Realization struck, and I stiffened. No, not as if we needed to be shielded from each other. As if Hartly needed to be shielded from me. Fear crackled in Mom’s eyes. The same fear she’d projected at Nicolas.
Everly is a danger to you, to Hartly.
Part of her must believe what Nicolas said. Would I get the boot, too? Thorns seemed to sprout in my throat and leak acid.
“He’s gone,” Mom said, then tried to soften the blow with an “everything will be okay” half smile that didn’t quite work. “I’m sorry, girls, but he’s never coming back.”
Hartly and I shared a spooked look. Mom had just verified part of my mirror vision.
Thor growled, and my sister wagged a finger at him.
“No, Thor. You’re wrong,” she said. “Everly would never hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” Mom shifted, shielding more of Hartly’s body. “You wouldn’t hurt us, would you, Everly?”
“No! Never! How can you ask such a terrible question?”
“Yeah, Mom. How?” Hartly demanded.
“Let’s talk in the morning, all right? I just... I can’t do this right now.” She kissed Hartly’s cheek, nodded at me, then strode from the room.
Hartly lifted Thor to her chest and cooed until he quieted. “I’ll take him out back and let him burn off some excess energy.” Meaning, converse with him? “Join us?”
“Not tonight.” I planned to park in front of a mirror and speak with that strange version of myself. I—she—might know how to mend the rift between my parents. For the sake of their hearts, but also for the sake of our survival.
Bottom line: we needed Nicolas’s income. And yeah, I hated reducing a marriage to a business transaction, especially when I loved my stepdad, but Mom had struggled so hard in the past to support us on her own, and I couldn’t bear for her to lose all we had now. Even if she found the kind of job she’d done in the past and Hartly and I got after-school jobs, we wouldn’t make enough to cover our bills.
See? It was always best to acquire your own money than to rely on the generosity of someone else.
I might need to forgo a degree, rethink my field of commerce, and start my company sooner rather than later. Once I had a personal store of resources to care for my family, all would be well.
“I love you, Ever.”
“I love you, too, Harts.”
We headed in opposite directions. A sense of unease hit me when I shut myself in our private bathroom. Frowning, I positioned myself in front of the mirror. Inhale, exhale. I met my reflection’s gaze, hoping against hope, but nothing happened.
“Hey. Hi. Hello. Yo,” I said. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Nothing.
Fighting a tide of disappointment, I waited...still waiting... Still nothing. Argh! What was I doing wrong?
I would try again in the morning, I decided, after I’d gotten some rest. I would try again and again and again, until I succeeded. For me, failure would never be an option.
* * *
I tossed and turned all night, too keyed up to sleep. As soon as the first rays of sunlight filtered through my bedroom curtains, signaling Mirror o’clock, I hopped to my feet and stumbled into the bathroom, ready, willing and (hopefully) able to summon...conjure...another vision.
But nervousness went head-to-head with excitement as I sealed myself inside, igniting electric shock waves under my skin. I decided to wait until I calmed.
Avoiding my reflection, I brushed my teeth and showered, hot water sluicing away the last vestiges of exhaustion. After drying my hair, I dressed in my most comfortable clothes: a longish white tank, black yoga pants and fuzzy house-boots.
From start to finish, the mirror called to me.
Look. See...
My palms sweated and my mouth dried when I positioned myself in front of the glass. Calm wasn’t on today’s menu, it seemed. Very well. I would proceed anyway.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze, hoping, hoping...
Nope. A normal reflection stared back at me. Well, as normal as could be with my hollow-eyed gaze. I wasn’t even gifted with a glimpse of Angel.
“Please,” I whispered. “Show me what I want—what I need—to see.”
An eternity passed, impatience simmering in my veins...no, boiling. Again, nothing. Disappointment raked me.
This was unacceptable. As my summertime professor used to say, Follow the train of logic. What had I done to spur the visions of Angel? Not a danged thing. What had I done to spur the vision of my parents? Washed my hands, splashed my face, asked a question and banged on the glass.
Right! “Mirror,” I said, tapping my reflection. “Show me what I need to see.”
My fingertips heated, and ripples danced over the glass. I gasped. I’d done it? Seriously?
My thoughts grew dim as an image crystalized—a massive fortress seated atop a snowcapped mountain, with a stone tower on each side, and a roof hidden inside cloud sheets. Winged men and women soared here, there, everywhere, and I could only gape. Their feathers...not even a peacock’s tail could compare.
Had I found heaven? Was I watching real-life angels?
The view zoomed closer to the fortress. Fast, faster. I would swear I felt an icy wind combing through my hair and smelled the earth every time I inhaled. Faster still. Through a stone wall...inside the fortress...down a hall and into a chamber double the size of my classrooms at school.
The sheer magnificence stole my breath. A crystal chandelier bore a thousand candles flickering with light and heat. Lifelike marble dragons flanked the sides of a flaming hearth. Every chair and sofa boasted shiny golden fabric, the perfect match for the gilded floor. A wall of windows overlooked one side of the mountain, where those winged creatures danced through the clouds.
Two girls dressed in fancy gowns sat at a small table, sipping tea. Tension crackled between them.
The first girl possessed a delicate yet edgy beauty, with white-and-black hair, tanned and freckled skin and bicolored eyes—the left blue, the right gray. There was something about her, a niggling familiarity I couldn’t shake.
The second girl made me grin. My sweet Angel, with her long dark hair, white skin even paler than mine, and eyes the color of frosted shamrocks.
On the other side of the room I found... Well, hello there. A boy so hot he basically melted my brain. He wasn’t classically handsome or without flaws; he was better. He was strength made flesh.
I don’t care about appearance. Nope. Not me. My pulse points didn’t get the memo; they fluttered. He had tousled dark hair of the deepest jet, brown skin and a face surely chiseled from granite, with broad cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose (from a break?) and a square jaw dusted with a dark stubble. His lips were red, plump and lush, and the softest thing about him. His eyes... Melting faster. Eyes the same frosted shamrocks as Angel’s glittered with affection as he helped an old man walk across the room and ease into the seat next to Angel.
Were Hot Stuff and Angel related?
The more I watched him, the more a strange and undeniable sense of connection bloomed. He was older than me, but not by much. A long-sleeved white tunic and black leather pants displayed a lean body jam-packed with muscle. A strip of fur draped across his wide shoulders, two straps crisscrossing over his torso to anchor swords to his back.
Would he fear and hate me at first sight like so many others? Would he leer? What was his name? Where was he from, and what was he like?
Was he single?
He said something to Angel, and I lamented the lack of volume. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice. Before stalking from the room, he offered the second girl a terse nod.
Between one blink and the next, the scene blanked, my reflection coming back into focus. What? No! “I wasn’t done. Show me more.” I banged on the mirror, astonished by the intensity of my dismay...and just as astonish
ed by the intensity of my relief when the boy returned.
For some reason, the vision didn’t pick up where it had left off. I would have figured out why, no problem, if my brain hadn’t melted all over again. He stood beside a bed, shirtless, a massive tree-of-life tattoo on magnificent display. The image covered his chest and his back, with branches running the length of his arms. His hair was unkempt, his pants unfastened.
So. Many. Muscles. Was I drooling? Small white scars bisected his pectorals and—
Sweet mercy! He had pierced nipples.
When he pulled a white shirt over his head, I almost booed and threw popcorn at him.
A girl with shoulder-length sable hair lay atop the mattress, buried under a mound of covers. Pale skin, smoky eyes and red, red lips made her look like a supermodel.
When he turned to go, she lunged, latching on to his wrist and attempting to pull him into bed. Well, back into bed, I was sure. So. He did have a girlfriend.
Or not. Reminding me of a fiction hero in need of a heroine’s gentle taming, he scowled and snapped something that made her tear up and retreat.
Oookay, there went my fascination with him. I refused to be impressed by a potential hump-her-and-dump-her offender.
Freed from her clasp, he took a step toward the door, paused, then closed his eyes, as if praying for divine intervention. He looked tormented. I shouldn’t care, but the pangs started cutting through my chest again. Maybe I would—
His image flickered before vanishing for good.
With a screech, I smacked the glass. “Show me more of him—I mean, show me how to help Mom and Nicolas.”
My reflection stared back. Frustration and disappointment clawed at me. Just beyond the bathroom door, Thor was barking up a storm. Farther away—the kitchen, perhaps—I detected the sound of shattering glass.
“Everly?” Hartly called.
Leaving the bathroom required an iron will, the mirror calling to me once again. Look. See.
I tried!
Thor went from barking to growling as I maneuvered around him—and drew up short. Hartly sat at the edge of my bed, her dark hair anchored in a ponytail, her face freshly scrubbed. Worry marred her expression as she stood.
“What did the teenage girl say the morning after her parents split?” Chin quivering, she delivered the punchline. “Oh, crap, my parents split.”
The pangs sharpened. “What did one sister say to the other? If there’s breath, there’s hope.” I just needed to decipher all the gibberish I’d overheard at the party. Reverting to Isnenglisnish, I said, “Whisnatisnevisner hisnappisnens, wisne wisnill isnalwisnays hisnave isneach isnothisner.”
Her features softened, and she offered me a small smile. “Yisnou isnare risnight.”
We made our way to the kitchen, where Mom was sweeping up pieces of broken glass. Her eyes were still swollen and rimmed with red, her cheeks even more ashen. Had she lost weight overnight? A summer dress sagged over her seemingly emaciated frame.
Everly is a danger to you.
I tried not to panic. “Are you all right?” A question we’d all had to ask way too many times lately.
“Still fighting that bug, I think.” Avoiding my gaze, she motioned to the dining table. “Sit down, girls. There are things I must confess.”
Hartly and I shared a wide-eyed look before we sat across from each other. Between us, Mom plopped into a chair without a shred of grace, very unlike her.
How quickly life could change. Yesterday, we’d been happy. Today? A storm cloud of depression hung over us.
Wringing her hands, Mom said, “The two of you have always wondered about your heritage, where I come from, and why I am the way I am. There’s no easy way to tell you the truth, so I’m just going to blurt out everything, then answer your questions.”
“We love you, Mom.” Hartly offered her most encouraging smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No matter what.”
“Love you no matter what,” I echoed. Keep an open mind, whatever she says.
“Here goes.” Looking like she would shatter at any second, Mom began. “I hail from the magical land of Enchantia. I am a princess and the first, only and former wife of Prince Edwin Morrow. You are princesses, too. Princess Hartly and Princess Everly.”
Open mind. Nicolas had mentioned Enchantia, as well. Yet, I couldn’t... I didn’t... Head spinning...
“We are daughters of a prince,” Hartly said, awed, accepting Mom’s word without reservation. And why wouldn’t she? Mom detested lies. “Prince Edwin.”
Edwin. Our father. Aaaand the pangs sharpened.
Mom said, “All the creatures and beings of myth and legend live in Enchantia.”
“Creatures? Beings?” Open mind, open mind. “We need examples.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “There are the magic wielders. Witches. Oracles. Fairies. Warlocks. Sorcerers. The water dwellers. Mermaids. Sirens. Shifters. The forest imps. Satyrs. Unicorns. Nymphs. Dragons. Elves. Goblins. Trolls. And so many more, far too many to list.” A dreamy smile appeared, there and gone. “But I digress. Edwin’s older brother—King Stephan Morrow—tried to murder you and another newborn, his own daughter, your cousin.” Her gaze slid to me at last, only to dart away. “Princess Truly Morrow.”
“Our uncle tried to murder us?” I gasped out. “Why? Please tell me Truly survived.”
“She did, yes.” Dread emanated from Mom. “As for...your uncle. He did it because of the Tree of New Beginnings.”
“I don’t understand. Explain.” I didn’t mean to snap an order, but my impatience had reared its ugly head.
She reached out to tap my birthmark. “The Tree of New Beginnings is found in the Kingdom of Airaria. Its mystical apples contain power beyond imagining. And not just antioxidants humans love so much, but power King Stephan hoped to hoard. He appointed himself the tree’s guardian and killed anyone who showed an interest in his apples. With the help of four other women—one of whom was Truly’s mother, Queen Violet—I used illusion magic to render myself invisible, then stole a basket of apples. Nine months later, we all gave birth.”
So our births were somehow tied to a magic tree?
Mom shifted nervously before continuing. “Oracles are descended from the fae. Or fairies. They see into the future. Physically, they cannot lie. Their prophecies are known as fairy tales, part symbolism, part puzzle, all open for interpretation. Or misinterpretation. The day of your birth, an oracle claimed your fates were tied to a certain fairy tale.”
Fairy tales doubling as prophecies... Open. Freaking. Mind. Still, suspicions danced in my head, and all I could do was inwardly cry, No, no, no. I knew of only one fairy tale with a girl and her magic mirror. The one Mom obsessed over.
I comprehended the instant Hartly made the connection. Eyes widening, she said, “Are you trying to say we are living embodiments of the characters in Snow White?”
A pause. A firm nod. Again, Mom slid her tear-glistened gaze to me. “Were the Brothers Grimm oracles? I do not know. But they wrote two versions of ‘Little Snow White.’ Combined, those tales are the closest incarnation to the story told in Enchantia.”
Open mind! Don’t panic.
But what if I was supposed to be...
The Evil Queen.
My heart shuddered as if I’d been shocked with paddles. I refused to accept that I was some incarnation of evil. I was bad, but I wasn’t that bad.
Hartly could absolutely pass for Snow White. All fairy-tale princesses enchanted animals, right?
I’d read both versions of the tale. In one, the Evil Queen was Snow White’s birth mother. In the other, she was Snow White’s stepmother.
See! I wasn’t the Evil Queen. I wasn’t a mother or a stepmother. Unless motherhood was merely symbolic of a familial connection.
Crap.
In both versions, the
Evil Queen was vain, with a selfish, greedy heart. She ordered the Huntsman to escort the girl to a nearby forest, savagely murder her, and bring back her liver and lungs—for dinner. She used magic to disguise herself as a hag, not once, not twice, but thrice, attempting to murder the surprisingly un-killable SW each time. First with a corset, then a comb and finally the infamous apple.
While I could communicate with mirrors, I couldn’t craft illusions. I wasn’t vain, and I had no plans to marry an old fart of a king.
“In the Enchantian version—‘Snow White and the Evil Queen’—the mother versus stepmother issue is never clarified,” Mom said, “and both Snow White and the Evil Queen have a fairy godmother.”
My mind returned to the group of people I’d seen in the mirror. Angel. The girl I’d both recognized and not recognized. The boy who’d set my blood aflame. My connection to them. Were they part of the tale? Why else would I have needed to see them?
“Who is supposed to be whom?” Hartly asked.
“The oracle did not say, but I can guess.” Mom reached over and patted my sister’s hand, saying, “The wild beasts refused to harm her.”
When she glanced at me, her blue eyes shadowed with fear, and I knew. With every fiber of my being, I knew. She, too, suspected me of being the Evil Queen.
Knife. Through. The. Heart. I blinked to hide a sudden prickle of tears. I would not cry. This was a happy day. The day we learned about our dad. “Tell us about our father, Prince Edwin. Is he alive? Is he kind?”
A choking sound escaped her, and I almost withdrew the question. “He is... I’m so sorry, darlings, but he is dead. He lost his life protecting...you...from King Stephan.”
The knife wedged ever deeper into my heart and then twisted. For so long, I’d thought the worst about our father. Abuser. Deadbeat. Villain. All along, he’d been a hero, sacrificing his life to save his babies.
“Do you have photos of him?” I asked softly.
“No. I am so sorry,” she repeated.
So, not only would I never meet him or speak with him, I would never know what he’d looked like. Or what he thought of his grown-up daughters. I would always wonder whether he would have been proud of me, or disappointed.
The Evil Queen (The Forest of Good and Evil) Page 6