I was blind.

Not in my eyes, but in my heart. I never fully understood what my child was becoming until it was too late, far too late. There were signs, of course, hints of her true nature, but I was blinded by the love I felt for this child who had become my own.

Blinded. Blinded by love, blinded by beauty, blinded by the utter wickedness of this sweet little girl.

Looking back, I curse myself for not realizing sooner what she truly was. It all seems so obvious now. But then—then—when she was growing up—it was not so. For who would suspect that such a pretty little girl could be planning such things?

And she was a very pretty little girl. I would dote on her for hours, placing jewels round her neck and ribbons in her hair. I adored her hair. It was long, and smooth, and shiny brown, and I would sit with her by the fireplace and comb it long into the evening.

Once, as I was doing this, she twisted in my arms and faced me. "Mama," she said, in that sweet voice that all young children posses. "You're so beautiful, Mama."

"Am I?" I murmured without truly hearing. I was admiring the way the silver comb slid smoothly through that nut-brown hair.

"You are," she insisted. "You are the prettiest woman on Earth."

"Of course not, silly."

"But you are. And when I grow up, I want to be just as pretty as you."

"You'll be much prettier, my dear."

She eyed me for a moment, then turned back to the fire. "Yes..." she whispered. "Even prettier than you. I'll have skin like snow... and lips like blood... and hair like... like... ebony."

"Oh, for goodness' sakes, don't change your hair! It's perfect the way it is, darling, really."

"No. Brown hair is boring, ordinary. It must be black." Her voice didn't sound quite so sweet any more.

"You mustn't worry about what you will look like. You don't need to. I promise you that you will be as beautiful as the day."

"But I'm not right now. Come look." She got up and walked over to my mirror. The mirror was my prized possession, made of real glass with a silver backing and a gold frame. As I got up to follow my daughter, I watched myself in the glass.

"Look," said the little girl. "Look at yourself. You are the most beautiful woman alive."

I smiled and patted her fondly on the head. "Bedtime, my dear."

Oh, how stupid I was! I should have realized it then, right then!

A couple of months after that evening, my adopted daughter came down to dinner wearing a coat of powder on her face. She had no maids, no ladies-in-waiting who would have put it on her, so I knew she must have done it herself. When I asked why, she replied simply, "To be prettier." And indeed, the pale color did make her seem even more lovely.

Every day after that, she wore a tiny bit more powder on her skin. And later, when she began to put rouge on her lips, she began to look stunning.

I never thought to ask where she got these cosmetics.

I planned a big celebration for her seventh birthday. Cook worked for days and nights on cakes in the shape of castles and buns that were molded like swans. There were to be forest scenes molded from almond paste, rivers and lakes and oceans concocted from spun sugar, and carvings of ice. Birds were caught, drugged, and placed into pie crusts—they would flutter out when the pies were cut. Everything was as a child of seven would want it.

And the presents that she would receive! They had been sent from many of the nobles of the surrounding estates, and I had collected a fair few myself. Among these were a night-black dress that would set off her pale skin, combs of silver filigree to place in her hair, and baskets of exotic fruits.

The fruit had been the only thing she had specifically asked for. Nothing grew around our castle but some nuts and berries, but my daughter had found a picture in one of our many books. She had pointed to it, touching the oranges and apples, pineapples and pears, and said, "That. I want those for my birthday.
I had smiled at her imperfect grammar and promised that I would collect fruits from all corners of the globe for her.

But now I was interrupted by a servant who had been trying to get my attention for several minutes. "What?" I snapped at him; I had been in the middle of welcoming several guests.

The servant bowed his head. "Come—come look, Your Highness." And he beckoned toward the castle graveyard.

I followed him impatiently, wanting to get back to my duties. Fortunately, he seemed to be in a hurry, scurrying across the grass like an ant. Like he was afraid.

And when I saw the graveyard, I understood why.

Someone had dug up the graves. Where there were once stately green mounds, there were instead deep, pitted holes. I stared in horror at the gravestones: my late husband, his first wife, and the little child that had been stillborn when I gave birth to it. "Who would do such a thing?" I wondered aloud.

I heard a quiet whimper behind me. It was a little kitchen maid, barely older than my own daughter. She looked scared, so scared. Terrified.

"What is it?" I asked her. "What did you see?"

"The—the—p—p—the—" Poor thing, she couldn't even get the words out!

I knelt down and took her hands. "Yes?" I asked softly. "Can you tell me?"

She glanced up from beneath her curtain of greasy brown hair, then quickly looked back at the ground. "Princess," she whispered. "The princess."

"What?" I almost laughed. Had these servants been playing a trick on me? But the girl shook her head. "I saw her," she whimpered. "At night. She comes here at night."

"No, of course not,"I assured her. "I don't know who you saw, but I promise you, I will find out." I smoothed back her hair. "Don't you worry."

I left the servants looking doubtful and went to find my daughter—the celebration could not begin without her. As I climbed up the spiraling stone steps, I thought about what had just happened. Why would the little girl think it was the princess who had dug up the graves? Was my beautiful little girl really that easily confused with other people?

When I opened the chamber door, there was a stranger standing there.

All I could see of her was a curtain of long black hair swinging over a shoulder as the figure bent over a table. Pure white hands grasped at bottles whose contents swirled murkily around. The figure did not move an inch as the door slammed shut, or as I gasped and jumped back against the wall. Nor did it turn until it had emptied the contents of one bottle into a bowl, and wafted away the steam that immediately came up.

And then it spoke.

"Hello, Mother."

I gasped again. The figure had turned to face me. It was indeed my daughter... but it wasn't. Her face had been powdered until it was whiter than the snow, and her lips were bright crimson. But worst, worst of all, was her hair.

"My dear... what have you done? Your hair! Why...."

Her expression was terrible to behold. It was such a mix of hatred, and beauty, and gloating, that I had to look away.

"What have I done? I am beautiful, Mama." That sweet, childish voice! I could not stand it!

"Why?" I whispered yet again, too shocked to do anything but repeat myself.

"I told you, Mama. I want to be beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the world. Look." She strode to the far end of the room.

I followed her with my eyes. This was a girl of seven! Seven years old!

She reached her hand mirror. I had given it to her last Christmas, and it was almost as fine as mine. The girl, the girl who was a stranger to me like this, turned it so that it showed my reflection in its glass surface. "Look at yourself," she said. "You are no longer the most beautiful. I am. I always will be."

It was true. With her skin, snow white like that, she didn't look human. But she was beautiful. Terribly, terribly, beautiful.

I was struck by a sudden realization. "You did dig up those graves. It was you."

She smiled the sweet little smile I had once loved. "Of course. Look." She picked up one of her bottles. "For the skin. Skin white as bone." Anther one, this one full of dark red liquid. "Lips red as blood. Hair... black as night."

She was evil! My late husband's first wife must have been a witch, to bring this thing into the world!

"I told you, Mama. I said I would be the most beautiful woman in the world. And I am. Look in the mirror." And she handed it to me. What could I do? I looked.

I saw the face of a lovely woman. Her long blonde hair hung loose around her frightened lips that were parted in an almost permanent gasp of terror. That face was nowhere near as beautiful as the seven-year-old girl who even now stood watching me.

And then the face in the mirror began to change. I saw an idea come into her mind. I saw it spread, get larger, until it was not an idea, but a plan.

I swung the mirror and hit my adopted daughter in the back of the head. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

And then I panicked. "Someone! someone! Come here! Oh, help, please!" I must have screamed like that for about five minutes. Finally, the door burst open, and the Royal Huntsman ran through.

"My queen! What is wrong?"

I merely pointed at the body on the floor. "Take it away!" I screamed! "Take it away—far away! Kill it! Kill it!"

Fearfully, the huntsman picked up the body and ran off.

As if in a dream, I drifted around the was not the bed chamber of a seven-year-old child. It was witch's den. True, there was no sign of any magic having been done here, but everywhere, I could feel the evil. Evil. Pure evil.

I wandered over to the window just as the huntsman was leaving the castle. I watched him place the body on the ground. I saw the body stir.

I saw the girl sit up and look at the huntsman. I saw him pull out a dagger. I saw her throw herself on her knees before him. I saw him hesitate. I saw her look up at him pleadingly. I saw him nod. I saw the girl run off, safe, into the forest. I saw the huntsman return to the castle.

Angry, I flew down the stairs to where he was standing, looking confused, in the entrance hall. "How dare you?" I screamed. "How dare you?"

He fell to his knees. "Your Majesty!" he gasped. "She—she—I—she—"

"Speak!"

"She cast a spell on me, Majesty, I swear... I—I don't know what happened, but I—I let her... go."

I paused, for I knew what he meant. Had I not been under the selfsame spell for seven years?

I had.

"Give me your clothes," I demanded.

"Wh—what?"

"You heard me. Give me the clothes of a huntsman."

An hour later I left the castle. All I had with me was the black dress had I meant to give to the girl, and the clothes of the huntsman. The huntsman himself I had put to death. He was under the spell of her beauty. He was too dangerous to have in my home.

I had no idea where she was. But I would look for her.

It was near midnight when I finally stumbled across the trail.

It was a straight, narrow little track, like one that an animal might travel along. But it was far too well-worn to have been made by wild things. It could only have been made by people.

There were fresh child-sized footprints on it.

I followed the trail a long ways, until I came to a cottage. It was a tiny little house, like something one might construct for a child to play in. But this was no toy--an enormous dog was chained up outside it, drooling as it slept. The sound of chickens coming from the other side indicated that whoever lived here enjoyed fresh meat. Filth and grime were everywhere.

I sat on the ground and fingered the little dress I had brought with me. It was black, night black, coal black, black as her hair. I could not help but think of how beautiful she would look in it, with her skin so white.

White as bone.

Morning came before I even had the chance to realize it. The sun climbed steadily toward the tips of the trees, and seven little figures marched out of the house. I barely even glanced at them, so intent was I on the purpose that I had come here for. I sat, watching the windows... watching... there she was!

I stood and walked over to the window, trying to copy the huntsman's sturdy gait. My hair and face were hidden by the cap, and I could probably imitate his voice passably enough.

The girl looked out at me. I held up the dress. "Hello, princess," I called. "I wanted to bring you something, something you should have gotten already."

"I want nothing." The face disappeared.

"Not even this lovely dress? Black as your hair, my dear princess. You should not dress below your station."

She came back. "Yes... I suppose a princess as beautiful as me should always wear clothes like this..." She looked at me. "Of course, you must help me into it."

"Yes, my princess." Things were going just as I had hoped!

Within a few moments, she was pulling the dress up over her shoulders and arranging it carefully. I stood behind her, with the laces in my hands, doing for my daughter what any common servant would do for me. But I was not upset. Everything was perfect.

The back of the dress was a web of laces to be pulled tight around the body, to show off a fashionable shape. Why had I ever ordered such a thing for my seven-year-old daughter? Oh, right. I was blind.

Gently, gently, I pulled the laces of the dress closed. I pulled and pulled, until the dress was far too tight even on that skinny body.

"Watch what you're doing!" she gasped. But of course I did not. I pulled harder, and she still yelled and screamed at me, until finally, finally, she ran out of breath. I pulled and her face turned red and purple and blue, bright blue. I gave one final tug, and the girl fell to the ground, coughing. I was done.

I left the cottage then, leaving the evil in it to slowly wither away. Let the child die. Let it choke to death on its own beauty, its own pride. Let it die. It would die.

How very wrong I was.

The next day, I sat in my throne room, listening to petitions from my subjects. I was ill at ease, as most of the peasants wanted to know about the princess--

"Where is she?:

"Was she sent to another castle, perhaps?"

"Our dear princess has not fallen ill, has she?"

"Would you be so kind as to pass along my sincerest birthday greetings?"

I told them that she was sick and confined to her rooms, but no more. It was a subject I could not bear to think about.

Finally, an old farmer couple stepped up to the front of the receiving line. They, at least, did not ask after her. Instead, they told me that many of their prize animals had been killed during the nights, and the carcasses left to rot in the vegetable patch before the couple's house. There had been no harm done to the animals, they said, other than single knife slashes across the throats. Not a drop of blood had been left in any of the corpses.

Lips red as blood....

Of course it was her. I had desired for her death to be long and drawn out; she must have still been alive when those dwarfs returned. They must have found a way to revive her. And, of course, as she was living with seven little men, she would be even more preoccupied with her appearance than before.(I truly believed this of her, even though she was only seven years old.) Without any convenient graveyards nearby that she could raid, she had turned to killing animals for their blood.

Would she turn to killing people next?

I ordered for the couple to be housed in the castle--I could not send them back to their cottage when there was a murderess lurking about. Ignoring the rest of the petitioners, I ran up to her room, where all the ungiven gifts had been left. It seemed right somehow, to use a gift as a curse on her... I would kill her with one of the very objects that should have made her happy. But which one?

My eyes were drawn to the little silver filigree comb. It was perfect! A silver comb for her black hair! Quickly I pulled it out from the pile and dragged it across the stone windowsill. I did this many times, until the teeth were thin and sharper than needles. They could draw blood with a single prick.

Lips red as blood...

"Fine wares to sell! Fine wares to sell!" The cry of an old peddler woman floated through the window. Peddler woman! It was the perfect disguise!

I leaned out the window and called to her. Quickly, we reached a bargain. She would receive fine, warm clothes; lodging for one night; meals for as long as she stayed, and a purse of money. I would get the small tray of wares she was holding and the clothes on her back.

She obviously thought it was a very strange trade.

But I, I thought of nothing but the way to the house. It took me far too long to reach it, as I tried to find shortcuts and animal paths to follow. It was near evening when I finally reached the little cottage, and I was worried. At what time would the seven little men come home? Would they save her from death again? Could they already be there? What would they do to me if they found out I was the one who had poisoned the girl?

And then I saw her,and forgot all else.

She was more beautiful than when I had last saw her. Perhaps it was the fresh blood, which made her lips even more crimson. Or perhaps it was the fact that, as a mother, I would always think of my little girl as pretty, no matter what she did.

I shifted my weight, and she looked up. "I know you're there," she called in that childish voice of hers. "I can hear you. It's okay—there isn't anyone else here. Will you please come out?"

I stepped out from behind a tree. The dog immediately started growling and barking, straining at the end of his chain. But at one word from her, the dog went quiet and lay down. Despite myself, I was amazed. Did even animals know how beautiful she was?

I held out the comb. "For your hair, dearie. It will gleam like silver stars in the black night."

She fixed me with an innocent gaze. "But they said I shouldn't let any strangers in the house. They want me to be safe. They all love me."

I know who "they" are. Those seven little men that she lives with. But surely, it can't be that hard to persuade such a vain little girl to accept a pretty gift like this.

She was still talking. "They told me this morning not to take any presents from strangers." Oh, such childish words! Just like anything that little kitchen girl might say!

"But surely you will accept this? A comb—what harm could it do to you? Such a beautiful little girl should not walk around without ornaments in her hair, on her gown, round her wrists...."

She was staring at the ground as I said this. At my words, she looked up. I was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"My mama used to comb my hair for me. It felt... so nice. But now... now there isn't anyone who will do that for me." She hesitated. "Will you... please?"

I felt no remorse whatsoever. This was a murderer, not my daughter. but I could not ask for a more perfect opportunity. "Of course I will," I told her.

As she opened the door to let me in, I noticed that she was wearing the black dress. Was this creature so vain that she would wear the tool of her death just to look lovely?

I wasted no time pretending to be gentle, now. Quickly, I jabbed the needle-sharp points into her scalp as hard as I could. The blood began to flow immediately. Torrents of it came rushing out, pouring onto the dirty cottage floor. But there was no time to savor my moment of victory. Already, I could hear gravel crunching outside, and the dog was barking, loudly.

There was a back door in the cottage, and I hurried past the fallen body and through the door into the chicken coop. The chickens did not raise a ruckus, or jump away in fright. They simply stared at me, as though they had long ago become adjusted to their fate. What kind of people must these dwarves be, that even the brainless chickens would be so terrified?

I heard their voices from inside the house, gasping at what must now be lying on the floor. No doubt she was beautiful even in near-death. I could hear it in their voices.

"What happened?"

"Look at the blood..."

"What happened?"

"You! Get some bandages, quick!"

"No, they're in the other cupboard!"

"That's right—tear off a lot."

"Make it good and tight."

"Make sure it will stop the bleeding...."

Quietly, I left the coop and headed for home. I didn't need to hear any more. I knew what would happen. The dwarves would stop the bleeding. She would live. And soon, she would be completely recovered... and just as concerned about her looks as before. There would be more killings, and not just livestock. People, humans, would die.

Back at the castle, I locked myself in my chamber and paced back and forth. What could I do to stop this monster? What would she not survive?

Poison. They would never be able to cure her from poison.

But how could I poison her?

Food.

What food?

The basket of fruit I had found for her birthday.

As soon as my decision was made, I hurried down to the kitchens. Cook did not ask me anything when I asked for the certain herbs, although she surely knew what they were used for. She had used those herbs herself for getting rid of pesky animals in her vegetable garden. What could she have thought I would do with them?

It was easy to poison the fruits. I simply made a solution of herbs and water, and dipped them in. When they came out, they looked just as beautiful and appetizing as they always had. No seven-year-old child could ever resist them.

I got no sleep that night. How could I, when such dark thoughts kept passing through my head? For seven years, my home had been sheltering a monster, a murderess. And her parents—they must have been monsters too, in order to produce her. And I had been married to that man!

When dawn finally cam, I raced down to where the old farmer couple was living. I commanded the woman to give me her dress, but answered none of her questions. I grabbed the basket of fruit and raced to the forest.

I found the cottage in almost no time at all. Everything was quiet. The seven little men had already left, and the dog was still dozing. It did not notice as I came up and knocked on the window.

A feeble voice called out, "Do come in."

I stepped quietly inside. All I could see of her was a dark huddle on the bed. No face. No expression.

But I heard her voice. She said, "Hello, Mama."

I tell you, nothing could have surprised me more than that. Had I not disguised my self, for three days in a row? How had she recognized me? How would I ever be able to kill her?

She shifted, and there was just enough light from the window so that I could see that she was staring straight at me. "Did you really think I didn't know who you were? Mama... I would recognize you anywhere, Mama.

I seated myself on the bed nest to her. She looked so weak lying there. She looked like the daughter I had once known, and not the monster of the last three days. How could this sudden change have happened? What had so suddenly possessed my foster daughter?

She gazed up at me, and I could have sworn there was a tear in her eye. This monstrosity was crying?

"I only wanted to be pretty, Mama," she choked out. "Pretty... like you. Why do you hate me, Mama? Why?"

It was the voice I knew, the voice I loved. The sweet, sweet voice of my little girl.

I leaned close to her and placed my arms around her neck. "No," I whispered. "I don't hate you. Of course not." And I didn't. She looked so sad, lying there. How could I not love her?

She buried her face in my neck and sobbed, "You do, though. You tried to kill me."

I smoothed her hair, the night-black hair. There was no answer to her accusation. "Why did you let me in, then?" I asked instead.

She sighed. "You are my Mama. I wanted you to love me again. I saw what you had with you—my birthday presents. Things you got for me when you still loved me. I wanted those. I wanted proof... that you really did love me, once."

Lying there, in the dark, with my daughter pressed against me, I believed her. I believed her completely.

She hugged me tight to her. "Why did you try to kill me, Mama?"

"You... you weren't my daughter any were someone else. You were someone who... who dug up graves, who killed...."

She seemed almost surprised. "Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't I? It made me pretty."

I was shocked by the simplicity in her voice. She was not sweet. She was not innocent.

She was a monster. She was a killer.

"Ssshhhhh...." I muttered. "It's all right. You are beautiful. You are my beautiful little girl."

She pulled away and looked at me. "Really?"

I sat up. "Of course. You will always be beautiful. You will always be lovely."

She sat up, too, and leaned against me as she wiped the tears from her face. "I really do love you, Mama."

"I know." I reached into the basket I had brought and pulled out the first thing I touched: an apple. "Here. You were supposed to take this three days ago."

She looked at the apple, then up at me.

I smiled. "Happy birthday?"

She grinned, too. "Thank you." But she didn't bite it. Why not?

I had to keep talking to her, make sure she didn't sense any urgency in my demeanor. "Have you been living well here?" Oh, what a stupid question!

But she just nodded. "The dwarves are usually very rough. They beat the dog until it's savage, and the way they butcher chickens... there's enough blood to paint my lips just from that. But they treat me with the greatest respect... I do not have to do anything, but they feed me, and fawn over me."

"Why?"

"They love me. Because I am beautiful."

Of course. There is no surprise there. But...

I nodded at the apple. "Why haven't you eaten any yet?

She looked up at me. "Everything else you've brought almost killed me. I can't trust this apple."

"Oh! But it's perfectly all right! Look." I took one bite of it, praying that that small amount wouldn't do anything worse than a short sickness.

She watched me carefully. When I swallowed, her face lit up in a smile. Without another hesitation, she took the apple and bit into it. "Mmmmmmmm...." she moaned. "It tastes so good...."

It did. But from that one bite, I was already feeling a small headache. What would happen to her, at the speed she was eating it?

She smiled up at me. "Thank you, Mama."

I kissed her brow. "Happy birthday."

She giggled. "I need to sleep more.... My head already hurts from... yesterday... and it's even worse now...."

I lay her down on the bed. "Yes, my daughter.... Sleep."

A light snore came from the bed. I smiled. "Sleep..... Sleep forever."

+.+.+.+.+

That was seven years ago. I have not heard of any trouble from that part of the woods since then. The farmer couple returned to their home, and prospered. The peddler woman also did well. I told my subjects a tragic story of the death of the princess—now every one of them knows how the sickness grew and grew until it claimed her life. There was a period of mourning, and then life moved on. The kingdom was peaceful, and foreign trade increased. Now the neighboring kingdom's Royal Family itself is traveling here to discuss alliances during wartime. They will arrive tomorrow.

As I dash around the castle, overseeing preparations, I can't help but think about how similar these preparations are to those of seven years ago. Watching the servants sweep the floor of the ballroom reminds me of the way I, myself, hung decorations on these very walls for my foster daughter's birthday. Sampling the delicacies Cook has prepared reminds me of the beautiful dishes she made, years ago, for a different occasion.

If I had not killed her, she would be fourteen years old now.

And as beautiful as the night.

When the Royal Family finally arrives, I am in a nervous state of mind. For some reason, I have a terrible feeling about tonight.... Somehow, I do not think it will end very well.

The Royal Family enters the Great Hall with a blare of trumpets and forest of waving flags. From where I stand on the staircase, I can see each of them as they enter: The King, the Queen, two five-year-old twin girls, the prince... and who's that?

There is one more figure with them, a young woman hanging onto the prince's arm. His fiancee? His mistress? I'm too far away to make any good judgment.

Servants will show them to their rooms. I, myself, retire to my own bed chamber to rest before tonight's ball.

I fall, exhausted, onto my bed. I have no idea why I'm so tired, but I don't even have the energy to pull the blankets over my body. I lie like that for hours, until finally I'm rested. When the door opens, I pay no attention. It's probably just a servant, come to ask about the feast or the ball.

But there is no question, Instead, someone says, "Hello, Mother."

I gasp and sit bolt upright. It's like looking at a ghost: the skin is just as white, the lips are just as red, the hair is just as black as it was years ago. She's taller, of course, and slimmer, more graceful. But the way she's looking at me—it's a hateful but gloating look, so different from the way she looked at me the last time I saw her.

She smiles a tiny, beautiful smile. "Are you scared, Mother? Terrified of the vengeful spirit that has come back to haunt you? Oh, don't worry; I won't do anything of the sort. After, all, you are my 'Mama.' Or you were, anyway." The smile is gone now. In its place is anger. "Why did you try to kill me again?" she whispers. "Why? I forgave you. I forgave you three times. Three times you tried to murder me—"

"I didn't murder!" I yell. "You are evil, pure evil! I had to kill you! It was not murder, it was execution of a criminal! You deserved to die!"

"Did I? I died my hair black. Is that a punishable offense? I dug up corpses—far more respectful than leaving them to the worms in the ground. I killed useless animals. Is that a crime worthy of the death sentence? I should think not. What did you do? You killed the huntsman, for making the same mistake that you yourself had made. You tried to kill your own daughter four times. You lied to me. You came, you said you loved me, that you forgave me... and then you poisoned me. And now I'm evil?"

I glare up at her. "Yes. You are evil."

She shrugs. "Oh well, if you say so. It makes no difference. Not when my new husband's army is standing outside your bedchamber door, waiting for my command to burst in and capture you."

It takes a moment for me to understand. "No!" I cry. You can't! Not in my own castle! Never!"

She smiles again. "It's my castle, if you'll remember. I, after all, was born here, and you merely moved here after a marriage. I have all the rights to it."

She strides over to my mirror, and I follow her with my eyes, just like I did so many years ago. "Look," she says. "Look at your reflection. You are not as beautiful as I am. You are fair, my queen, it's true, but the prince's bride is fairer far than you." She laughs at her own cleverness.

"Why are you alive?"

She laughs again. "I never truly died, you know. The poison was too fast-working. I fainted, and stayed like that until the dwarves came. They couldn't wake me up—the poison was too strong—so they dribbled some water into my mouth, fed me food in the same way. They did that for seven years. Seven years. And then what happened? A Royal Family came along through the woods, traveling to this very castle. And who did they have with them? The best physician who had ever lived. He knew the antidote to the poison you used. I'm told it took some time to cure me, but my beauty was worth it. And the moment I woke up, the prince fell madly in love with me. We're betrothed now. And you are—" she chuckled—"invited to the wedding. It's likely to be the only friendly gesture you'll ever get from this kingdom. They aren't to eager to be allies now that they've heard the story of how you tried to murder your own daughter."

"It wasn't murder!" I yell again.

She leans in close to me. "I know that. You know that. But they don't know that, do they?"

+.+.+.+.+

Now I'm sitting in a dark cell in a dark dungeon. I know what will happen in the morning, for she has described it to me in great detail. She told me how, as the many guests feast, iron shoes will be placed in the fire and heated until they glow white-hot. I will be lead out. All along one wall of the Great Hall will stand the line of performers who will entertain the royal couple. Actors, jugglers, acrobats. Even dwarfs—the seven dwarfs that she enslaved with her beauty will act before the guests.

And then me. Her bone-white face glowed as she described how I will be forced to step into the shoes that by then will have cooled to merely red-hot. And then I will be made to dance.

She stopped describing things at this point, and allowed my imagination to come up with the rest. I know what will happen. My feet will boil and blister, and I will want only to tear off the shoes. But I won't. I will dance, dance because I will have no other choice. The orchestra will play, and my feet will step, step, skip. Step, step, skip, and the beauty sitting on the throne will look down on me and laugh.

Guests will hold their noses at the smell of burning meat that will fill the air. My feet will be nothing but two charred black lumps, but still I will dance, because I will have forgotten how to do anything else. Step, step, skip on feet that will no longer hurt, for they will have lost all feeling. Two charred black lumps. My feet will burn.

The shoes will glow red as blood. My feet will be black as night. My skin will be white as snow.

Burning.

I will scream. I will scream in pain and terror until my voice is gone. My feet will dance until they can no longer feel. The stench of my own burning flesh will pervade my nose. The laughter of the bride, the beautiful bride, will block all else from my hearing. Only my sight will be left to me.

And then I will die, and that, too, will fade.

I will be blind.

Oh, yes.

I will be blind.