Once Upon a Time: The Villains (20 page)

I called it the festival of rebirth. No expense was spared. Food and entertainment galore were the order of the day. It took me two months to organize, but by the end of that wondrous day of celebrating, my people were resplendent and gloriously happy…as was I.

Oh, how quickly joy turns to sorrow. The next day, as I held court, a rumor swept in from the forest. The whispering at first annoyed me, but then, as it grew, my curiosity was piqued. I called my steward forward. “What news races through my hall?”

“I dare not say, for it is just a rumor, your majesty.” He was always the simpering, silver-tongued fool.

“Speak, for I wish to hear what has enlivened my people.” Anything that turned their attention from me needed investigating.

“It is about… your step-daughter, Snow White. They say she has been found. Alive and well. A prince of a neighboring kingdom has rescued her from the grip of death.”

I vaulted to my feet. My eyes wide with panic. “Nay. It is a lie.”

“Please, my Queen,” the steward mewed. His mouth twisted with alarm and his eyes scrunched up reflecting my panic. “It is only a rumor. Do not get your hopes up.”

Hopes up? I was devastated. This couldn’t be happening. Snow White was dead. I had killed her myself.

I pushed past my steward and ran to my chambers. Bursting through the door, I stumbled to a stop in front of the mirror. Gasping for breath, I stammered my request. “M-mirror, Mirror on the w-wall, who’s the f-fairest of them all?”

The mirror swirled and the eyes appeared — cold, dark eyes that held no warmth for me.

“Poison is the death you granted Snow White,

Yet now she lives though you shall die tonight.”

“Nay,” I rasped and backed away. “I am your master. I demand you protect me.”

“Your forgetfulness has released me from the spell,

Take heed of my pleasure as I sound your death knell.”

The mirror was making no sense. What had I forgotten to do? How had I released it from its spell? No sooner did I wonder than the answer came to me. Was it possible I had not thanked the mirror on that fateful day? I had been so tired. Had I just fallen into bed? Panic welled within my breast. The instructions had been clear. I must thank the mirror after every use or else disaster would befall me.

“I’m sorry, Mirror. I was wrong to not thank you before, but I’m thanking you now. Please don’t be angry.” Though my plea was sincere, the mirror was not interested. The room grew cold and the air thick with a sulfurous stench. The mirror spoke on a blast of chill wind.

“Imprisoned, was Snow White in a coffin of clear glass,

Now be imprisoned, oh Queen, in a box made with brass.”

I turned to run, but the room grew dark and even colder. My joints grew stiff and my skin instantly paled to a light blue. My heart shuddered; my blood grew sluggish within my veins. The jewelry box lid flew open, revealing its bloody interior. Nay, not there. Though beautiful to behold, it was filthy on the inside. A tear leaked from my eye and fell frozen halfway down my cheek. I could feel my soul being ripped from my body. I tried to hold onto it, but with a final tug, I screamed and my soul departed. It swirled violently in the air before it was forced into the box and the lid slammed closed. My body crumpled to the floor, brittle and ice cold.

They say, when the queen’s maid went in search of her mistress, she found an unattractive woman — scandalously wearing one of the royal gowns — lying dead in the room off the queen’s bedchamber. No one knew who the woman was, or how she’d gotten into the room. The body was quietly taken to the potters’ field and buried in a mass grave.

When Snow White returned to her home with her prince, she found confusion awaiting her. Her step-mother had disappeared, leaving the kingdom in a state of panic. Days passed into weeks and the weeks into months, and when the queen didn’t return, it was decided Snow White should take up her royal duties.

The queen’s chambers were immediately renovated for the new queen. As Snow White oversaw the work, she wandered into the room off the queen’s bedchamber and found an ugly, old mirror well past it usefulness and a beautiful box inlaid with brass and ivory. Though the box was appealing to her eyes, the lock was permanently frozen shut, and the scent of death and misery surrounded it. Without a second thought, she told the workmen to take the items away.

If you visit the castle and ask to see the attic, you may find an old, crackled and peeling mirror and a dusty box made of tarnished brass and yellowed ivory. Neither is worth much and both are best left alone. It is said the mirror only craves peace and is happy to languish in obscurity in the quietness of the attic, but not so the box…it festers where it lies, and the anger inside it only builds. Though if given a good cleaning, the box is beautiful to behold, but once opened it holds a curse more terrible than the seven plagues of Egypt. There is an old crone who has warned many a child, “For what is beautiful from without may not necessarily be beautiful from within.”

An Enemy Inside

A Tale of Haughtiness

To me, the equation is quite simple. Live with my parents, and I’m pampered and petted for the rest of my life. Marry, and I must cater to the whims of a man and reproduce offspring in his image and end up catering to
them
for the rest of my life. Honestly. Why would any rational woman choose the latter option?

I am a princess. A real one — indulged by my parents and idolized by my people. I love my life. I rise when I wish, dress in the latest fashions and feast on the most sumptuous fare the royal coffers can afford. Since we are a prosperous kingdom, we can afford quite a bit. Only yesterday I had dates from Morocco, and sugared rose petals from Persia. I ride the finest mount and learn from the most educated tutors. I speak five languages passably well, and three fluently. I converse to whom I choose and go where I will. In the evening, I retire to my chambers and rest on a four-poster bed dripping in silks and mounded with three feather mattresses; it’s like sleeping on a cloud. My dreams are rarely troubled.

Until lately.

As a female, my options have never run to the optimal. I am obligated by birth and sex to allow my family the privilege of using me to obtain an alliance with a neighboring kingdom. That is the fate of all princesses. My older, female cousins have all been sacrificed for this very reason and have come away with nothing but gilded servitude to show for their obedience. Those once carefree women are now sour and cowed. I shiver to think I am next.

Early on, it was pointed out to me that I have no hope of ruling on my own. That dispensation is granted to my cousin Édouard for being the sole male heir upon our minuscule family twig. I am not bitter he has the honor of future king. I have little desire to cater to the hundreds of thousands of people in my kingdom than I do one man, but I do envy Édouard’s life. He may say “no” to his future and retire to a country estate and be known lovingly as the mad uncle who refused the crown, while I must suffer the indignity of a never-ending parade of suitors who look at me as if I were the next jewel to be acquired for one of their overly embellished crowns.

Life is not fair.

But I am not one to wallow in misery and expect the worst to happen. As the youngest and most petted in the family, I have faith that my parents’ love, and thereafter Édouard’s continued good graces, will accompany me into my old age. Either that, or I must hie myself to a nunnery, yet even with that option there is a decidedly unpleasant parallel to the wife imagery that I am not wont to indulge, even for the sake of pure goodness.

Therefore, when my father gets it upon himself to find me a husband as he does once or twice a year, I must use every ounce of creative energy I possess to find numerous and fatal flaws with these eager suitors. As we are well into year three of my father’s quest, I must confess I am finding the chore of inventing unbecoming faults in these poor delusional creatures more and more arduous — though to be honest, still quite amusing.

This day is no different than any other day of the “Prince Procession” except, when I enter I see a long and congested line of the highest pedigree available ready to embrace matrimonial bliss. I should be honored. I am not.

My father greets me with a broad smile. He is forever hopeful on these days, for he truly wishes to see me well and wed, but both he and I know he will not force a husband on me. It is not in his nature to do so. Yet once a man is stung by love, he wishes that affliction on everyone. And my father loves — no — he adores and worships my mother, as does she, him.

So, with the hope of a love-match glittering in his eyes, his large hands envelop my smaller fingers and squeeze to relay his excitement. “Dearest,” he whispers, though his voice is magnified by the marble surrounding us like a mausoleum, which turns his words into an echoing tide. “All whom I asked have arrived. Though most are not of the highest rank,” translation meaning not kings or princes, “some are of slightly lower standing, but all are of royal birth.”

He has cast his net much wider this time, surprising me. I can see he is quite taken with this herd of purebred studs, and he flushes with excitement. “I do believe, even
you
can find one who is palpable enough to take as a husband from this fine group of men.”

I immediately take offense at his suggestion that I settle for just a palpable match and not soul stirring love. He must have seen my censure for he dove into his speech. “It is, of course, with great
joy
that we see you find your true love, but with great
sadness
as we contemplate you leaving us,
but
” and his excitement grows here, “it is offset by the
joy
which you will receive when you take on the role of royal consort.”

He suddenly sniffles, and touches my cheek with sentimental overtures I’m beginning to think he rehearsed the night before. He then adds, “I know you shall make your mother and I proud no matter whom you choose.”

Really? My right eyebrow lifts in challenge. “If I choose the stable boy, will you be proud?”

He sputters as if he’s swallowed a sip of wine down his windpipe. “Stable boy? Do not even think to jest. This is serious business we attend to here. We will have only the best for our daughter.”

“So a stable boy is out of the question?” An impish smile has latched onto my mouth and I cannot dislodge it, though I do try.

“You are wicked to tease us so.”

I finally get my lips to behave, and I bow my head in a show of repentance I do not feel. “I am sorry. I will endeavor to behave on account of your pure intentions toward my married state and ultimate…
joy
.”

He rubs my spine and kisses me on the temple. “Good girl.”

And that is what he expects. Obedience, blindly and willingly given, just like every other man. It is a shame I am not so inclined to grant him this, his most sincere desire.

I am led closer to the richly garbed and glittering collection of hopefuls and see the spark of admiration dancing in their eyes. I loathe that prancing light. It has not escaped my notice that I am considered fairer than most women. That I come with a sizable fortune and an alliance to a wealthy and coveted kingdom, I have no doubt makes me positively irresistible — like a bright twinkling star one places all ones hopes upon and can only dream of catching.

I plan on cursing the dreamer and searing the flesh of any who dares touch me.

My father clears his throat. “Most noble gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Princess Abrial.” He says this with a flourish that even has me wanting to turn to see the amazing sight he is revealing to the crowd. As he steps back to give the noblemen a clear view of me, I remember…I am the prize. The wonder of the kingdom. I am the goal they wish to acquire.

The collection of nobles click their heels as one and bow. It is quite impressive, and I have a giddy thought that they, too, have practiced the movement all night. Should I clap? Or mayhap make a coo of delight? Nay. I am not so easily affected by pomp and precision. My mind begins the descent into the pit of uncharitable thoughts, even as I curtsey. Let them preen and puff and execute their duties in the most eloquent manner. I will not be won.

A firm touch to my back propels me forward to the first victim of the day. My father smiles warmly, for he is confident that today I will find my mate, and introduces the Earl du Blois. The nobleman nods and smiles. I am at once captivated and repelled by the sight of his pointed, yellow and frighteningly elongated teeth.

I glance at my father, affronted that he even thought I would acquiesce to a match with this…this…wolf in royal clothing. “Is he man or beast? Absolutely not!”

And so my rejections begin.

I care little for the pain I inject on these men. They have come to procure a bride with no thought of love or devotion in their hearts. They see money and a suitable alliance and nothing else. I won’t be held to that loveless code. There is nothing any one of them could offer that would tempt me to accept a match. Be he handsome or rich or both, I would reject him. I will not be moved.

Down the line I progress, ripping into this one’s pride, slashing at that one’s insecurities and garnering a grunt from one noble and an audible gasp from another until we come to the last man standing in the first row. Those who have come before him stand ridged and red-faced, anger and resentment pouring from them, but not this puffed up peacock. My father’s smile has begun to waver. It is forced, for he sees I am not in an accommodating mood. “This is Barron Von Mainz,” he murmurs.

The Barron clicks his heels and bows. Actually, he is attractive, and I have a moment’s pause. My father notices and his countenance brightens. “His land borders the river bearing the same name. Quite a well known family with good connections. Though not as illustrious as we would hope, he is a rising example of chivalry and has incurred his king’s favor more than once. I think he will be given a new title soon.”

The object of my father’s sudden gush peeks up at me from beneath heavy blond brows and winks — twice. I lift my right eyebrow, and he murmurs, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess,” in his native tongue. German, a language I have little desire to master though I know enough to converse when forced, as I am now.