Fairest of All

by Disney Book Group

  “What could you offer me, evil one?” the Queen snapped.

  “As I told you, I see all in the kingdom. I could tell you what your daughter’s favorite memories are, or your sister, Verona—I could reveal her deepest secrets to you. But it is your husband you have been thinking of mainly these days, is it not? I could tell you where he is, what he is doing. Let me do so.…Ah, yes, the most recently I can see him is a few days prior to this. Hmm…I wonder why that is so? He is aboard his steed. His sword is raised high in the air. Oh! An arrow has nearly hit his cheek. He looks to be grazed. Yes, there is blood, a great deal of it, dripping from his jawbone. And a great deal of noise. But he is proud and brave. A true warrior. He is bleeding, but he will continue to fight. He will be safe. They make quite a ruckus out there on the battlefield, do they not? Oh, now, what is this? A man with a lance, coming up right behind him. I say, I do not think your husband sees his attacker. If only we could warn him. If only we could somehow prevent the spear from entering his back and impaling him straight through so the weapon emerges from his chest…to prevent him from…”

  “Fiend!” the Queen screamed. “Stop this at once! You speak these lies as if they are the immortal truth!”

  The Slave smiled slightly and knowingly, then fixed his stare upon the Queen.

  “No!” she cried, grabbing a nearby glass jar for oils and ointments and shattering it against the mirror. “Lies!” the Queen cried.

  Verona rushed into her room. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was streaked with tears. “My Queen,” Verona said through a quavering voice. Then she flung her arms around the Queen and rocked on the floor with her. “You’ve heard the news then? The terrible, awful news?”

  The Queen looked up into Verona’s tearful eyes.

  Verona continued, “His body is in transport now.”

  The Queen covered her mouth with her shaking hand, her eyes wide, staring at Verona in disbelief.

  He couldn’t possibly be dead; she had just seen him a few short months ago. He was just injured; yes, injured and on his way back to mend his wounds. The Slave in the mirror was a liar! And the messages from the field were never reliable. Someone always got something wrong. He was hurt, but it was nothing serious. And he was returning to her. Here. Home. Now.

  “No, he’s coming home! He’s coming home,” was all the Queen could say.

  Verona shook her head. The Queen’s face, hair, and clothes were soaked with tears that belonged to both her and Verona. The pain in her chest tightened its grip as she slowly absorbed the reality of her husband’s death.

  Gone!

  She would never see him again, never hear his bright laugh, never again sit by the fire and watch him play dragons with Snow or tell her stories of the witches who lived in the forest.

  “You may leave,” the Queen said to Verona with as much composure as she could gather.

  Verona put her hands on the Queen’s shoulders.

  “Please let me stay with you.”

  “No, Verona, I need some time to myself.”

  The moment Verona left the room the Queen felt the great weight of grief and anger. She could not breathe. Surely she wouldn’t survive this pain. One cannot hurt so profoundly and live on, she thought; it was unfathomable to spend the rest of her days in such agony, without her dearest love by her side.

  It was better to die.

  But then what of Snow White?

  And how could she even face the child? Tell her such horrible news? It would crush her—clearly break her heart. The Queen stood up on weak knees, and, clutching the walls and railings, she made her way slowly down the stairs, which seemed to sway beneath her.

  Out in the courtyard, Snow was sitting at the well. The Queen felt an unusually sharp pang upon seeing her now. Snow watched a little bluebird eat bread crumbs upon the well’s wall. She looked transfixed and in her own world, a world in which her father was away, but still alive.

  The Queen was acutely aware that she would be changing this child’s life forever, shattering her world with a few words: your father is dead.

  She played it in her mind as she approached the girl. Her daughter. She would now be all that Snow had in the world.

  When she finally reached the child, she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud; if she did it would make it real, and she couldn’t face such a harsh reality. She wanted to be strong for Snow, but uttering such gut-wrenching words would cause her to break down completely.

  So, she buried her grief deep within her. She choked on the words as she forced them from her throat.

  “Snow, my sweet girl, my little bird, I have to tell you something.”

  Snow looked up from the bluebird she was feeding and smiled at her mother. “Hello, Momma!” Snow said, smiling brightly.

  The Queen struggled to remain composed as she took a seat next to the girl on the edge of the well. Snow White’s face brightened.

  “Is it Papa? Is he coming home today? Can we have a party just like we did at the start of winter?”

  “Little bird…” the Queen’s voice broke and trailed off.

  “Momma, what’s wrong?”

  The Queen shook her head, and closed her eyes tight to dam the tears.

  Snow looked at her mother with sad, black eyes and said, “He’s not coming back yet, is he? Not now?”

  The Queen shook her head. “Not ever.”

  “I think maybe you’re wrong, Momma, he promised he would come home soon, and Papa never breaks his promises.”

  The Queen’s grief intensified. She choked it down and felt it grip at her, slicing at her insides like pieces of glass. She felt broken, no longer able to contain her tears.

  “I know, my poppet, but I’m not mistaken. He couldn’t help it, my darling, he isn’t coming home this time.”

  The little girl’s lip quivered and she began to shake. The Queen held out her arms to her, and Snow White crumpled into her mother’s lap and howled an unearthly sob. The child was shaking so violently that the Queen felt she might crush the little girl for holding her too tightly. As she hugged Snow she wished to take the child’s grief and lock it away inside her with her own.

  She was hopeless and helpless.

  As she led Snow back to the castle she realized she was walking into another world altogether—a world that would be forever altered. She couldn’t imagine it. She felt lost, floating in a nightmare, numb and inhuman. She looked at herself in a mirror that hung in the grand hall, simply to remind herself she was still in the world. All of this felt as if it couldn’t be happening. And yet, it was.

  Verona appeared at the end of the hall, distraught.

  “Verona, please come collect Snow,” the Queen said. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me!” Snow cried. Verona came to the Queen’s side to gather the girl. But Snow clung tightly to the Queen’s legs. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me! I’m scared,” she screamed as Verona pried her off her mother.

  The Queen remained steely and cold and made her way to her chamber, where she soon collapsed under the terrible sneering gaze of the Slave in the mirror.

  As the days went on, the Queen would feel the King’s hand in hers as she slept. She sometimes heard his steps upon the stairs, or his rapping at her chamber door. Occasionally, she heard a laugh that she thought belonged to him. In these moments, she told herself that it had all been a terrible mistake and that he was home, alive, with her. But those moments quickly faded as the hazy cloud of despair dissipated and reality forced itself upon her.

  She would make promises to the gods vowing to be a better wife if she could have her husband back. She felt wicked for shaming him at the winter solstice festival. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. He had to have known. She couldn’t stand the thought of him not knowing.

  When the time came, she could not look upon his body. Instead, she asked Verona to do the deed for her. And she put off making the funerary arrangements for as long as she could. Days—or had it been weeks?—had passed since his death
and the Queen was bombarded with requests for details about the funeral. They seemed to come by the quarter hour from all the lands, piles of them brought in on silver trays by women with swollen eyes, the entire household grieving, the castle haunted by attendants wearing black armbands, puffy white faces, and quiet dispositions.

  Everyone tiptoed around the Queen as if she might break at any moment. Perhaps some of them wondered how she hadn’t done so already.

  And all this time, the Slave in the mirror did not show his face. Strangely, she had begun to desire his presence. If he could see all in the kingdom, then why not beyond it? And beyond that to the great unknown? But now that she longed for his image to appear, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Her longing—her agony—was so great, but only Verona saw her cry. The Queen would lock herself in the morning room looking out past the garden toward the courtyard and the well—just looking at the flowers stirring in the breeze—remembering her wedding day. A servant would bring a plate of sandwiches and tea, removing the untouched dishes only a short time later.

  Sometimes she would think she saw the King walking his customary path back home to her. She would imagine herself running up to greet him, kissing his face as he lifted her into the air like a little girl. The piles of letters that continued to accumulate sat unopened in front of her.

  “My poor girl.”

  An older woman with bright silver hair pulled into two large buns on either side of her head was standing on the threshold of the morning room. Her hair glistened in the sunlight, her eyes twinkled with tears and kindness. Who was this woman? An angel, coming to claim the Queen?

  Then a familiar face stepped up behind the woman—Uncle Marcus. The woman must have been Aunt Vivian.

  The Queen stood to greet them, and Marcus pulled her close and embraced her. He felt warm and real; she felt safe and protected in his arms. Her heart threatened to break under the weight of his kindness.

  “Hello, Uncle, I’m so happy to see you,” she said flatly, as if she could hardly believe she’d ever feel anything close to happiness ever again.

  “We’re here now, dear. Me, and your Aunt Viv, we’re here to help you.”

  “You name it, dear and I will do it,” said Vivian. “Anything, my dear, if there is anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been where you are, dear. Sick for months. Couldn’t get out of bed. Oh, I know all the tricks. We’ll have you back up and running as soon as possible. You mark my word, darling.”

  The Queen nodded absently.

  “Why don’t I start by opening these letters for you? No sense in you having to go through these now. No sense at all. I’ll take them all if you don’t mind.”

  The Queen suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ring for refreshments or have someone show you to your rooms,” she said, her eyes glassy with grief.

  “That’s all been taken care of, dear. Verona saw to it. Don’t you worry about us dear, we’re here to help you. Now, what can I get you? Perhaps some hot tea; that pot looks cold. And I think we should get some food in you. You look as if you’ve not eaten properly in weeks,” Aunt Viv said.

  The Queen shook her head.

  “Don’t bother going against her, Majesty,” Marcus said. “She will have you stuffed before you can say no. Acquiesce. I learned a long time ago it is much easier. And tastier, too.” Marcus patted his paunchy belly.

  The Queen smiled for the first time since she’d lost her husband. It was a weak, almost forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was nice to have someone older to count upon. Someone who had been so close to her husband.

  With Aunt Viv’s help, funeral arrangements were finally made. The King’s body was taken to the mausoleum on a rainy morning. It was carried in an ornate horse-drawn carriage that had brought the King’s father and all his father’s forbears before him to their graves. Ahead of the carriage were two large shiny black horses, who seemed to be mourning the King’s loss along with the rest of the kingdom.

  Inside the carriage, the King’s coffin was covered with flowers. Red roses. The Queen’s favorite. He had requested it in the papers he had left before his first campaign away from her. The Queen wore a black dress with deep red beading. Her hair was pulled into a lavish braid and coiled upon her head. She was shielded from the rain by servants who held a thick black cloth over her head. Snow, the broken child, was outfitted in a dress of the deepest red. The Queen wondered if the girl would ever be happy again. And, if so, would she have the right to be?

  The Queen, who had not appeared publicly since the King’s death, stood, with Verona’s help, as the body was stowed away in the mausoleum. Verona put her arm around her Queen—her friend—and led her and Snow back to the carriage, to be transported back to the castle.

  “’Tis a pity—”

  “Such a shame, really—”

  “So young, so—”

  “Beautiful, he was, and now…gone.”

  The Queen looked up.

  The sisters.

  “We needed to be here,” Lucinda said.

  “We hope you don’t mind,” Martha continued.

  “After all, we parted on such sour terms, last visit,” Ruby finished.

  The Queen was too exhausted from grief to feel anything but apathy toward the sisters. Now was not the time to become incensed.

  “Thank you,” the Queen replied.

  “We assume—” Lucinda continued.

  “You have received our gift?” Martha finished.

  The Queen nodded absently, not even truly processing which gift they were speaking of. Not thinking about the mirror at all.

  “He can be a bit coldhearted and brutish, that father of yours,” Ruby said. “Please do let us know if he needs taming.”

  Verona glared at the sisters standing there, soaked from the rain. She was tired of their cryptic talk and riddles. She jerked the Queen and her daughter closer to her side, ushering them away from the sisters and into their carriage. The sisters took quick, short, birdlike steps away from the funeral, and the Queen wasn’t sure if it was her grief playing tricks on her or if she really did hear laughter coming from the sisters as they went away.

  The Queen had taken to her bed for many weeks after the funeral. She felt conflicted about refusing Snow when she came to visit. She wanted so desperately to comfort the girl, but she could not. Seeing the child only reminded her of her husband. His eyes seemed to look at her from Snow’s face. And similarly, seeing the Queen in this state would surely disturb the poor girl.

  But it wasn’t only Snow. Since the King’s death, the Queen had refused all visitors, save one. Verona had been ever at the Queen’s side, pleading with her to get out of doors and into the sunshine.

  “My Queen, won’t you see your daughter today?” Verona pleaded. “Perhaps you can take a walk about the grounds. She misses you terribly. It’s been weeks since you’ve emerged. She loves Uncle Marcus, Aunt Viv, and the Huntsman, but she needs you.”

  “I’m not up to it just yet, Verona,” the Queen responded.

  “Very well. Remember me whenever you are in your darkest moments. I will be here for you whenever I am called upon.”

  “I know, sister. And I am grateful for it. Now please, let me be.”

  Verona curtsied and left the room, but the Queen knew she had every intention of returning. Verona had not been able to spend much time away from the Queen.

  As soon as she was certain the door had locked, the Queen walked over to the mirror—a ritual she engaged in daily since the funeral. She longed for the Slave to appear there. She wanted—needed—news of her husband and assurance of his well-being in the world beyond.

  But all that stared back at her when she searched there was her own reflection.

  She stared at herself, broken and numb. She looked ragged and haggard. Her swollen eyes and puffy cheeks accentuated her blemishes and other imperfections. And her hair had been neither washed nor braided in weeks.

  She despaired over what she�
��d become. Perhaps her former beauty was simply an enchantment after all…one cast by her husband. And when he died, her beauty—a false beauty—died with him. How could she have ever thought herself to be beautiful? That she looked like her gorgeous mother, or rivaled, in any way, the King’s first wife, or even little Snow?

  Then, as she stared at her hated face in the mirror, on the brink of a despair she would never be able to recover from, something began to take shape beyond the glass. In a swirling mist inside the mirror, the Slave appeared. The Queen felt a twinge of hope and possibly even joy, leap up inside of her.

  “It has been quite some time, daughter. Did you enjoy the funeral?” the Slave asked.

  The Queen’s lip stiffened. “It was a beautiful ceremony befitting a beautiful man and celebrating his life. And now I need something from you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “News of my husband.”

  The face in the mirror laughed. “News of the King ended with his life.”

  “Can you not see all?” the Queen asked.

  “I cannot see beyond the grave. But I have the ability to see all things in these lands. I can see things that can make you terribly sad. And I can see things that might even make you very, very happy.”

  “What could possibly make me happy again now that my husband is dead?” the Queen asked.

  “I think you know,” the face replied, and then faded from view.

  The Queen banged on the glass and called out to the Slave, but he was gone. Though the Queen did not know when he would return, she suspected he would. When he did, she would be prepared.

  And in the meantime, she had a message to send.

  Though they lived almost an entire land away, the sisters arrived just a day after the Queen sent for them. Verona sneered and scowled as they made their way into the castle scuttling about, chattering, as usual. She viewed the speed of their arrival as one more odd happening to add to the list of those the sisters had accumulated. Snow White made herself scarce, and the attendants at the court all seemed reasonably disturbed by the women.