Mirror, Mirror Read online

  Mirror, Mirror

  A Retelling of Snow White

  And Other Stories

  Laura McConaughay

  © 2013 by Laura McConaughay

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  * TABLE OF CONTENTS *

  Mirror, Mirror

  Rosamund

  The Tinderbox

  Mirror, Mirror

  Once upon a time, there were two sisters. They grew up together in a small but prosperous town that clustered around the walls of an ancient castle. Beyond the town was a deep, dark wood, and beyond the wood was the wider world, but few people ventured so far.

  The sisters had been born at the same time, a double joy for their mother, and as they grew up they looked so much alike that everyone said they were mirror images of each other. Their hair was dark and their skin was pale, and they were beautiful to look upon. If the older one was a little bit more clever, then the younger one was a little bit sweeter.

  As children, they shared their toys. As young girls, they shared their secrets. As young women, they shared their ribbons and bracelets. They liked the same colors, the same sweets, the same stories. They were so much alike that few could tell them apart. When they grew older, they were still so much alike that they both fell in love with the same man.

  The man was handsome and strong, and to make him quite perfect he was the son of the old king in the ancient castle. One day he was riding past the river where the sisters were gathering water, and he reined in his horse abruptly. He turned his horse towards the water and it crossed the river in a mighty leap.

  The older sister drew back, afraid of being trampled. She called to her sister to follow her, but the younger sister did not move. Heedless of her own safety, she stood where she was, staring wide-eyed at the young man.

  The man dismounted swiftly, and approached the younger sister, as wide-eyed as herself. They stood there for a long moment, without saying a word. Before the look between them was over, they had fallen in love.

  From the bank of the river, the older sister could not see her sister’s expression, but she could see the man’s eyes. The love that shone out of those eyes was so strong that it pierced the older sister’s heart. Before anyone said a word, she too fell in love.

  The man and the younger sister were soon engaged, and the older sister’s grief was great at not being the chosen bride. Her love for her sister was stronger than her grief however, and so she hid her pain with a smile and danced at their wedding.

  When her sister begged her to come live with her and her new husband at the castle, the older sister agreed, though she knew that it would hurt her to see every day the happiness that she could not have. But her love for her sister was stronger than her pain, and she never let the younger sister see how she suffered.

  The years passed, and soon the old king in the ancient castle died, and the man became the young king in the ancient castle, and the younger sister became queen. The new king and queen were very happy together, and if the older sister was not happy herself, she at least was glad that her sister was.

  More time passed, and a shadow began to creep over the ancient castle. Years had gone by, but still the young king and queen did not have a child. For the first time, the younger sister began to have a grief of her own.

  The older sister could not bear to see her sister unhappy. In her lonely hours, the older sister had learned the ways of spellcraft, and when she saw how deeply her sister desired a child, she devised a spell to help. At first she hesitated to use it, as it was a dark spell and would require great sacrifice, but her love for her sister was stronger than her fear, and she decided that she would use her magic to give her sister a child.

  She had taken a tower room in the ancient castle for her spellmaking, and to that room the older sister now brought the things that she would need. On a small table in front of the window, she placed a bowl, carved from the finest ebony that the deep, dark wood could provide. In the bowl she placed a candle, which glowed darkly once it was lit.

  Pushing the shutters of the window open, she reached outside once, twice, three times, bringing in handfuls of freshly fallen snow each time she did so. She placed the snow in the bowl, carefully surrounding the candle. The wind gusted in through the window, but the candle was not blown out.

  As the candle’s warmth began melting the snow into the purest of water, the older sister took a knife and cut her hand. She let the blood drip into the bowl, where the dark red blood stood out sharply against the white of the snow, surrounded by an ebony halo. As she cast the spell, the blood began to swirl and blend into the melting snow and wax.

  A great pain seized her, and she felt something being wrenched from her. She was not afraid however, as she knew that this was the price she must pay for the spell to work. The pain increased, and she cried out. Then the sacrifice was made, and she fell to the stone floor of the tower room. At the window, the candle went out, and the room fell dark.

  I

  The old castle on the hill was quiet as evening descended. There were no guests drifting down the wide stairs, no servants doing last-minute tidying before scurrying out of sight, not even any dogs barking in the yard. The kitchens, the corridors, the grand receiving halls and elegant dining rooms, all stood empty and dark.

  The darkness and silence had stolen over nearly every room except for the queen’s bedchamber, and was trying to claim the long gallery that stood opposite. Hushed whispers slipped down the length of the gallery like the first cold wind of winter, and pierced the hearts and fears of every person gathered there. Candlelight flickered across their concerned faces, lighting the tapestry-hung hall dimly, as if it would be disrespectful for anything to be seen clearly while the fate of the young queen was still undecided.

  Servants, relatives, and friends had all found their way to the gallery, instinctively drifting closer and closer to the queen’s bedchamber as they waited for news. Some stood in twos or threes, but most stood alone, tucked into the many nooks and crannies that made the gallery so popular with trysting couples on more cheerful occasions. As they stood and waited, watched and whispered, their gazes would often drift to the chair that had been placed just outside the bedchamber door.

  Though there were many chairs in the gallery, this was the only one that was occupied. In it sat the young king, cradling his head in his hands. His hair was all on end, and his eyes were red and unseeing. His clothes were rumpled and no longer fresh, as he had not left the gallery for nearly a day.

  Behind the king stood the queen’s sister, Marya. Her face was as drawn and worried as the king’s, though her eyes were drawn to the man in the chair as often as they were to the bedchamber door. A strange energy filled the woman, and she twisted her hands nervously. After a moment, she bent to the king’s ear and asked something in a low voice - something that she must have asked several times before, because the king shook his head impatiently and said, “I told you, no!”

  The woman drew back as if scalded, and hid her eyes with her hand for a moment. Letting her hand fall again, she moved a little to the side towards a candelabra, and began playing with the wax that dripped from the candles. She did not seem to know what she was doing, and if the wax burned her, she gave no sign.

  The sound of approaching footsteps were heard. The king drew himself forward in his chair, the waiting, watching people crept closer, and Marya returned to her original position, clutching the high back of the king’s chair for support. The bedchamber door opened.

  The room beyond see
med overly bright to the people gathered in the gallery, as dozens upon dozens of candles blazed inside. In the doorway stood the doctor, looking very tired, and drying his freshly-washed hands on a towel. He stepped forward to speak to the king, bowing his head slightly.

  “She is asking for you, your majesty,” the doctor said quietly. “And you as well, my lady,” he added, looking at Marya. He paused, then said, “You had best hurry.”

  The king was out of his chair and pushing past the doctor before the words had finished being spoken, but Marya was slower to move. A trembling had come over her, and for a moment she thought she would fall. She clutched the back of the chair until the carving pinched into the flesh of her hands, then she released her grip and forced herself forward. She braced herself first on the doorframe, then on the back of an upholstered sofa that stood nearby, and in this manner made her way across the brightly-lit sitting room.

  The alcove where the queen’s bed stood was only on the other side of the room, but the bed curtains cast a deep shadow and Marya could not see her sister clearly. She could see the king, kneeling beside the bed and holding her sister’s hand, but the queen herself was only a silhouette. Marya paused halfway across the room and stared.

  “Amelia,” she whispered, her fear suddenly increasing.

  Across the room the king spoke, also saying ‘Amelia.’ He said it again, more harshly, then repeated it a third time, desperately. Then he put his head down on the bed and cried.

  Marya froze, as all sense of feeling pooled out of her, leaving her numb. Blankly, she looked around the room, still glaringly bright from the dozens of candles. A fire blazed at the hearth, and two of the queen’s waiting women were standing to the side, crying into their aprons. The chairs and sofas were littered with the doctor’s paraphernalia, and in a corner stood the bassinet that Amelia had so lovingly prepared just a few days before.

  Marya barely reacted when the doctor brushed past her and moved quickly across the room. Still numb, she watched as he bent over the silhouette in the bed, feeling first the wrists, then the neck. When he gently folded the hands together and began drawing the sheet up to cover the face, Marya moved.

  “No,” she said, whispering at first, then repeating herself more loudly. “No!”

  She crossed the room in a flash, pushing the doctor aside and roughly pulling back the bed curtains so that the candlelight fell clearly on the figure on the bed. Her sister Amelia rested there, her face peaceful but wan. Relief flooded through Marya, and the numbness faded abruptly.

  “She’s asleep,” said Marya happily. “She just sleeping. Oh, thank heavens, she’s sleeping!”

  The king lifted his face to stare at her, and the doctor put a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, pulling her away from the bed. Marya wrenched away from his grasp, reaching out towards her sister instead. Amelia’s hand was cold in hers, and Marya tried to warm it while urging her sister to wake up for a minute, just for a minute.

  Amelia’s hand remained cold, and she did not awaken. The king had buried his face in his hands again, and was making a strange sort of keening sound, as if he had been wounded. The doctor pulled at Marya‘s shoulder again, and she tried to shake him off impatiently, but he would not let her go.

  She turned to look up at him. “Have you given her something to make her sleep so deeply, doctor? Is that why she doesn’t wake when I call her?”

  The doctor shook his head gravely, his eyes growing more concerned as he searched her face. “Your sister is dead, my lady,” he said at last.

  * * *

  Marya’s eyes drifted open and she blinked, looking around the room. She was still in the queen’s bedchamber, propped up on pillows on one of the ornate, uncomfortable sofas. In one corner of the room stood the waiting women, crying, and the king’s muffled cries could still be heard from the alcove behind her. The doctor was standing next to her, feeling her pulse.

  “What happened?” Marya asked in a weak voice, struggling to sit up.

  “I am afraid that you fainted, my lady,” the doctor said, releasing her wrist and gently pushing her back against the pillows. “You must lie still now and be quiet, or you will make yourself ill.”

  A horrible ghost of a laugh escaped Marya, for her dizzy spell had not made her forget what had happened, and she answered. “Ill? What does illness matter now? My sister is dead.” The laughter changed to a choking sob as she spoke. Her twin, her other half, her mirror image was dead.

  Marya’s body was wracked with heaving sobs as her grief clawed at her from within. Moans and cries alike were wrenched from her, but she did not weep. Her eyes felt as dry as sand.

  The doctor looked on in concern, but was too weary himself to try to convince the queen‘s sister to be calm. For a time there was silence in the room, broken only by the sound of crying and the quiet movements of the doctor as he gathered his belongings.

  Once his things were gathered, the doctor took one last look at the bed, where the king still crouched next to the queen’s body. Without speaking, he turned away and went to the door. Silently, he turned the handle and slipped out the room, to tell the people waiting outside what they dreaded to hear.

  As the door clicked gently closed behind the departing doctor, Marya’s sobs began to gradually recede. After another few minutes, she fell back against the sofa pillows, exhausted. Memories of her sister began stealing through her mind, and she let them do so, too weak to turn her thoughts away.

  Amelia had been so happy these past few months. Everyone had been happy - Amelia was overjoyed to finally be having a child, Donavan, the young king, had been delighted that he might at last have a son and heir, and Marya was secretly elated because she knew that it was her own spellcraft that had brought it about.

  Marya had not told anyone about what she had done - the news of Amelia’s pregnancy had made the king warm towards everyone around him, including Amelia’s sister. She did not want to spoil that, and the king had never approved of her spell craft, nor of her presence in general.

  The king had always been polite but slightly cool towards Marya before, and sometimes Marya had wondered if he had somehow sensed her feelings for him. He was the only person the sisters had ever met who never had any difficulty in telling the two of them apart. Amelia used to joke that it was because he saw through the eyes of love, not knowing how much her words wounded her sister every time they were said.

  The memories of her sister were casting a pleasant, hypnotizing haze over Marya, but that haze was shattered by the sound of a third cry. This cry was weak, petulant, and high-pitched, and it refused to be ignored. Turning her head in astonishment, Marya realized that the sound was coming from the bassinet. She had forgotten about the child.

  Marya waited a moment, but no one else moved towards the sound. She stood shakily, then crossed the room towards the confection of lace and linen that Amelia had assembled for her baby to rest in. Almost fearfully, Marya looked inside.

  At first all she could see was a soft white blanket, being shaken by whatever was hidden beneath it. Marya pulled the blanket back gently, and stared at the child thus revealed. She felt her heart breaking for the second time that day.

  “My lady?” asked one of the waiting women, coming up behind her. “Is there something wrong?”

  When Marya didn’t answer, the woman hustled forward, giving her eyes one last hurried wipe with her apron as she did so. Anxiously, she bent over the bassinet, examining the baby carefully. With a look of relief, she lifted the child into her arms and began soothing it.

  Answering her own question, the waiting woman cooed, “Why no, nothing’s wrong. It’s a perfectly healthy baby girl.”

  “Yes,” said Marya finally, her voice expressionless. “A baby girl.”

  “What should we do with her, my lady?” the woman asked.

  Marya looked up, startled. “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “The child, my lady. She won’t be staying in this room, surely, now that…well, I mean, shou
ld we take her to the nursery? And someone will have to send for the wet nurse, I would think.”

  Marya shook her head as if to clear it. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Yes, that would probably be best.”

  “And you won’t forget about the wet nurse, while you’re making the other arrangements?” asked the woman.

  “Other arrangements?” repeated Marya.

  “Surely there’s a great deal that needs to be taken care of, and who else is there to do it? You wouldn’t expect the king to have to handle it all, the state he’s in, now would you?”

  “No,” answered Marya automatically. “No, of course he must be spared from such things. I‘ll…I‘ll take care of everything. To spare the king.” She paused, blinking rapidly and trying to force herself to think. “Yes, take the child to the nursery, and I’ll make sure that everything you need is sent there. You’ll have to be the child’s nursemaid.”

  “And a delight it will be, I’m sure,” the woman responded, rocking the child in her arms gently.

  “And take that other girl with you,” added Marya, gesturing at the second waiting woman who was still sobbing hysterically into her apron. “She’s not doing anybody any good here.”

  “As you say, my lady,” the woman said quietly. “Would you like to hold your niece for a minute or two?”

  Marya looked at the now sleeping baby in the woman’s arms. “No,” she said after a moment. “Not now.”

  Marya turned away from the woman’s startled expression, and began crossing the room. She very carefully avoided looking towards the bed again, although the continued sounds of the king’s grief threatened to overthrow her tenuous hold on self-control. By the time she reached the door she was almost running, and she pulled it open violently, as if by leaving the room she could escape her anguish.