The Odd Sisters

by Serena Valentino

  But when Snow tried to find those sections again in the book of fairy tales, she found something much more disturbing: a story she had never read before. She curled up in her favorite red love seat with a cup of tea, hoping she would find the answers she was looking for.

  The Mourning Box

  Tucked snugly away, deep within the dead forest, was a family of witches.

  Their cold gray cobblestone mansion was perched on the tallest hill, giving them an awe-inspiring view of the city of the dead, under the shadows of the lifeless trees, with rows of crypts and tombstones stretched for miles. An enchanted, impenetrable thicket of rosebushes circled the forest, keeping the witches in and the living out. With very few exceptions.

  Two of the witches were older than either of them could recall. The third had just been born, on the day this story begins. She was the only child of Manea, who herself was the only daughter of the dreaded and fearsome Nestis—the reigning queen of the dead woods. Though there had been many ruling queens in the dead woods, Nestis was by far the nastiest and most powerful that the woods had ever produced.

  But the queen of the dead showed her daughter nothing but love and prepared her for the day she would take the throne in her place—a tradition Manea herself would not embrace when she would eventually become queen of the dead. But Nestis foresaw the coming of a great and powerful witch, empowered by the blood of the witches who came before her. She saw that her daughter Manea would bring this witch into the world, and therefore treated her like the queen she would one day become. More importantly, she treated her like the mother of the most powerful queen these lands would ever see. And once her daughter had given birth to this new and powerful little witch, even though she was a gift from the gods, Nestis wanted more.

  She wanted three.

  “Everyone knows three identical daughters are favored by the gods, Manea,” said Nestis from the throne in her bedchamber. It was large and impressive, carved from stone in the image of the giant winged beast. Nestis always seemed to be in the shadow of this dragon, its wings acting as her armrests and its head peering over her left shoulder, seeming to whisper advice in her ear. The only feature in the room that was grander was the stone bed, also decorated with carved dragons.

  “I know, Mother. The gods didn’t see fit to grant me three. But my daughter is a great gift. You said so yourself. She is the most powerful witch these lands have ever beheld. Can’t we be contented and celebrate that?” Manea stood trembling before her mother, cold in the drafty room. Chilled to the bone by the dampness within the stone walls, daunted by the dragons that decorated it, and worried about the fate of her newborn daughter.

  “And that is why I fear you are not worthy to take my place, my little one, my blackhearted child. You have no imagination. You never reach for greatness.” Nestis smirked at her daughter.

  “Mother! Why am I never able to please you? I have produced the most powerful witch in our line, and still you are not satisfied.” Manea’s eyes were bulging; her stringy black hair was mussed and stuck to her blanched face.

  “No, I am not!” said Nestis, standing up. “I want the three most powerful witches. We will split them. Tomorrow.”

  “Split them? What do you mean ‘split them’?”

  “I mean exactly that. I will make one into three.” Nestis walked to her writing table and took out a piece of parchment.

  “But that doesn’t make sense. If you split her power among three, then won’t they each be weaker and less powerful?”

  “Not with my blood within their veins, they won’t. They will be the most powerful witches these lands have ever seen.” Nestis scribbled a hasty note and rang the small bell that hung on the wall above her fireplace mantel.

  “She is already the most powerful! Please, Mother, don’t do this!” Manea was filled with dread at the idea of splitting her daughter. Maybe it was the word, split. It seemed dangerous, gruesome, violent. She wouldn’t have it. As she was trying to find the right argument, the right words to plead with her mother, one of her mother’s skeletal servants entered the room.

  “Here, take this,” Nestis said. “Bring him to me at once.” With that, she dismissed the servant and turned her attention back to her daughter. Manea wondered what her mother meant, but was afraid to ask. “Their reign will be legendary. Don’t you see? There won’t be any need for succession after them. We can mold them in our image, teach them our traditions and our magic, and when it’s our time to pass into the mists, we will know our lands will be protected. Our magic will live on in them, leaving nothing to chance.”

  “Mother, I’m begging you. Don’t do this to my daughter!”

  “Trust me, my dear. Your little beastie will be safe, I promise you. No harm will come to her. And think how much happier you will be when you have three daughters to love and cherish. Think how favored we will be among our ancestors and the gods. There will be nothing and nowhere that won’t be within our command once they are born.”

  “Mother! Do you mean to say you wish to extend our reign beyond the boundaries of the dead woods? No modern witch has ever crossed the boundary. And in return the living give us their dead. It has been so since before the recording of time,” said Manea, shocked her mother would even attempt such a thing.

  “Do not presume to tell me our history, Daughter! I have discussed it with our ancestors, and I have been given permission to cross the boundary if we succeed in the making of three.”

  “But this is folly, Mother! This flies in the face of our entire history, of everything we have been taught. I don’t believe the ancestors have agreed to this.”

  “You dare question me?” Manea had never seen her mother so angry. She had never felt afraid of her mother before, and it was an odd sensation to want to cower before her. But before she could say anything, her mother’s expression changed and softened.

  “This is my fault. I have given you the impression that your opinion is welcome. I have shared too much with you, my daughter, but never forget I am the queen here, and my word is paramount. Cross me again, and you will regret it. Do not invite my wrath.”

  “Mother, please. Surely I should have a say in what happens to my own daughter?”

  “No, my dear, you do not. Go now and be with your daughter. Treasure her as one, and I hope tomorrow you will be able to treasure her as three. Because she will be three, my dear, whether you want it or not. Now leave me before I become truly angry with you.”

  Manea left her mother’s room and went up to the nursery, her eyes filled with tears and her heart filled with dread. Her daughter was sleeping soundly in the stone-carved bird’s nest nestled in the branches of a statue of a tree in the center of the room. She looked so snug, swaddled in her blankets. Gray stone ravens perched above her, looking down on the baby lovingly. The great altar at the far right of the room was covered with small paintings of the many queens who had once ruled the dead woods and who were now in the mists. Their ancestors.

  Nestis was the only one who spoke with their ancestors, but Manea was in a panic. She had to know if her mother was telling her the truth. Something within her said she wasn’t. The same voice that had warned her that splitting her daughter would be disastrous guided her in this moment. She opened the wooden box on the altar and lit the candle inside with trembling hands. “Honored ancestors, please forgive me for disturbing you in the mists, but I am concerned about your plans for my daughter.”

  An uncanny voice came out of the ether. A calming and reassuring woman’s voice.

  “We are very pleased with the birth of your daughter, Manea.”

  Manea hadn’t known what to expect, though this woman’s voice, this faceless ancestor, caught her off guard with how gentle and kind she sounded.

  “But it is still too early to concern yourself with our plans for her. While your mother is still in power, our intentions and dreams are with her.”

  “Then you’ve not given her permission to split my daughter in three?”


  “She doesn’t need our permission to strengthen the line, Manea. You know this.”

  “But she would need your permission if she wanted to extend our reign beyond the boundaries.”

  “Beyond the boundaries? No witch since that of the First sought to rule outside the boundaries. What is this madness? Are you sure this is her plan?”

  “She told me so just now. I don’t wish to betray her, but I am so worried.”

  “But you have betrayed her by coming to us. Go along with your mother’s plan. We promise you we will not let it go too far. Now go, see to your little girl. You have done well, Manea. You have given our family a great gift, and we will not let your mother destroy everything we have built here.”

  “Bless you.” And she blew out the candle and closed the lid of the wooden box. The black candle smoke spiraled up, dancing before her, and she stood almost transfixed until something outside the nursery window caught her eye.

  It was Jacob. Her beloved.

  Manea’s heart raced when she saw him. What was he doing there?

  “He’s here because I asked him.” Manea whipped around and saw her mother standing in the doorway.

  “Mother!”

  Her mother stood there, contemplating the room and searching Manea’s mind for the answers she was seeking. It felt like skeletal hands clawing at Manea’s brain. She could sense her mother digging around, trying to find her secrets.

  “I smell candle wax and smoke. Were you speaking to our ancestors?”

  “I wanted them to bless my daughter,” said Manea, trembling, eyeing her daughter, who was still asleep in her nest.

  “Lies!” Manea had never heard her mother scream, but before she could react, she was struck by a massive blow that sent her flying acrossthe room and into the family altar, scattering the portraits and knocking the mourning box ontothe floor.

  “Ancestors, please help me!”

  She reached for the wooden box, but it flew from her grasp and shattered against a stone raven, waking the baby witch.

  Manea gathered all her courage, stood up slowly, and made her way to the screaming baby.

  “Don’t you touch her, Manea!”

  Manea didn’t listen; she rushed to her daughter and took her in her arms. “Hush now, my little girl. Mother is here. She loves you.”

  “Give the child to me!” Nestis’s face mutated in fury. Manea had never seen her like that. She looked like a wild beast, ugly and disfigured by her anger, but Manea stood her ground.

  “Never! I won’t let you have her!”

  Nestis narrowed her eyes and became very still. Something about it sent a chill through Manea.

  “Bring him!” Nestis said calmly, and Manea knew she wasn’t speaking to her. Two skeletal minions brought Jacob into the nursery. He was battered, bruised, and bloody, unable to speak or walk on his own.

  “Jacob, no!” The tall beautiful man stood before her, stupefied. “What have you done?” cried Manea.

  “Give me your daughter, or I will kill him.”

  “I will never give you my daughter!”

  “Is that your choice, then? You’d rather see the father of your child die than give her over to me?”

  “He’s not her father!” Manea lied, hoping to save him. “My daughter was born of magic, like all the daughters in the dead woods!”

  Nestis laughed.

  “Lies! I know everything, Manea! Are you foolish enough to think I don’t know your every thought? Your every move? I know your heart, my dear, because your heart is my heart! I created my daughter with magic, as you were bound to do. I am the creator of fates! I let your dalliance with this human go because I saw the coming of a great and powerful witch. It was I who put this human in your path. I arranged that he be our man to do our bidding in the living world. It was by my grace and foresight that you fell in love with him, and I am happy to let you keep him. But listen to me well: I will not let you stand in the way of furthering your daughter’s greatness, and furthering the greatness of our lands and our rule! So give me the child now or I will slit your lover’s throat while you watch.”

  “He was not a dalliance! I love him!”

  “Then save his life and give me the child!”

  Manea took a deep breath and looked into Jacob’s eyes. He was disoriented and could hardly stand. She wasn’t sure he understood what was happening or where he was. He was spellbound by her mother’s magic. She loved him, she loved him so much, but she couldn’t give up her daughter. Not even for Jacob.

  Oh my love, forgive me, she thought as she looked at him.

  “My Jacob, my love, I am so sorry,” she said as she closed her eyes. She knew what was coming. She tried to brace herself for it. She clutched her daughter so tightly in her arms she thought she might crush her….

  Snow White put down the book. “Where is the rest?” The remaining pages were torn from the book of fairy tales. Snow’s heart was racing. She felt like the theory that had sparked in her mind after reading Gothel’s story was coming together with every new thing she read. It was like a puzzle, and each new bit of information was making her theory into a reality.

  Don’t jump to conclusions, Snow, she told herself. You don’t know for sure.

  She stood up and started pacing around the odd sisters’ little house. It was so strange reading about Manea and Jacob. It made her heart hurt, knowing Manea witnessed her lover’s death. And what became of the child?

  But Snow thought she knew even as she asked herself. She knew who the child was, but she wanted to see those missing pages to be sure. She had to tell Circe.

  Oh my gods. It all makes sense. All of it. If this is true, then…

  She wanted to snatch the mirror up and call Circe at once. To tell her everything. But she didn’t. The last thing she wanted to do was panic her. Not yet. She had to be sure. She needed the missing pages. She needed to know the entire story.

  Suddenly, she felt faint. All the air seemed to leave the room at once, and she couldn’t breathe. She needed to leave the house immediately, overcome by an overwhelming urge to flee. She ran to the door and opened it, and to her horror, sitting on the doorstep was a large shining red apple. She screamed.

  The thing looked sinister. Wicked. So much like the one her mother had given her years earlier. She slammed the door and screamed, “Show me Circe!” over and over until she heard Circe’s voice coming from the mirror.

  Snow! Are you okay?

  “No, Circe, I’m not. Please come! I’m so afraid.”

  “I don’t understand! Who would do this?” Circe was angry, looking at the ominous apple, still sitting on the doorstep where Snow had left it.

  “Calm down, my dear. We won’t let anything happen to Snow, I promise.” Nanny had taken control of the situation. They had both come down from the castle to the odd sisters’ house to check on Snow. The Fairy Godmother had stayed behind to do the rest of the repairs before she and Nanny had to set off to the Fairylands to arrange the fairy council meeting.

  Nanny looked around the odd sisters’ house. She wondered what it had been like for Circe to grow up in such a strange place, with its stained glass windows that celebrated her mothers’ foul deeds. One of the windows depicted Snow White’s fateful red apple, shining like a crimson beacon in the sunlight over the front door, and to its right was Ursula’s golden seashell necklace sparkling in the light. And then she saw it, the one that broke her heart: a dragon, encircled by black crows and blowing green flames. Seeing it made her cheeks burn with guilt for the loss of Maleficent. Nanny looked around the room, trying to distract herself from her heartbreak. Some images were unfamiliar to her. She wondered how they were connected to the stories she knew. She recognized the pink rose as the Beast’s but couldn’t quite place some of the other symbols. Looking at Maleficent’s stained glass window again, she remembered.

  Her teacup!

  “Excuse me, dears,” she said, going to the kitchen. “I’ve always been curious about something.” She p
oked around the odd sisters’ cabinets until she found it. Her teacup. The one the sisters had taken when they visited for Maleficent’s birthday and watched her take her fairy exams. “Ah! I knew it!”

  Circe and Snow watched Nanny, puzzled. Why wasn’t she more concerned about the mysterious apple? What was she looking for? “Nanny, what are you up to over there?” Circe asked.

  Nanny spun around, her cheeks red. “I’m sorry, dears! I always wondered if your mothers took this teacup from me, and I find that they have. I think I’ll take it back. For safekeeping until we know their menacing purpose.”

  Circe nodded. “Understandable. Please feel free,” she said as she cleared her throat and looked at the apple as if to say it was more pressing than sinister teacups.

  “Yes, of course you’re right,” Nanny said, turning her attention back to the apple. “It’s harmless,” she said. “I don’t detect an enchantment or poison.”

  “Yes! I’ve already surmised that. But who would do this? It’s frightened poor Snow to tears! And don’t you suggest we send her home, Nanny! Not after this!” Circe was on the verge of tears herself.

  “No, I quite agree, we need to keep her close so we can protect her.”

  “Am I to have no say in what happens to me?” said Snow, picking up the apple and holding it in her hand.

  “Of course you do. I’m sorry, Cousin. But why did you try to leave the house? What was the matter?” Circe took Snow’s hand and led her to the little red love seat so they could sit together.

  “I don’t know. I was reading a story in the book of fairy tales and I was suddenly overwhelmed. I can’t explain it. I felt like I just had to get out. Like I could claw my way out of here if I had to. I’m sorry I’ve caused such a fuss.”

  “You’re not causing a fuss, Snow! You’ve been cooped up in here for ages, and I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  “Circe, what would you think if I went to see Mrs. Tiddlebottom while you handled things here with Nanny? It would get me out of here, and I have been worried about her, left to manage Primrose and Hazel on her own. I’m afraid how she will feel once all of her memories come flooding back.”