doe-eyed, her rival took some of the sweet into her mouth. For a moment, she smiled at the taste, but all too soon the smile stiffened. Reinette leapt from the bed, hands at her throat, and collapsed almost immediately on the floor. There was no time for an accusation.

Sadly, Reinette was not dead. For now she was only sleeping. Later the queen would have those guards still faithful to her drag the body out into the woods and leave it for the wolves. There would be no glass coffins for this one, no young prince to wake his darling with a kiss.

Never looking back, Blanca made her way to her own chambers. There shed the secret door, rushed through the corridor, made her way to the sheet-covered looking glass.

She pulled the mirror's cloth covering free, wiped clean its surface. Was it dead? No, a spark of life still glimmered in its depths.

"Tell me," she whispered to the glass, "who is the fairest now?"

"You are, Snow White. You are."

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