by Angie Bee
"When do I see you again?" Snow whispered, unwilling to step away and shatter this hypnotic spell she had woven.
"I will send you word. The usual way. Tomorrow, or the day after."
"I look forward to it," she said, hand closing around the doorknob.
A SISTER'S SUSPICIONS
"Why must you go so often, yet I cannot follow?" Rose demanded.
"I must learn how to stand on my own feet," Snow said patiently, drawing the brush through her dark curls. "The world of business will not allow for signs of weakness. Now that father has been properly mourned, the grace period is over. They expect to see a leader at these meetings... not a girl in need of protection."
"I do not like this. You have changed these last weeks."
"Rose, we hardly knew one another before I left for school. Perhaps it is simply that you are seeing the full me now."
"No. You are different. Harder. And I think you are keeping secrets from me."
"Everyone has their secrets."
"I keep nothing from you."
Snow set the brush on the vanity, turning in her chair to meet her sister's implacable gaze. No small feat: staring into those wide eyes. Snow knew what people said about her sister. That she was mad, unhinged, and violent.
And she knew it was all true. It was as if a few tiny threads had knotted in the brain behind that cherubic face, stunting her in some ways and sharpening her in others. She was clever, and she could be sweet and kind. But some vital piece was missing at her core. Rose Red did not understand remorse. Or guilt. Or mercy. She could become, in the mere blink of a glassy eye, a wind-up soldier ready to stab with the knife or pull at the trigger of a gun.
This was not her fault. This was no one's doing, unless you counted or believed in God. Rose had been born incomplete; sadly fitting, in society's eyes, for a bastard only half-acknowledged. And while some would have feared or hated Rose Red for everything she was and everything she represented—chiefly, a father's scandalous indiscretions—and would have locked her away in a padded room, Snow pitied and loved her.
Regine had called it her one flaw, the last night they had spent together. She had said it with a laugh, with a smile bright in her eyes, so that Snow knew it was nothing more than a needling tease. "That heart of yours is too big, too soft, and too open by half," she had said with an audible degree of fondness, pressing closer for another kiss. "And your nature is far too generous and sympathetic. Best build a sheltering wall around your heart now, before the world sets to work pricking it with pins and arrows."
"I… Will explain everything when I can," Snow said finally. "When the time is right. Just… Please don't push me too hard right now, Rosie."
"I only want you safe," Rose said quietly. "You are all I have. Father made me promise to protect you."
"I know. And I'm grateful." She slipped on her heels and stood. "When I get back, we'll have dinner. Whatever you like."
Rose Red stood at the window and watched the black car pull away, her folded switchblade pressed to her lips. Like guilt, patience was something else she had never fully understood. But in the tangled threads of her mind, there was one that stretched to her heart. That clearest path had been reserved for a singular love, dedicated wholly to Snow White. So she would listen and wait.
For now.
THE RESHAPING OF
THE THRONE
It began in small, but steady increments.
The selling of minor branch companies, the acquisition of others. Employees were let go and others hired. Promotions. Sudden retirements. Restructuring that started at the fringes and worked further inwards.
A curious trend was noticed by the more observant journalists and stockbrokers. Many of the new hires, new promotions, within the King's old empire were women. Advertising campaigns were rewritten and launched to be far more inclusive and broader in their appeal. Many of the newly purchased businesses catered to a predominantly female demographic.
The early critics who railed against these changes were silenced when the first figures were tallied. The King empire was stronger than before, with sky-high revenues and plans to expand and diversify even further. One journalist quipped that it was only a matter of months before everything in the city—hell, the state—came with the King stamp across the packaging, before everyone who walked the streets picked up King paychecks.
All the while, her smile never faded. It was like seeing a fantasy come to life, unfolding like a smooth brocade of silk. This was the world, the wealth, the power she had always dreamed of touching, finally stretched before her.
And though she had never entertained the possibility of sharing a crown, of ruling as equals, every day that passed made that idea unavoidable. It had begun as a challenge and a way to satisfy a desire, a means to an end. But now that she had her prize, she found herself unwilling to abandon it. No, not it. Her.
That was the only source of unease in the otherwise perfect dream. She had not factored in a consort. Not... love. Yes. Inextricably twined with lust, but there and deepening. Just as Snow had been unable to resist her charm and magnetic words, so she found herself captured by the daylight queen's sweet kindness. Snow was a true idealist, a woman who wanted to see the best in all things and do good for the people of her world. Regine had never tasted that sort of optimism before, born in the gutter and baptized in blood in her earliest memories. She was too versed in betrayal. But with Snow… Yes, even she could believe in the possibilities of redemption and innate goodness.
The unease over this came from two corners. The first: that she now had something (someone) to lose. Regine had never tied herself to anyone, not since her family sank into untimely graves. Loving was to be vulnerable, to have a weak spot, and Regine had always been wary of a well-placed blow. And the second: that her past choices could destroy not only her happiness, but Snow's. If her most recent secret should come to light…
But no. She would not think of it. Thinking too long on such matters might tempt fate. Instead, she would live fully in the moment. Enjoy the public successes that mirrored her private endeavors. And return to her waiting, eager lover for another kiss.
There had been other seductions. Men when it necessitated, women she preferred. Every degree of skill and shade of passion. But rarely had there been pleasure tinged with delight, victory softened by fondness. They snatched minutes and hours where they could, always on guard against discovery, but never too cautious to resist a tryst. Regine found she could not get enough of her latest conquest. Snow was a willing pupil, and she had never enjoyed the lessons this much before.
And sometimes, as they lay relaxed, sated, and lazy, Snow would sigh and tuck her chin against her shoulder. A fierce rush of protective warmth would fill Regine's chest and she would wrap her arms tightly around her, half-wishing they could stay in that moment forever.
But then the clock's ticking would become louder and their interlude would end, the one to return to her shining white tower while the other threaded her way back to smoky neon streets.
Soon, though. Soon one would step fully into the light—or the shadow. And there would be an accounting.
POISON AND HONEY
She followed her unseen.
For her, the shadows would always be like a second skin, soothing on her eyes when they had once blinded her sister. Snow had been born in the light, but Rose had known the dark since childhood. Welcomed it like an old friend.
It knew, after all, how to hide a multitude of sins.
Rose had never been to this street, but she still knew it. From her father's descriptions, overheard through a crack in the door. From the pictures that were often splashed across the front page of the papers, beneath headlines screaming of murder, sex, and stolen money. She watched her lovely sister, bare ankles flashing in the streetlights, slip into a bar framed by red smoke.
And stepped out of the shadows in pursuit.
A man inside the door tried to stop her, a question on his lips, but when he saw he
r face fully in the neon light he promptly stepped back, hands raised in submission and lips pressed tight into silence. She knew she had a reputation, in a dispassionate and detached fashion. They called her Mad Rosie Red in some corners of the city. Stories of her switchblade had become mythic, the sort of tales to frighten young children into good behavior.
This did not bother her. It did not please her. She accepted it coldly and blankly, and thought little of it.
She wove through the crowd, past the lecherous hands and the simpering women, the drunks and the prostitutes, the gamblers and the thugs. All that mattered was Snow; and like a moon caught in the greater sun's orbit, she circled tirelessly.
"…should tell her…"
The voice rang out like a clarion bell, drawing her towards a secluded table in the far corner, half hidden by large potted plants and a tall pillar.
"…truly wise?" This was a voice she did not know.
"She's my sister," Snow said, voice low and earnest. "And I love her. I hate keeping secrets from her. She trusts me, and has my best interests at heart. If I can show her what you mean to me, how important you are, perhaps—"
The first thing she saw as she drew back the leaves was two pairs of hands on the table, fingers interlaced. One the palest white, the other a dusky brown, both tipped in gleaming red nails and circled by rings of gold and silver. Then she stepped closer and saw Snow's face, sincere and pleading. And then—
The hiss that escaped her was almost a snarl, the world flashing into stark blacks and whites, with only this woman—at the center—in pure blood red. She lunged forward, knife already in hand, and made to slash out at a throat level.
"Rose!" Snow screamed, grabbing at her arm with a speed born of terrified desperation, fingers digging into her wrist. She wrenched at the arm, the cords of muscle along her own standing out in stark lines as she bent it in a punishing, painful curve as her enraged sister thrashed and squirmed and spat like a feral cat. "No, Rose! Please! Listen!"
"Evil!" Rose shrieked. "Evil! Evil!"
A man in a pinstriped suit rushed forward, only to stop short as Regine stood, hand lifted. "Clear the room. Get everyone out. We're closed to the public for the rest of the evening."
Snow twisted Rose's wrist. The switchblade dropped from nerveless fingers to clatter to the floor. Before she could pull free and stoop to reclaim it, Regine had snatched it up and stepped back, her typically placid face now rigid, the lines of her jaw clenched and hard.
"If you do not stop struggling," Regine said. "You will hurt your sister. I know that the last thing you would want to do is harm Snow. Please stop."
Rose subsided, chest heaving and bulging eyes skittering between them. "Evil," she hissed, disheveled hair framing her round face like a halo of fire. "Murderess."
"Listen to me," Snow pleaded. "Please, Rose. I love her."
She stiffened, ruby lips pulling back in a disgusted grimace. "Love? Her? As corrupt as a windfall apple!" she spat venomously. "As dangerous as the serpent that beguiled Eve! She speaks so sweetly you think her words honey, but they are poison, Snow! Slow, lingering poison that will kill you by inches!"
"No, no, that isn't true," her fairer sister argued. "She's helped me with so much... taught me so much. The changes I've made with the company, all of the good we've been doing! We're stronger than we've ever been, more profitable. And she makes me happy, Rose. I feel… More than what I was before. More confident, more powerful, more needed. She makes me happy."
"She made Father happy, too. For a while."
Her well-aimed bolt struck home. Snow White visibly flinched, face blanching. She turned her head to look at Regine, standing still as death and just as silent. "What does she mean?"
"She seduced him, just as she has seduced you," Rose said mercilessly in a voice both brittle and icy. "He thought it a marvelous secret, but I ferreted it out, before the end. More than that: I know he was with her, the night he died. He went so eagerly to his executioner's bed. He did not see the scorpion between the sheets, the razor tripwire in the doorway, the bottle of poison she poured into his ear as easily as she'd slipped her words days before. She made him love her, and then she made a corpse of him."
"Regine?" Her whisper was the beating of a caged bird's wings, the tearing of a delicate bridal gown, the loss of innocence.
And Regine, to her steely credit, did not falter or withdraw. She met the mourning eyes steadily, face softening in the slightest of degrees. "Yes. I seduced your father. I offered him a partnership... and he laughed. In his eyes, I was only a bedwarmer, never a businesswoman. He cared nothing about the brain in my head. His sole concern was what was between my legs. And when he dismissed my ambitions, called them nothing but the 'foolish fancies of a woman', I vowed that I would have his kingdom no matter the cost."
"You murdered him."
"Yes. I own it. When I became less than human in his eyes, I returned the favor. I will not suffer to be degraded or dismissed. I am any man's equal. I won't show mercy to those who question it."
The naked pain on Snow White's face tore at her like hooked whips. Each second was another lash, another invisible welt that throbbed all the worse for its insubstantiality. As the turbulent seas of her eyes shimmered with tears, Regine held out her hand, Rose Red's switchblade resting across her flat palm.
"I have never lied to you, Snow," Regine said quietly. "Never. It was truth when I told you I had found my equal: someone I could stand beside until death. In my dreams for a future empire, we sit together as full queens, enthroned in both shadows and light. I would sacrifice much to make you happy. To see you as a great leader, well-respected and well-loved. So here: have your revenge, your justice, if you need it. Do right by the man who sired you."
They stood, frozen statuesque, as the hands of the clock ticked onwards with an inexorable weight. Regine did not waver, determined to be firm to the last. Snow's tears spilled down her porcelain cheeks. And Rose's face sharpened in a vulpine hunger, sensing the impending bloodshed.
Snow studied her lover's face, battered by revelation and adrift in heartache. She knew, without a shred of doubt, that Regine had been a vital catalyst in her life. Choosing her, accepting her deal, had been transformative. She was no longer her father's daughter but her own woman. The last shred of her girlhood had melted away in that office so many weeks ago—what felt like a lifetime ago. And in the girl's place stood someone who had seen the world with truly opened eyes, who finally understood that there was no such thing as black and pure white. Everything was shades of gray. Violence could share space with mercy, evil was sometimes a mask worn by goodness, love could live with hate, and lust could lead the way to truth. People were paradoxes: as multifaceted and beautiful as gemstones, as terrible as smoking guns. It was all angles and perspectives.
And she knew, with a clarity that shook the breath in her chest, that to destroy Regine would be to destroy a piece of her soul. And half of her heart. She had tied herself to this dark queen with the very fibers of her being. Looking into her amber eyes, deceptively stern with the strength of her convictions, she still saw the woman beneath the mystique, the mask, the murderess. A woman she could not stop loving, no matter what her choices had been in the past. Society would say she owed her father a vengeance, that Regine's sins must be punished in full. But that same society would see her reduced to a trophy wife, an untouchable ideal on a plinth, a figurehead in image but not deed. How could such a force hold all the power? How could that society be the only truth?
"Kill her, Snow," Rose urged. "For justice. A true queen is decisive."
"A true queen also knows when to be merciful," Snow said, stepping forward. She took the knife from Regine's unresisting hand and threw it away; lifted the hand to press her cheek to the emptied palm. "When to listen to her own heart."
And for a single moment, Regine's ever-present control shattered, her shock writ plain across her beautiful face. She had expected, accepted, death. How could there be any oth
er end, with the fullness of her machinations exposed? She stared at Snow White and finally saw, plainly and brilliantly, the true breadth and scope of her goodness. Yes, she was as pure as her name suggested. That heart Regine had coveted, sought, now held freely given, was uncorrupted and would remain so, untouched by the meaner world it flew through. Untarnished even by her.
"I forgive you," Snow said with fervent, moving sincerity. "I love you. And I know that you feel the same, whatever choices you made before."
"I," she swallowed, the unfamiliar sting of tears clouding her eyes. "I will never deserve you."
"You will have to try."
Rose Red stood in paralyzed disbelief, unwilling to believe her own eyes. How could the beloved sister be so bewitched? How had this devil maimed her into such delusion and self-destruction? She was literally sickened by this perversion of the holiest thing in her life. The loss of her Father had been insignificant in the face of this betrayal. Better death than this downfall. Better to bury Snow White in the impartial earth than see her choose this demon over her own blood and goodness.
She turned like one in a dream, eyes falling on the switchblade as if directed there by God himself. She stepped calmly, serenely towards it. Knelt gracefully and picked it up with thin, nimble fingers. Slid the gleaming blade from the silver handle and stood.
The scream that tore from her throat was one of pure agony and unbridled fury. She lunged forward, blade held high and glittering—
The pop of the gun was almost gentle. Hardly dramatic. Derringers, with their small caliber bullets, were favored for just such a reason. The faint, snaking wisp of smoke hung undisturbed in the still air, acrid enough to burn eyes already wet with tears. Through the thin sheen of smoke, Rose's glassy eyes locked with hers. There was a moment—a sliver of a second—when the anger and outrage in those wild eyes faded to a melancholy longing and sorrowful apology.