Snow White and the Dragon (or, Sleeping Beauty and the Seven Dwarfs)

1

Snow

It’s over.

It’s always over.

Sometimes Snow just gets a little farther.

“This section of the city’s closed to the public, miss.”

Two guards pace forward, dawn glancing off the heavy plated helmets.

“Fine,” Snow declares, stuffing the paper bag within her cloak so they won’t see it. “I’ll go the other way.”

This part of the city isn’t usually closed--it’s one of Snow’s favorite shortcuts--but what’s more important than arguing is making sure the guards don’t recognize her. She’ll take any route as long as the queen doesn’t hear where she is.

Well. Temporary queen.

“Hang on a moment,” the guard says slowly. “I know who you are.”

Snow’s seen the guards not notice a family of small gnomes stealing an entire suckling pig from a market stand. If only they could be as equally unobservant today.

“You probably don’t,” Snow tries.

“It’s her,” one mutters. His eyes widen. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“The streets aren’t very safe for a young lady to walk alone,” the other insists. She’ll call him Captain Boot Licker. “Especially a certain young lady.”

Snow pinches the inside of her elbow to remind herself not to make a face that would get her into more trouble.

“The streets are very safe,” she says. “Unless you two haven’t been doing your job?”

“We do our jobs,” Boot Licker promises.

Snow tugs her hood tighter over her black waves. Her stepmother has been very strict about Snow not leaving the castle, and Snow would prefer that her stepmother think she’s dutifully obedient. It might be a hard sell at this point, but Snow’s never one to give up. She’s also not given up being disobedient when the mood strikes.

She whistles, a quiet song that she can’t remember where she learned but has known her entire life.

“What are you doing?” one of the guards says suspiciously.

“Be nicer,” the other guard scolds. “It might be her.”

But before they can continue to debate who Snow may or may not be, there’s a rustling of wings and a shadow blots out the sun.

“Wha--”

A large winged thing streaks across the sky, launching itself at the guards. They shriek, scrambling away.

“Attack!” one screams. “We’re under attack!”

In the commotion, Snow darts to the bustling High Street, where it’s easy to get lost in the crowds. Despite what the guards think, out of all the cities in Reverie, Apfel is the safest, as long as you stick to the right neighborhoods.

Like Reverie’s other five capital cities, it shares the same name as its kingdom; but unlike the others, it’s plopped straight in the middle of the Dreamwood, with no walls around it. Warlocks dine at cafes, next to ogresses sipping tea and teacup-sized pixies seated on sugar cubes. Wood nymphs lead art classes in the parks; famous fairies attend local balls if the costume theme is interesting enough.

In capital cities like Miravale and Coralon, the worst a pickpocket might face is a night in jail. In Apfel, picking the wrong pocket could get you turned to stone by an annoyed witch. Risks like that encourage better behavior.

As Snow trots up the narrow road winding to the castle, the shadowy shape streaks across the sky again. Snow grins. The raven lands on her shoulder, nuzzling Snow’s hair.

“Good job, Newton,” she says, stroking the bird’s back.

Apfel Castle sits high on a hill, its white spires topped with steep blue roofs, and the path to get there is crowded, especially at this time of year, when the trees are brilliant with red and gold leaves. Some people come here on royal business or to tour the castle, but most come for the view: the Dreamwood cascading around them, which doesn’t seem so dangerous from here. The large lake at the base of the hill is dotted with a few swans. From this far away, they look like white flowers.

In the main courtyard, vendors roast candied nuts for the tourists; the nobles, wrapped in furs, hurry between buildings. A woman sings for alms near the small chapel. Keeping her head ducked down, Snow drops whatever coins she has into the woman’s tin.

Snow yanks off the cloak’s hood. She inhales the smell of sugared almonds. Maybe she could sneak a few. . . .

“Princess!” a noblewoman exclaims, and curtsies, and Snow smiles tightly as she rushes past.

“Princess!” a young servant girl murmurs, curtsying.

“Princess!” a merchant lord smirks, bowing.

The odd part about being a princess is that everyone knows you and talks about you, but you don’t know most of them. She thought she would get over it as she got older, but it only feels stranger. And a little lonelier.

“Princess.”

This time Snow stops short, and Newton takes off, a black streak winding through the castle to Snow’s quarters.

Amalia folds her arms over her chest. She’s not dressed for the cold, like she’s daring it to try to bother her. “It’s not seemly for a princess to be seen dashing around.”

Amalia is Queen Consort Lucille’s damafrau. When Snow becomes queen, she’ll be Snow’s. Amalia is the queen’s right hand, assisting with affairs of state and enforcing court policies; she’s been here as long as Snow’s been alive. And no matter what Snow does, Amalia treats her only with annoyance. “I’m not dashing,” Snow says. “Maybe you’re just . . . moving too slowly.”

Amalia doesn’t seem amused. She never does. She has the same sense of humor as a block of iron, which she somewhat resembles, from her metal-colored curls to her rigid dresses and her terrible clogs, which make an echoing clop-clop-clop. At least they warn you when she’s coming.

“Be careful, Princess,” Amalia says with a slight bow. “Not everyone can be charmed by sharp words.”

“Then I’ll make sure to be exceptionally dull with you,” Snow says as she retreats.

Apfel Castle was designed by a man who created sets for operas, and it feels just that grandiose: the wooden walls are hand-carved with the shapes of plants, columns are lined with gold, chandeliers drip with countless crystals and eternal flames.

Snow hurries to her father’s chambers. He’s set to head out this afternoon to make visits across their kingdom, and Snow pats the pastry bag, pleased with herself. There’s a small bakery in the Old Quarter that Snow and her father both love. Her mother, Elora, loved it, too, so they say. Her mother died two days after Snow was born, and all she has is everyone else’s stories.

Snow isn’t entirely sure why her father has to leave in the week leading up to the most important day of her life, but he promised to return by her Crown Ceremony, a day that makes her slightly sick to think about. When her father will place the crown of Apfel on her head for the first time, and the ghost of all the past queens will decide if she’s worthy of joining their ranks. When the magic of the bloodline will flow stronger through her veins, instead of just letting her talk to the odd pigeon or Newton.

“Your ceremony? That’s something I wouldn’t miss, little one,” he said, ruffling her hair the way you might pet a nice-looking dog. “My girl, all grown-up.”

Hardly. She’s only on the cusp of thirteen, still five years of training away from officially taking the throne. Snow’s not ready to be all grown-up. Too much responsibility and paperwork.

Snow dodges secretaries and a lost-looking merchant as she reaches her father’s office.

“Father.” Snow opens the cracked door with her foot and holds out the slightly smooshed bag of pastries. It’s emptier than when she bought the buns, but she had given some to a pair of ogre younglings. “Before you go, I thought it might--”

“He’s already gone.” Lucille looks up from Snow’s father’s desk, brushing a strand of blond hair from her forehead with the tip of a quill. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.”

At first glance, the queen consort, Snow’s stepmother, is the image of goodness. She has long, shiny golden hair, skin smooth as marble, golden eyes that are as large as coins and framed by thick lashes.

But Snow has had more than a first glance for the three years Lucille and her father have been married.

Odd things happen around Lucille, Snow is sure of it. Blazes erupt in hearths. Candles extinguish themselves. Snow’s confident she caught Lucille standing close to a spiderweb, like she was reading messages left within it.

And Snow has overheard the chambermaids whispering about how they’ve found Lucille in the throne room, staring at the crown. It’s hard for Snow to ignore the stories of all those other stepmothers, plotting, plotting, plotting.

But Snow has few people to tell her suspicions to. Lucille is, unfortunately, very well liked. She knows the names of people’s babies, sends leftover food to the orphanages. It’s such an obvious front that Snow’s shocked no one else can see through it.

“I was looking for Father,” Snow says stubbornly. “Did he leave a note?”

“What’s that you have in your hand, darling?”

“Oh.” Snow stares blankly at the bag. “I, um . . . I had these delivered?”

Snow not leaving the castle is one of Lucille’s favorite rules, along with making her run laps and forbidding her to wander the halls after dark. But Snow is a princess, not an egg, and she’s pretty positive she won’t shatter.

“Snow,” Lucille says slowly. “You didn’t happen to be out of the castle this morning, did you?”

Snow was hopeful about having a mother. She liked the idea of someone to brush her hair and braid it at night, someone who wasn’t a chambermaid afraid to talk to the princess. Someone who would tell her about what’s it like to fall in love and get your heart broken, someone who knew how to ease blisters from wearing slippers and make the searing eyes of the world seem less . . . searing.

But most people, it turns out, just disappoint you.

Her father spends much of his time throughout Reverie on Very Important Duties of State, sampling the ale at this township or the cider in this village, charming nobles in their whiskey cellars, and returning home shrouded in the fumes of sweet wine.

And Lucille is . . . The stories of evil stepmothers have to come from somewhere, don’t they?

“What are you doing at my father’s desk?” Snow demands.

“I thought I told you, Snow, that you weren’t to leave the castle.” Lucille stands, ignoring the question. Her silky gown swirls about her, along with the smell of honeysuckle and smoke.

“Did you?” Snow scrunches her nose. “I’ll remember next time.”

“You’re right. You will.” Lucille snaps her fingers. Two guards appear at the door. “And it wouldn’t be fair if, as your stepmother, I didn’t give you a little bit of help.”

“What are you--”

“Helping,” Lucille says, smiling like they’re having a pleasant conversation. “Since staying put seems to be such a difficult concept.”

The guards stride forward and grab Snow by the forearms.

“What are you doing?” Snow yelps. “Put. Me. Down.”

“As I am queen consort and the most powerful person in this castle for the next seven days, you will listen to me,” Lucille commands. She strides forward and plucks the pastries from Snow.

“Those are mine!” Snow protests. She’d been looking forward to the sugar buns.

“Take the princess to her room,” Lucille declares.

“Don’t take the princess to her room!” Snow exclaims. “Excuse me!”

But the guards don’t listen, half-dragging and half-carrying her through private corridors to her quarters, Lucille trailing behind.

Snow’s room is halfway up a tower near the back of the castle. It overlooks a small garden her mother had tended to before she--well, before she became Snow’s mother and died for it.

Newton waits on Snow’s writing desk, picking at crumbs from last night’s half-eaten rolls. He eyes Snow strung between the guards.

The guards release her, guiding her so gently into her chambers that Snow’s tempted to run past them. But there’s no point. They’ll catch her.

“You must understand that this is for your own good,” Lucille simpers. “I’ve told you so many times, darling, that there are people out there who want to hurt you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Snow protests. And she was at a bakery. It wasn’t like someone was going to attack her with a croissant.

“Of course you can,” Lucille purrs. “But I’m here to protect you.”

Snow scoffs. “I don’t need protection.”

To prove it, Snow has developed rough edges, a sharp tongue. Because they all think she’s weak. And she’ll do anything to keep them from thinking her worst fear: that she’s not cut out to be queen.

“Perhaps not. But here we are.” Lucille’s voice is soft. “Didn’t you hear what happened in the city this morning?”

“What?” Snow’s annoyed that she’s curious, but Lucille always does this, dangling little scraps to get Snow to beg for answers.

“Something terrible,” Lucille says. She rests her hand on the door. “Something . . . disastrous.”

That was why the section of the city was closed? Something actually happened down there?

“What?” Snow presses. Was it an attack? A sorcerer who let loose a rogue spell? A troll who no longer felt like letting people pass over his bridge peacefully?

“Rumors of the Night Witch. How terrible if she got her hands on you.”

“Wouldn’t you like that?” Snow mutters. With Snow out of the way, Lucille could take the throne. But the Night Witch is long gone; Snow’s not scared of rumors.

Lucille just smiles.

Too late, Snow realizes what her stepmother is about to do.

“No!” she cries, darting forward, but the heavy door swings shut.

“I’ll have the kitchen send up a quiche,” Lucille calls through the door, as though Snow’s going to let herself be a little caged bird if she’s fed breakfast.

The lock falls heavily into place.

Snow is trapped.

2

Rose

As far as Rose is concerned, it’s a little early for problems.

Cross-legged on the floor of the storage room, she hunches over the mortar and pestle. Her toxic nettles are hissing, her dragon’s bane is letting out puffs of smoke, one pesky nightshade keeps floating in the air and nipping at Rose’s ears, and the potion is a puke green when it’s meant to be violet. Nothing is going the way it should.

“Rosie! There’s someone--” The door swings open, and here’s another problem.

Edel stands in a fog of flour and sugar and lemon zest. “What are you-- I told you, you aren’t to use those.”

“It’s nothing!” Rose protests. “I’m just--”

“Those aren’t safe!” Edel scolds, but she can’t hide a small smile at seeing what Rose is brewing. A Dreamweaver’s Draught. A very tricky potion, but Rose is determined.