“You seem much changed to me, Majesty. You are more beautiful than ever, but something within you has shifted. I fear for your unhappiness and solitude.” Verona continued, “Snow White has written me several times, expressing her concern over you. She is worried that you are so closed off from her. She loves you so much, Majesty, and it breaks my heart to think of you both alone in your grief when you have each other for solace and strength.”
“Snow knows how dear she is to me, Verona. I would perish without her,” the Queen said.
“Why, then, do you never seek her company? Snow is a remarkable young lady, Majesty. Even now, after these many years of near-abandonment, she would still be a great friend to you, if only you extended your hand,” Verona pleaded.
“You dare imply that I have abandoned my daughter?” the Queen snapped.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I thought I could speak honestly with you.”
“So I said, but it breaks my heart, Verona, to hear these words. You do not know what it is to feel your heart break in the wake of tragedy, and you should pray you never do!”
Verona shook her head. “Please, my Queen—and my friend. Please go to your daughter, she is not long for this court, as she is approaching the proper marrying age, and I would not see her go from this kingdom without knowing her mother’s love.”
Her mother’s love. The words resonated with the Queen. She had abandoned Snow White for magic mirrors and spell books from the strange sisters. Was she so mad, so deranged by the loss of her husband, that she should be too afraid to love her daughter for fear of losing her? This was madness, surely! And why did it take Verona’s words to make her see this clearly for the first time? She should have never sent her friend, this woman she once called a sister, from court—to go so long without her companionship, without her council and her love. Perhaps much could have been averted if Verona were here these many long years.
Then the Queen found something stir within her that she had not felt in a great while. Her shattered heart felt suddenly mended.
“I would be much pleased if you extended your stay, Verona. Please say you will remain here for the entirety of your husband’s campaign. I have been without your company for too long, and I do not wish to see you go from me again so quickly.”
“Yes, of course, Majesty, I would be happy to stay in court with you and Snow White.”
“Thank you, Verona. Shall we make a picnic in the woods tomorrow, like old times, the three of us?”
“That would be lovely, Your Majesty. I’m sure that will make Snow very happy, too.”
“Very well, then,” the Queen answered. “We shall leave that dolt Tilley behind. Never in my life have I been met with such incompetence.”
The Queen laughed, and Verona laughed along. But it was no longer the laughter of camaraderie. The Queen’s laugh was one of power and disdain, and Verona’s was uncomfortable.
That evening, while the Queen was alone in her chamber, she began to feel restless. She had already questioned the Slave today. But that was before Verona had returned.
She needed to call on him again.
She needed to know.
She stumbled through the darkened room, approached the Magic Mirror, and summoned the Slave. Then she asked her question.
“I cannot determine who is fairest with Verona at court, my Queen,” the Slave responded. “Your beauty is so close. Elements of hers almost surpass your own. While elements of yours nearly eclipse hers.”
The Queen fought the impulse to banish Verona—even to kill her. The urge was powerful, but the Queen found an old strength within her, forged around friendship and love, that allowed her to fight harder.
She ripped the curtains from her windows and wrapped them around the mirror. Then she called for Uncle Marcus’s good friend, the Huntsman. He was perhaps the strongest man in the court and could easily perform the task she had at hand. He arrived quickly and she pushed the mirror toward him.
“Take this with you and bury it deep within the forest. Leave no marker to its whereabouts, and never, no matter how I implore you, never tell me where you have buried it—this part is paramount—never tell me where you have buried it! Do you understand?”
“Yes, my Queen,” the Huntsman replied.
“And tell absolutely no one of this conversation or where you have hidden it, and whatever you do, do not seek to know what is wrapped in this cloth. I will know if you have deceived me in any way.”
“I would never deceive you, my Queen. Never. I only wish to seek your favor,” the Huntsman said, bowing.
The Queen watched from her window as the Huntsman rode away on a two-horse carriage, with the Magic Mirror wrapped and stowed in the rear. The Huntsman vanished into the forest, taking with him the thing that had bolstered the Queen since her greatest loss, but which had also become her greatest weakness.
Having Verona at court should have been a great comfort to the Queen, but she couldn’t keep her mind from drifting to the Magic Mirror or its location, and this made her especially bothered and easily agitated.
It was madness that she should be so consumed. Surely if she asked the Huntsman he would have little choice other than to follow her orders. Perhaps after some persuading, he would reveal the location. But would she subject herself to that torment, the knowledge that she was too weak-minded to keep herself from the mirror? And would she have the Huntsman know of this weakness as well?
The days that followed were pure agony. The Queen was so caught up in her need of the Magic Mirror that she was haunted even in her dreams, leaving her sleepless and ill. Every day that she was parted from the mirror, she seemed to become sicklier—so much so that she often felt near to death.
She often woke terrified to a dream that dominated her restless slumber.…
In the dream she was in the forest, frantically searching for the mirror. The canopy of trees obscured the sky, leaving her alone in darkness and in fear. The sisters were there, too—coming and going, and changing shape and form, the way things do in dreams. The Queen would come upon a freshly disturbed mound of dirt and begin digging with her bare hands. Desperate to find the mirror, she would dig for what felt like an eternity, her hands bleeding, her body weak, and her mind spinning out of control. Finally, she would feel something soft and wet covered in cloth. After unwrapping it she would discover there, in the cloth, a heart, its blood pouring all over her hands.
“Momma?” she would hear. It would be Snow, a young girl once again, standing there with a look of terrible sadness on her little face, her white dressing gown covered in blood, dripping from where her heart once was. Her face blank; her eyes hollow and blackened, her skin ashen, and her expression reproachful. The sisters were always about, giggling their eerie laughter. The Queen would move to scream, but no sound would come, she was so paralyzed with fear.
Every morning she woke, soaked in sweat, anxious from this exact dream, or a similar one. It sent a tremor through her and made her feel weak. She had no control over her own will.
She felt defeated.
One evening she dreamed of the sisters. “Over—there!” they called, standing in the forest, appearing and disappearing under the moonless, midnight sky. “Dig—here—the—Magic—Mirror—your—Slave—” They chattered and laughed, and the moon illuminated their ghastly doll-like faces with a pale blue glow.