© 2018 by Rooglewood Press
Published by Rooglewood Press
www.RooglewoodPress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
This volume contains works of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of each author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Book design by A.E. de Silva
Interior Illustrations by Hannah S. J. Williams
Cover illustration by Julia Popova
Table of Contents
FOREWORD
FALLING SNOW
RAVEN’S HEIR
THE FAIREST ONE
RED AS BLOOD
SNOWBIRD AND THE RED SLIPPERS
Foreword
THERE WAS NO DOUBT in my mind. When the time came to select the fairy tale to feature in the final Rooglewood collection, it simply had to be Snow White.
This being said, I was more than a little concerned about what the outcome of this choice might be. After all, few fairy tales in the popular canon can compete with Snow White for pure darkness. This is truly “a tale so dark and lovely,” just as our competition tagline proclaimed. Would the competitors manage to find the loveliness in the midst of the darkness? Would they find the humanity beneath the stepmother’s inhuman treatment of the poor young princess? Would they balance the innocence with the terror?
Soon enough I had my answer. The competitors outdid themselves. As stories flooded in, I and the judges were impressed with the vast array of interpretations. These talented writers dug deep beneath the surface themes to discover the true heart of this disturbing tale. There were stories that moved me to laughter and stories that moved me to tears. There were stories crafted with such heart-wrenching beauty, I was left truly astonished and amazed. This last competition was by far the largest Rooglewood ever hosted, and it showcased the most extraordinary range of talent.
My team and I worked hard over the course of several months to sort through all the wonderful stories that landed on our desks, to find not only five amazing tales, but five that we felt would stand together to make an amazing collection. What you now hold in your hand is the result of that work.
The collection opens with Falling Snow by Skye Hoffert. My first encounter with this story came via the first-round judge’s feedback. Along with the official scoring form, this judge sent an extra note praising this little story to the skies. But I was skeptical. I simply couldn’t believe that any story merited so much enthusiasm. My skepticism soon melted away, however, as I found myself entranced by Skye’s perilously mysterious fae circus and charmingly dangerous leading men. This story is an adventure well worth reading and reading again.
Raven’s Heir gives us a story closest to the original tale, with a brave young queen fleeing her wicked stepmother who plots to take over the kingdom. Yet Jenelle Hovde brings to this story a sense of history and reality through a world so well researched and so vivid, I could easily have believed she’d written a historical novel rather than a straight-up fantasy adventure. The romance between Snow White and her courageous hero lends brightness to a dark tale, creating a beautiful balance that is completely compelling.
The Fairest One by Cortney Manning was the last story I read for the competition. I’d read another submission by this author already, loved it, but wasn’t sure it would be right for the collection. But within the first few chapters of this tale, I knew I’d found a winner. Cortney created a mini-epic, complete with a quest and several terrible villains to be defeated. The beautiful setting was a joy to read, but it was the dynamic between the young Snow White and her leading man that kept me eagerly turning pages, as I rooted for them to somehow reach their happily ever after.
Of all the stories I read for this contest, none took me by surprise more than Maddie Morrow’s Red as Blood. Snow White and . . . vampires? Really? But boy, does it ever work! Maddie takes her daring to yet another level by writing the story entirely from the perspective of the huntsman, transforming the fairy-tale character into a conscience-stricken assassin given an impossible commission. At every turn, this incredible author turned the story on its head, and I was madly in love before I knew it.
Last, but certainly not least, we come to Snowbird and the Red Slippers. I had no idea what I was getting into when I began reading Rachael Wallen’s lyrical and mysterious take on the famous fairy tale. I could not have predicted a work of such poetry, such melancholy, and such beauty. Rachael’s story is the first and only contemporary featured in any of our collections, and she paints New York as a fantastic world of its own as seen through the eyes of her young ballerina heroine. Of all the fairy tales we have published these last several years, Snowbird is certainly the most unique.
A fitting end to a wonderful journey. It has been a fascinating experience to work with twenty amazing authors over the course of these four collections. Each volume is a treasure trove all its own, and I am proud of what we have all accomplished together.
So, with great pleasure and some bittersweet tears, allow me to present to you Five Poisoned Apples.
Anne Elisabeth Stengl
To Elizabeth Egely, thank you for everything! I can’t express in words how much you mean to me. You’ve made the front page, above the fold!
Chapter One
Snow
I’m falling, I thought. The Mesmerizing Snow is falling.
I saw the irony even as I reached and failed to grab the wire.
I’d known this was going to happen, a cold warning in the back of my mind. But I had ignored it, and now I fought to steady myself. A moment before, I was dancing across the high wire, weightless, pretending a crowd filled the empty stands of the big top. The sequins on my leotard glinted from the spotlights far below. I felt beautiful as I walked through the air.
I had twisted myself into a sharp cartwheel in a movement that was practiced and streamlined. Grasping the wire, I pushed my body into a handstand, but as I balanced there, sweat overwhelmed the chalk I had quickly applied.
My hands slipped.
The next moment, I was falling, my body spiraling out of control, the world a blur of colors. Up or down didn’t exist. It took everything in me not to scream. I hit the net hard and bounced before landing again. I wasn’t prepared; I didn’t roll through the momentum. A whimper escaped my lips even as my body finally settled, and I lay there, staring through the netting down at the sawdust floor.
A dry cough broke the silence. “That had to hurt.”
I snapped up, thick strands of black hair escaping my braid and plastering to my face. I peeled them away and flipped around on the taut cords that formed the net. The speaker stood in the shadows. I recognized his cocky stance, and my initial panic dissolved. Just Chayse, I thought.
Of course, Chayse was never “just” anything.
I rolled my shoulders and rubbed at the soreness in my neck. “Not really.” I don’t know why I always lied to him. Force of habit perhaps. It didn’t matter, because he always saw through it.
“Hmmm,” he purred, eyeing me closely as I grasped the edge of the net and flipped myself onto the floor. Ignoring the screaming protest from my battered limbs, I swayed as I landed. Chayse tsked. “Finally, someone who is a worse liar than me.”
He stepped forward, out in front of the spotlights that rimmed the ring. I could see his face now and all its sharp edges. A good face, a face I liked . . . rather more t
han I wanted to admit.
A flaming ball appeared as though by magic in his fingers, and he tossed it lazily back and forth. “Nice trick,” I said, trying to sound indifferent. Secretly I was impressed. His talent with fire grew more awe-inspiring by the day.
Chayse shrugged, looking at his coal-stained fingers. “Fire likes me.”
An odd thing to say, but he was an odd boy. He dressed like a vagabond, clunky black boots paired with an oversized and ratty fur-lined coat. You’d never guess his mother owned this whole circus.
He smiled a crooked, Cheshire-cat smile. That smile combined with his flashing green eyes and mess of tawny locks made him look almost vicious in the glow of the spotlights.
I didn’t smile back. I never really smiled anymore, though around him I sometimes felt inclined to. I had learned to guard myself, to keep my emotions locked behind a pantomime mask. It was easier that way.
I was always performing, and I didn’t even need a crowd.
“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?” he said, his breath a cloud in the chilled air.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold in some heat. The thin leotard offered no protection against the cold. My cheeks heated when I realized how ridiculous I must look in the old, worn garment. The sequins were chipped, and the mice had been at it, leaving small holes in the sleeves. I had pulled it out of a garbage bin, a fact I didn’t want Chayse to know.
If he was amused by my appearance, he didn’t show it. His gaze trailed up to the wire. “You’re improving,” he said, closing his fingers around the flaming ball and dousing it.
The way he tossed out those words, like they were nothing . . . but they were the closest thing to a compliment I’d received in a while. And they meant all the more coming from someone like him, who probably shouldn’t be wasting time speaking to someone like me.
But the truth was, over the last few months Chayse had become my unexpected companion. He’d started turning up to watch my solitary high wire acts, a silent and somewhat unnerving audience at first. Before long I began to look for him in the shadows. Then he started venturing out, and we exchanged a few words. At first just snipes and jabs, but those soon morphed into shared jokes and stories about our performances during the day.
I don’t know if I would call us friends, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. As much as my fellow performers and I tried to sell to the world the idea that our circus was a sort of strange family, in reality there was a hierarchy to this life. Some folks profited—Chayse’s mother mainly. The rest of us, the workers, the freaks, and the performers . . . we scraped by. Selling our dignity for the price of admission, making just enough to “keep us in cigarettes and greasepaint,” as the saying went.
“Really? Improving?” I said now, tucking my chin to hide my blush. “You just watched me fall twenty feet!”
“Yes, but you fell with great enthusiasm,” he said, and even without looking I felt the warmth of his grin. He took a few steps closer, stopped beside me, and nodded up at the wire. “Why do you do it? Why do you keep going back up there?”
I glanced up at him. “For fun,” I said, hoping my voice was light and did not betray the sudden tightness in my throat.
He squinted down at me, tilting his head. “Sure. The truth now.”
The truth was dangerous.
I bit my lip. He was one of the few people I could tell, one of the few I would dare trust with my secret. So, with a little huffing sigh, I gave in. “It’s double what I make now.” My eyes flicked to meet his briefly then away again. “Triple, if I’m good.”
His face twisted in thought. He looked baffled. Disappointed, even. “You want to do it for the money?”
I hugged myself tight against the cold. “No, not exactly. It’s just . . . it’s my way out of here.”
Understanding flashed across his face, laced with pity. I hated the pity. I didn’t need him to feel sorry for me.
“Where would you go?” he asked, his voice soft in my ear.
I met his gaze steadily this time. “Anywhere.”
He gave me a skeptical grin. “Anywhere?”
A hesitant smile played at my lips. “Somewhere constant. A place I could call mine.” I shouldn’t be saying any of this to him, but I always found myself voicing things to him I was scared to tell myself.
Chayse’s gaze shifted away from me, but I caught the glint in his eyes. “Sounds nice.”
“Somewhere?” I repeated with a sardonic tone, in case he was making fun of me.
“Anywhere but here.” he said, meeting my gaze. His eyes were heavy and sad.
He didn’t choose this life either, and for a moment I felt like we understood each other. That we wanted the same things. I looked at his hands unclasped and waiting. My gaze moved back to his face. He was still looking at me. His eyes held an emotion neither of us could afford to act on.
The moment passed. I turned away, knelt next to my bag of clothes, and busied myself rummaging through it, retrieving a threadbare cardigan. I slung it over my shoulders then picked up the small canvas sack.
When I finally looked round at Chayse again, he was glaring at my sweater. “What?” I demanded, confused.
“Don’t you have a coat?” he asked.
Just like that, I felt the gap that money and class wedged between us. I shrugged. “No, but it’s fine. It’s only September.”
Chayse looked unconvinced but didn’t push further. He stalked along beside me as I exited the ring. I made sure our hands didn’t so much as brush. Soft sand gave way to hardened dirt and empty bleachers. I pushed out of the striped tent, and a blast of icy wind hit me. It might only be September, but it was a cold one.
With Chayse’s casual question still burning in my ears, I tried not to show any reaction to the freezing wind as I headed toward the trailers. These were quite a distance from the Big Top and even farther from where Chayse and his mother stayed. I expected him to slink away any moment. The farther one got from the attractions, the dirtier and more unkempt the area became. The stink of stale cigarettes and burning garbage permeated the air.
Nevertheless, Chayse kept pace with me, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together. A flame crackled to life in his palm, and I jumped back. The red glow cast shadows on his face. He looked amused at my reaction.
“How did you do that?” The words tumbled out of my mouth.
His mouth quirked, somewhere between a smirk and a smile. “Practice.”
“You must have a good teacher. It’s . . . convincing.”
“Self-taught,” he said with full confidence. A confidence I wished I possessed.
We were almost at the yellowed trailer I shared with the other clowns: seven irritable guys who, if they saw Chayse anywhere near, would probably cuss him out. “Impressive,” I murmured, hoping he got the clue that I needed out of this conversation. Oblivious, he walked on beside me. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I asked at last, trying to soften the rudeness of my words with a nervous smile.
He stopped walking and tilted his head at me. “Am I bothering you, Snow?”
“No,” I answered too quickly. “It’s just, I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Most assuredly. But I can see that I’m bothering you.” He jumped in front of me and proceeded to walk backward, squinting at me. His teeth flashed in the dim light. “It’s much more fun.”
I glared at him. He knew he was playing with fire, but he was a boy who didn’t seem to burn.
I stopped at my trailer, refusing to bring him any farther. I didn’t want him to see this place where the fringes of my life stopped brushing against his. It was dank and dim, not something to show off. Not a home, really; a spot to sleep and not much else.
Chayse stopped with me, finally getting the hint. The smell of grease and fried food leaked out the cracked windows. “It seems you’re late for dinner.” His eyes locked on the dented door.
I followed his gaze and glanced back to him, fiddling
with my bag. “I should probably . . .”
“I have places to be too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and started back, moving languidly, like a cat.
My hand fluttered in a brief wave before I turned and rushed inside, flustered and unbalanced. Chayse tended to have that effect on me. It was getting harder to hide my jumble of emotions from him.
I shivered, my entire body chilled near to frozen. Putrid smoke curled in the air, but at least it was warm. Four sets of eyes glanced up at me through a haze. Some sat comfortably on a small couch, a few others sprawled on the floor, their faces highlighted by the glow of flickering cigarettes. A small table stood between them, covered in cards, smokes, and whatever they had in their pockets. A poor man’s poker game.
I waved my hand in front of my face. “I thought we had agreed that you would start smoking outside.”
Four voices spoke up.
“In this weather?” said slick-haired, tattooed Moe, a cigarette dangling carelessly from his mouth.
“It’s an inconvenience!” shouted Lenny, who still sported a red nose and white makeup caked in the creases of his face from an earlier performance.
“Ridiculous!” Ben spoke up, his eyes still fixed on his cards. He crushed his cigarette out anyway.
“It only bothers you,” Ben’s better-looking twin, Sean, chimed in.
I rolled my eyes at them. “Thanks for the consideration.” I stepped further in and threw my bundle down.
“How’s that for gratitude? We saved you some dinner.”
I glanced over at the cluttered table. It was covered in foil wrappers, ketchup smears, and empty drink cups. I grabbed the greased-stained paper bag and glanced inside. A wrapped foil pack met my perusal, along with some other discarded leftovers. I held it up. “Fish and chips?”
“You bet. I snuck you a few vinegar packets in there too,” said a voice behind me.
Five Poisoned Apples Page 1