Mirrored Snow [short story]

Cottage in the Woods

The Queen had returned to the ballroom. She was sat up on the dais on a throne framed in ornate golden roses. Her eyes were glazed over, her head was propped up on a hand which rested on the arm of the throne.

It was ridiculous that she threw so much money away on these parties when she didn't even enjoy being at them. She just liked being observed, judged, adored. She was every bit as obsessed with being looked at as I was with doing the looking.

Tonight, her brow was furrowed slightly. She would regret that later, when creases marred her forehead.

"Your majesty." Talbot's voice was soft. He was nervous.

The queen snapped to attention immediately. She gestured for the guard to approach from the bottom of the daze.

"Is it done?" she demanded, keeping her voice low.

"Yes, your majesty. He's... Gone."

She closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. "Excellent." Then the eyes were open again, but narrowed. Sceptical. "Do you have proof?"

The guard glanced over his shoulder, taking in the crowded ballroom.

"Don't worry about them," the queen said with a lazy flick of her hand. The tips of her finger glowed green for a second before returning to normal. "They won't see anything amiss."

Talbot drew his dagger which was stained crimson with Snowdon's blood. The queen took it from him immediately and ran a finger along the blade. It came away coated in blood which - to the revulsion of both Talbot and myself - she licked from her finger, her brow creased thoughtfully. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Oh yes. That's definitely his. Why do the good ones always taste so disgustingly sweet?"

"Your majesty?

"Oh, never mind, I wasn't talking to you. You may go." She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and returned her gaze to the dance floor, a victorious smile spreading across her features.

I decided to follow Talbot's cue and leave, before the queen realised I was there and thought to ask me her question once more.

I flitted across the ballroom, to where Snowdon's friend was deflecting questions about his whereabouts. "I'm afraid I don't know when he will return, Miss Proust. He didn't want to leave at all, but his duties to the kingdom must come first, of course." Marianne pouted, clearly not thinking much of any duties which took the prince away from her.

"Make sure you send him to find me the second he returns. He promised me a dance and I intend to hold him to his word. A prince's first duty is always to damsel in distress and I will be desolate if I have to leave without my dance!" She flounced away, the waves in her hair bouncing behind her, as Murphy pulled a face at her retreating figure.

"Snowdon, where are you?" he muttered quietly, scanning the crowded ballroom.

Where was he, indeed. I tried to picture him as the guard had left him. His tar-black hair had tangled in the breeze, his skin had looked paper-white in the moonlight, which had been reflected in the silver medallion pinned to his dress jacket. Perfect. I closed my eyes, scrunched my nose and concentrated on the medallion.

When I opened them again I was in the middle of the forest, hemmed in on all sides by twisted tree trunks. I could hear Snowdon's laboured breathing as he hiked. I expected his movement to be hesitant or panicked, but the way he moved felt purposeful. Confident. Determined. Where was he going?

Then I saw it: ahead of us was a modest cottage constructed from wood so dark it was almost lost amongst the trees. It had been built with precision, all right angles and straight edges, with a perfect cuboid chimney emitting puffs of grey smoke into the inky sky above. The square windows were dark but clean and the door was completed by a little bronze knocker.