“Snow, my sweet girl, my little bird, I have to tell you something.”
Snow looked up from the bluebird she was feeding and smiled at her mother. “Hello, Momma!” Snow said, smiling brightly.
The Queen struggled to remain composed as she took a seat next to the girl on the edge of the well. Snow White’s face brightened.
“Is it Papa? Is he coming home today? Can we have a party just like we did at the start of winter?”
“Little bird…” the Queen’s voice broke and trailed off.
“Momma, what’s wrong?”
The Queen shook her head, and closed her eyes tight to dam the tears.
Snow looked at her mother with sad, black eyes and said, “He’s not coming back yet, is he? Not now?”
The Queen shook her head. “Not ever.”
“I think maybe you’re wrong, Momma, he promised he would come home soon, and Papa never breaks his promises.”
The Queen’s grief intensified. She choked it down and felt it grip at her, slicing at her insides like pieces of glass. She felt broken, no longer able to contain her tears.
“I know, my poppet, but I’m not mistaken. He couldn’t help it, my darling, he isn’t coming home this time.”
The little girl’s lip quivered and she began to shake. The Queen held out her arms to her, and Snow White crumpled into her mother’s lap and howled an unearthly sob. The child was shaking so violently that the Queen felt she might crush the little girl for holding her too tightly. As she hugged Snow she wished to take the child’s grief and lock it away inside her with her own.
She was hopeless and helpless.
As she led Snow back to the castle she realized she was walking into another world altogether—a world that would be forever altered. She couldn’t imagine it. She felt lost, floating in a nightmare, numb and inhuman. She looked at herself in a mirror that hung in the grand hall, simply to remind herself she was still in the world. All of this felt as if it couldn’t be happening. And yet, it was.
Verona appeared at the end of the hall, distraught.
“Verona, please come collect Snow,” the Queen said. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me!” Snow cried. Verona came to the Queen’s side to gather the girl. But Snow clung tightly to the Queen’s legs. “No! Momma! Don’t leave me! I’m scared,” she screamed as Verona pried her off her mother.
The Queen remained steely and cold and made her way to her chamber, where she soon collapsed under the terrible sneering gaze of the Slave in the mirror.
As the days went on, the Queen would feel the King’s hand in hers as she slept. She sometimes heard his steps upon the stairs, or his rapping at her chamber door. Occasionally, she heard a laugh that she thought belonged to him. In these moments, she told herself that it had all been a terrible mistake and that he was home, alive, with her. But those moments quickly faded as the hazy cloud of despair dissipated and reality forced itself upon her.
She would make promises to the gods vowing to be a better wife if she could have her husband back. She felt wicked for shaming him at the winter solstice festival. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. He had to have known. She couldn’t stand the thought of him not knowing.
When the time came, she could not look upon his body. Instead, she asked Verona to do the deed for her. And she put off making the funerary arrangements for as long as she could. Days—or had it been weeks?—had passed since his death and the Queen was bombarded with requests for details about the funeral. They seemed to come by the quarter hour from all the lands, piles of them brought in on silver trays by women with swollen eyes, the entire household grieving, the castle haunted by attendants wearing black armbands, puffy white faces, and quiet dispositions.
Everyone tiptoed around the Queen as if she might break at any moment. Perhaps some of them wondered how she hadn’t done so already.
And all this time, the Slave in the mirror did not show his face. Strangely, she had begun to desire his presence. If he could see all in the kingdom, then why not beyond it? And beyond that to the great unknown? But now that she longed for his image to appear, he was nowhere to be seen.
Her longing—her agony—was so great, but only Verona saw her cry. The Queen would lock herself in the morning room looking out past the garden toward the courtyard and the well—just looking at the flowers stirring in the breeze—remembering her wedding day. A servant would bring a plate of sandwiches and tea, removing the untouched dishes only a short time later.
Sometimes she would think she saw the King walking his customary path back home to her. She would imagine herself running up to greet him, kissing his face as he lifted her into the air like a little girl. The piles of letters that continued to accumulate sat unopened in front of her.
“My poor girl.”
An older woman with bright silver hair pulled into two large buns on either side of her head was standing on the threshold of the morning room. Her hair glistened in the sunlight, her eyes twinkled with tears and kindness. Who was this woman? An angel, coming to claim the Queen?
Then a familiar face stepped up behind the woman—Uncle Marcus. The woman must have been Aunt Vivian.
The Queen stood to greet them, and Marcus pulled her close and embraced her. He felt warm and real; she felt safe and protected in his arms. Her heart threatened to break under the weight of his kindness.
“Hello, Uncle, I’m so happy to see you,” she said flatly, as if she could hardly believe she’d ever feel anything close to happiness ever again.
“We’re here now, dear. Me, and your Aunt Viv, we’re here to help you.”
“You name it, dear and I will do it,” said Vivian. “Anything, my dear, if there is anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been where you are, dear. Sick for months. Couldn’t get out of bed. Oh, I know all the tricks. We’ll have you back up and running as soon as possible. You mark my word, darling.”
The Queen nodded absently.
“Why don’t I start by opening these letters for you? No sense in you having to go through these now. No sense at all. I’ll take them all if you don’t mind.”
The Queen suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ring for refreshments or have someone show you to your rooms,” she said, her eyes glassy with grief.
“That’s all been taken care of, dear. Verona saw to it. Don’t you worry about us dear, we’re here to help you. Now, what can I get you? Perhaps some hot tea; that pot looks cold. And I think we should get some food in you. You look as if you’ve not eaten properly in weeks,” Aunt Viv said.
The Queen shook her head.
“Don’t bother going against her, Majesty,” Marcus said. “She will have you stuffed before you can say no. Acquiesce. I learned a long time ago it is much easier. And tastier, too.” Marcus patted his paunchy belly.
The Queen smiled for the first time since she’d lost her husband. It was a weak, almost forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was nice to have someone older to count upon. Someone who had been so close to her husband.
With Aunt Viv’s help, funeral arrangements were finally made. The King’s body was taken to the mausoleum on a rainy morning. It was carried in an ornate horse-drawn carriage that had brought the King’s father and all his father’s forbears before him to their graves. Ahead of the carriage were two large shiny black horses, who seemed to be mourning the King’s loss along with the rest of the kingdom.