PROLOGUE

Our tale begins quite normally as so many tales do, in Once-Upon-Thyme, that tiny and unusual country. Just like most women’s handbags, it was bigger inside than it appeared to be from the outside. So, while on a map Once-Upon-Thyme was barely the size of a large city, cross its borders and you could lose yourself in an incredible vastness that was riddled with royals, fairies, witches, pretty milkmaids, and courageous shepherds.

Perhaps because its very existence defied logic, attempting to apply reason to Once-Upon-Thyme could only result in the kind of headache normally encountered when disentangling a knotted ball of yarn.

This was a place where shepherds were regularly crowned king, in spite of being utterly unqualified to rule, where medicine was actively discouraged from progressing, because queens were supposed to die in childbirth, and where curses were more prevalent than the common cold.

Our tale therefore begins here, in this odd little country, and specifically within the walls of one of its more lavish palaces. Traditions being incredibly important in Once-Upon-Thyme, certain phrases must always be used when beginning a new story. And it goes something like this.

In Once-Upon-Thyme, there was a prince who had an ardent wish. You could be forgiven for thinking that there was nothing unusual in this—princes are, after all, forever wishing ardently for things—but you’d be mistaken. This is no ordinary tale of princely wishing....

CHAPTER 1

In one of the largest palaces of Once-Upon-Thyme, Prince Charming (for that was, in fact, his name) was in the middle of an embittered battle. Struggling for air amongst the crush of chiffon and tulle, knocking tiaras off heads and setting wigs askew, Prince Charming was attempting as valiantly as he could to find an exit from the hell in which he found himself. Everywhere he turned, another princess, another set of batting eyelashes, another flirtatious smile. Hands reached out for him from every corner, insidiously slipping lace handkerchiefs and favours up his sleeves or down his collar.

Charming ignored the handkerchief assault, for he had now almost reached his salvation: the doors that led out of the ballroom to the balcony that overlooked the garden. With a final and desperate shove of a rotund woman, he managed to expel himself through the double doors and into the cool night air.

The rotund person he had so manfully removed from his way had let out an indignant squawk and was now making such a fuss as to distract and confuse the gaggle of females. Not wanting to waste this opportunity, he hurried down the steps that led to the garden and hid behind a hedge trimmed to resemble a rabbit. He crouched in the darkness, panting, his clothing in disarray.

What Prince Charming desired above all else was to be left in peace. Unfortunately, he was well acquainted with the particular craze that took hold of women when in the presence of a prince—Prince Fever, as he dubbed it to himself—but that didn’t make him any less uncomfortable when confronted with the phenomenon. The affected women went into frenzies of flirting, laughing, mad twiddling of hair, and for some reason he had never been able to fathom, they all went to great lengths to bat him on the arm. The latter was most troublesome since Charming bruised like a peach.

Worse was the fact that the merest flirtatious look threw him into paroxysms of sweating (to say nothing of actual flirtatious comments), so that this latest assault on his person had left his clothing dangerously damp. From behind his rabbit hedge, Charming pulled out the plethora of clandestine handkerchiefs that had hitched a ride in his sleeves, letting them fall to the ground. He found his own handkerchief and dabbed at his moist face.

The cool night breeze helped dry him off, and he lifted his face to it, enjoying this brief moment of peace. The breeze brought him sounds of voices—women calling his name, playfully searching for him among the hydrangeas that lined the balcony. Charming crouched further down. After a while he started to hear impatient sighs and grumbles as it became obvious to the princesses that he wasn’t there.

For a moment he feared that they might push the search to the gardens, but the voices slowly drifted off, swallowed by the faint music that wafted out of the palace doors, until at last some thoughtful soul closed the doors, and the night was blessedly silent once more.

Charming sighed miserably, wondering how long he would be able to stay hidden in the garden this time before he incurred the Motherly Wrath.

A large part of being a prince meant entertaining a bevy of princesses in an endless procession of balls, some masked, some unmasked, with the expectation that he would eventually select one of said princesses to be his wife. His mother would not be swayed on that last point, and since she had decided that his father the King agreed with her in this, as he did in all things, Charming was left with no choice but to comply. But how he was supposed to select a wife from the squawking multitude when he couldn’t bear to speak to them, let alone spend time with them, was beyond him.

A cramp began to crawl up his leg, and he stood up to relieve it, stepping out from behind his hedge.

“Ah, there you are!”

Charming started at the interpellation and, turning, found a woman regarding him severely with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a ballgown, as they all did, but she was somewhat older than his usual pursuers. Quite a bit older in fact. She had grey eyes and a surprisingly hooked nose. That is to say that it protruded more than the button nosed norm he was so accustomed to seeing at every turn.

In fact, there was a distinct lack of prettiness to her features which was highly unusual. Princesses were always pretty, so much so that they all vaguely resembled each other, and Charming had the hardest time remembering who was who.

Charming steeled himself, stoically awaiting the usual assault of flirting, but to his surprise nothing came. The woman was still watching him expectantly. It occurred to him that maybe she was awaiting a reply to her previous statement.

“Yes, here I am,” he said.

The conversational requirements having apparently been met, the woman sprang to life like a toy whose mechanism had been wound up. She marched towards Charming who shrank back reflexively.

“I have been waiting and waiting for someone to show me the gardens. I have heard many good things about your gardener, mainly that he isn’t Cornish, and I’m very interested to see what he has done to your roses.”

While Charming had been bestowed with many qualities at birth, as all princes were, speed of deduction wasn’t one of them, and said speed decreased exponentially when in the vicinity of a member of the female sex. He stared at the woman nonplussed. What was she on about?

“Well, are you going to show me your roses?” she asked, proffering her elbow.

The mist of confusion that had hitherto filled Charming’s mind melted like snow on a furnace. She wanted a tour about the garden! Not only was this not flirting, it was a real and legitimate excuse to stay out of the ballroom. He could have kissed the woman, if propriety, nerves, and inclination had permitted.

Instead, he took her arm and replied, “I’d be delighted to.”

He led her away from the laughter and the music, towards the cool and silent gloom of the rose garden. Never had a sight been more welcome. That was until he realised that as a host escorting a (female) guest through the garden, he should really be offering some sort of commentary on the flowers. Worse, maybe he was expected to rhapsodise about the woman’s beauty in the dark, or some other such nonsense. Charming began to sweat once more. He knew next to nothing about flowers, and how was one supposed to comment on a woman’s beauty when it was too dark to see it? And in any case, she wasn't beautiful.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to sweat for long, as the woman began to monologue at him (or at the night—it was unclear who, if anyone, she was addressing) about the state of the roses. Charming did his best to listen and follow the Unusual Female’s chatter, but he kept tuning off and wandering off into his own thoughts. Every few minutes he would catch himself adrift in reverie, and he would return to the flow of words that poured from the woman’s mouth, much like a man who, despite his best efforts to stay awake, keeps finding himself asleep with his head hanging at an awkward angle.

After a time, it became apparent that no answer was required of him. Not only that, but the Unusual Female didn’t even seem to expect him to pay her any attention.

Charming smiled. What a delightful woman. He followed her through the rose garden, letting her drag him by the arm this way and that, while he ambled pleasantly amongst his thoughts. Just as he reached the conclusion that this was the most pleasant evening he had passed in memory, the Unusual Female anchored herself to a point on the ground, causing him to jerk to an abrupt stop as she still held his arm tightly, thus yanking him out of his reverie.

“Ah!” she exclaimed triumphantly, pointing at a rather haphazard cluster of roses among the bush. “There! There! Nature’s whimsy at its finest. I cannot wait to tell Lowen of this. Would you believe it, he wants all my roses to be symmetrical and evenly distributed, and he proposes to have them enchanted to achieve that end. Have you ever heard anything more preposterous in your life? An enchantment, on my flowers? A little nonsense is to be expected—he is Cornish after all—but that is just poppycock. Don’t worry my dear, I told him. I said, ‘Lowen, you are a gardener of great skill’. He isn’t you know, but I find the best way to deal with the Cornish is to first butter them up with a compliment. Mind you, Lowen is the only Cornishman I know, but he strikes me as particularly representative of his kind—I’m sure you agree. Then I told him, ‘It behoves the professional gardener to know when he is out of his depth. This, my dear Lowen,’ you’ll note how unfailingly polite I remained. ‘This my dear Lowen,’ I said, ‘is one of those instances. Under no circumstance, whatsoever, are we enchanting my roses!’”

This last exclamation was punctuated by the forceful jabbing of her index finger in the air. The gesture startled Charming into retreating as much of his neck between his shoulders as he could, like a frightened turtle. After a couple of blinks he realised that what had ignited the Unusual Female’s passions was either the roses or the gardener, or both, but thankfully not him. By the time he had reached this conclusion, the Unusual Female had departed from the topic of the symmetry of the roses, and she unanchored herself, dragging Charming forward by the arm once more.

“The Cornishman was a whim of my late husband’s you see,” she continued. “You’re wondering why I let him have his way when it is wreaking such havoc with my garden, to say nothing of my nerves. I have to admit, my late husband never interfered with my garden—never. The darling man knew his place was indoors, god rest his soul. So when he told me that his only wish was to have a Cornish gardener, well I couldn’t deny him. He loved their accent, you see. Can’t see why myself—it’s so full of ‘r’s, it’s a wonder they manage to squeeze in any other consonants. Anyway, I let him have this little whimsy. I thought it would be perfectly harmless. Well my dear, what a disaster, I cannot even begin to tell you. Putting up with Lowen’s botanical heresies has frayed my nerves to such an extent…”

Charming tuned out once more, missing the extensive report on the state of the Unusual Female’s nerves, and returning instead to that pleasant state of aloneness with his thoughts. They strolled on from one end of the garden to the other, and two hours passed with what seemed to Charming to be the speed of mere minutes. During this time, he had moved from just thinking this was the most pleasant evening he had ever spent to thinking this was the most amazing woman he had ever met. She brought out the best in him and put him in a state of contentment like no one had ever been able to. That is to say that she left him in peace and neither required him to listen nor respond. He had never felt so happy and at ease. So complete. So understood and appreciated.

Yes, by the time they reached the rhododendron maze, Charming realised that he was utterly, totally, and unequivocally in love.

Finally, he had found the woman for him.

The clock struck ten to midnight as it always did to allow princesses time to leave before their spells, curses, and other enchantments ran out. Charming turned to gaze adoringly at the newfound love of his life. As he did, the fog of adoration parted long enough for him to realise that the Unusual Female was dragging him back to the palace at brisk speed. No doubt heeding the call of midnight. His blunt powers of deduction told him he only had a few minutes before they were back at the ballroom, where he would once again be drowning in feminine charms and would therefore lose the opportunity to ascertain his love’s name along with his ability to speak or think.

For the first time in his life, Charming felt a wave of assertiveness wash over him. He acted. Decisively.

“I say, we haven’t even been introduced,” he said. “I—”

“Oh yes, quite right. Petunia, Queen of Viridi.”

Queen? Charming would have been startled into stopping if the Unusual—that is Petunia—wasn’t still dragging him forward by the arm.

There were very strict rules as to who a prince could marry. Princesses and any kind of pauper were fair game, but the bourgeoisie was wholly off limits (whoever heard of a prince falling in love with the middle classes?).

Charming wasn’t sure where a queen featured on the eligibility spectrum. Of course kings married queens all the time, but that was always after their first wife had died, generally in childbirth, and then they always married evil women, most often witches.

Charming had no dead first wife, he wasn’t a king, and Petunia didn’t seem like an evil woman or a witch, despite her slightly hooked nose (in fact now that he had had time to get used to it, it wasn’t so much hooked as charmingly pronounced.) His brow knotted with concern. This was problematic. But, princes were, after all, supposed to conquer insurmountable obstacles to win their fair ladies. He would simply have to find a solution, which would no doubt require a significant number of hours spent in the library researching the matter.

Cheered by the prospect of uninterrupted time with his precious books, Charming turned to inform Petunia of his plans and of their forthcoming engagement. He was shocked to discover that, unbeknownst to him, his arm had been released, and Petunia had climbed the stairs to the balcony, reaching the double doors that led back to the ballroom. This was so startling a development (no woman save for his mother had ever walked away from Charming before) that he could do nothing but gape as she disappeared into the sea of bustles and petticoats. He only had the time to notice that she had steel-grey hair, a fact the night had kept from him till then, before she was swallowed up by the light and the laughter and the whispers of silk.

Charming remained in the darkness, mulling over the events of the evening. It occurred to him then that he hadn’t had the chance to introduce himself. Did Petunia even realise who he was? No matter, he would simply introduce himself when he informed her of their engagement. For now though, the library awaited.

Prologue

It all started with an unfortunate hiccup.

The whole court, in fact the whole kingdom (it was a rather small kingdom, to be fair, barely more than a town, a couple of small villages, and a bit of forest around it all) was gathered in the Great Hall. A sense of expectation and excitement hung in the air. Breaths were held, and all eyes were riveted on the dais at the back of the hall.

Huge, arched stained-glass windows diffused beautifully coloured light across the crowd. The brightest and most colourful light, which issued from the largest, most colourful circular window, fell on the matching twin thrones.

But that wasn't what the crowd watched so raptly. It was the pretty carved wooden crib in front of the thrones. The crib had been carved, it was said, by the king's own hand during the queen's pregnancy. People whispered about this among themselves. That a king would stoop to carve a crib was proof of his love and devotion to his wife and baby girl.

The king stood beside the crib, one hand resting on the edge of it. He looked at his daughter with a mixture of love and terrible sadness.

The people murmured some more to each other. So tragic how his wife had died in childbirth. Such a beautiful, kind woman, too. So tragic for the king to be left alone to raise the princess. Some wagging tongues said it wouldn't be long before he remarried. A girl needs a mother, after all.

The huge double doors of the Great Hall opened with a dramatic crash that startled every-one into silence. The crowd turned as one to watch the new arrival, and gasps shivered in the air.

Her shadow preceded her, the bright afternoon light silhouetting her. The courtiers and villagers parted before her like the sea opening for a prophet, the only sound the scuffling of boots and the whisper of fabric against the stone floor.

The fairy godmother wore a solemn expression and a blue dress, her russet hair pinned up in a rather haphazard bun. She wafted down the alley made by the parted crowd, her feet a few inches off the ground, occasionally breaking her solemn demeanour to smile benevolently at someone or nod a greeting.

An astute observer might have noticed a slightly smudged quality to her smile.

While she was busy smiling to her right, she lost track of her direction, drifting too far left and bumping into a man. The impact caused her to lose balance a little, but she righted herself quickly, with only a slight pinwheeling of her arms that knocked just the one wig askew.

An astute observer with a keen sense of smell might have noticed that there was an undertone to her perfume. An undertone that was strongly redolent of brandy.

The fairy godmother continued her progress, wafting up the stairs. She missed in her evaluation of the last step and caught her left foot on it, stumbling a little in the air, but this time righted herself without upsetting any wigs—there weren't any within arm's reach.

The fairy godmother landed daintily next to the crib, her feet finally touching the ground. The king looked up at her wordlessly. He nodded once and took a step back, giving his permission for her to perform the birth blessing.

The fairy godmother nodded in response, and she approached the crib.

An astute observer might at this point have noticed the way her feet shuffled when she walked, or the clumsiness of her hands as she reached for the crib.

But there was, sadly, no astute observer present. The crowd gazed at the scene, too entranced by the magic that was about to take place, and the king was too lost to his grief.

The fairy godmother looked fondly down at the baby. A pretty baby, she was. Perfect, smooth skin, with a little puff of black fuzz on her head, and a perfect rosebud mouth, ever so slightly open as she slept. But then again, babies were all pretty, and princess babies even more so.

The fairy turned to the crowd. Now was not the time for cooing over the babe; it was time for pomp and circumstance, for ceremony and magic. For drama and awe and wonder—three things the fairy godmother was rather fond of.

She raised both hands. The crowd looked up as one, following her movement as if she were a puppeteer controlling their strings. She reached out into the air next to her and plucked a magic wand as if it had been floating there the whole time.

The crowd gasped, whispered, and leaned in, craning to see better. The fairy godmother's solemn expression faltered, letting slip her smugness and enjoyment at the attention.

Since an astute observer was lacking, no one noticed the gentle way she swayed on her feet, the unfocused glaze in her eyes, the cloud of brandy vapour surrounding her.

The fairy godmother raised her wand.

"[grandiose] I hereby begin the blessing birth, I mean, the birth blessing."

She stifled a hiccup with her spare hand, the sound echoing loudly in the expectant and silent Great Hall. She cleared her throat gently, not at all put out by this.

"I hereby name this baby..."

Magic gathered thick on the air. No magic in Once-Upon-Thyme was more potent than that of a naming. The crowd held their breath for this most sacred moment in the life of their princess, their future queen, this moment that would determine the princess she would be.

"[grandiose] I name her Snow [hic] White."

The fairy godmother's eyes widened with shock, her reaction matched by the crowd. A stunned silence hung in the air for a couple of heartbeats.

"Snow Is White?" the crowd whispered, confused. "What kind of name is that?"

But the magic had already settled. The name had been pronounced, and it could no longer be undone.

"Er, yes." The fairy godmother cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. "And, of course, I grant the princess the usual beauty, um..." She thrust two fingers into her corset to fish out a crumpled piece of paper. "Ah, yes. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as night." The fairy godmother waved her wand efficiently a few times over the crib. "Sweetness and light, friend of the birds and the small creatures, all who love her in return. Gentle and kind. All the princess things. There we are now. There we are."

She cleared her throat again and glanced about the crowd, conspicuously not looking at the king. "There. I declare this baby named." She carefully avoided repeating the name. "Righty-ho, well, gotta dash. Another baby to name, you know. Things to do, places to be." She turned to the king briefly and patted his hand. "Terribly sorry your wife died, of course. Such a tragedy." She glanced awkwardly one final time at the crowd. "Er, yes. Wonderful. Blessings and happiness on all present."

She waved her wand and disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.

A little beyond the castle walls, on the side of the large dirt road that led away from the castle, the fairy godmother reappeared in a puff of smoke. She coughed and fanned the air around her to dispel the smoke. Then, with a satisfied nod, she dusted off her skirts.

"Job well done," she said to no one in particular.

The afternoon was pleasant, the sun golden, making the fresh leaves on the nearby bushes look bright and vibrant.

"Mirabelle," an eight-year-old girl whispered, poking her head out from behind a bush. Mirabelle jumped, squawking.

"Grimhelda!" Mirabelle pressed a hand to her ample bosom. "You startled me. What on earth are you doing, skulking back there?"

The girl stepped out from behind the bush. She was uncommonly pretty, with thick blonde hair, fine features, and large grey eyes lined with thick lashes. Womanhood wasn't yet on her, and already it was clear she would be devastatingly beautiful as an adult.

"I wanted to get a look at the naming, but I'm not allowed to go in there."

"Of course not. But you'll have plenty of time to nose around once you live there."

Grimhelda bit her lip and glanced at the castle. "What's he like? The king?"

"I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him, but you know, the usual. Kind, beset with grief, dotes on his daughter, mourns his wife." Mirabelle hiccuped, not quite managing to catch the sound in her left fist.

"I can't believe I'm going to have to marry him." Grimhelda made a face. "Yuck. He's so old."

"You're not marrying him for another ten years," Mirabelle reminded her. "And he's only twenty-three now, which is far from old. Take it from me. I thought he was pretty handsome, grief notwithstanding..."

"I wish I was never marrying him. I don't want to be married."

"Well, at least wicked queens are never married for very long."

"That's true." Grimhelda smiled. "And the baby? What's she like?"

"Hard to tell when they're that small. I expect she'll be very normal for a princess. Sweet, patient, kind. You know, the usual."

"And her name?"

A flash of discomfort skittered across the fairy godmother's features. "Mind your own business," she sniffed. "You're not married into that family yet."

"I'm going to be in ten years, so I might as well find out now the name of the girl who's going to be my"—Grimhelda shivered—"stepdaughter." She made a face again. "Ugh. I don't want a stepdaughter. I don't think I ever want children."

"Well, you can find out your future stepdaughter's name in due course," Mirabelle said primly. "Anyway, little girls shouldn't pry."

“I can find out by myself,” Grimhelda countered. “I’ve got my own magic, remember, since I’m to become a wicked queen.” She frowned in concentration for a moment, and then her eyes widened with confusion. “Snow Is White? That’s really what you named the baby? What kind of name is that?”

“The name her mother wanted for her,” Mirabelle replied defensively.

Grimhelda raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me the late queen wanted to give her daughter a sentence for a name, complete with verb?”

Mirabelle hiccuped before she could reply. Grimhelda sniffed and then gasped.

“You’re drunk!”

“Am not. I just had a bit of brandy before the naming ceremony, that’s all. I always have a snifter of brandy before an important moment. To steady the nerves, you know.”

Grimhelda rolled her eyes. “You’ve never been nervous a day in your life.”

“I’ll have you know that I have a delicate disposition with nerves that are easily frayed and that require care.”

“Ha, you’re as delicate as I’m old.”

“I’ll thank you not to talk to me like that,” Mirabelle snapped. “You’re eight; you’re not supposed to sass fairy godmothers.”

“I’m not a normal eight-year-old,” Grimhelda replied. “Plus, I’m supposed to be unpleasant—I’m destined to be a wicked queen.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t answer to you. I named the baby, as I was supposed to, and that’s all there is to it. Now, I’ve got to dash. Another baby to name. Um...”

She fished the piece of crumpled paper from her corset once more.

“Ah, yes. Adrianna - Better run.”

“Wait. You’re just going to leave me?” Grimhelda asked in a small voice, all her previous confidence and sass gone.

Mirabelle paused and gave the girl a kindly look, reaching out to pat her cheek. “Don’t think too much about your future as a wicked queen, my sweet. Enjoy these years you have for now, when you have your freedom, before the storylines start to truly set the wheels of your life in motion.”

“I wish I didn’t have to become a wicked queen,” Grimhelda whispered. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Mirabelle leaned over, her breath rich with the smell of brandy. “If you want to know what I think, better to be a wicked queen than a princess. They tend to live longer, for one, and you get to do what you want for most of that time. If you were a princess, you’d have to be locked in a tower or made mute or something. And as a wicked queen, once the prince comes along and boots you out of the castle, you get to live out your days peacefully retired, away from all this nonsense."

Grimhelda nodded. "Yes, then I can have a small cottage. I can fill it with books, get a pretty tea set and a cat, and I'll be happy."

"Exactly. The wicked queen is an unpleasant but short interlude before you get there. Now, pet, I really have to run. I'm going to... What's it called again? Ah, yes, Veridi Castle. They're expecting me for more than just a naming. I'm to be the fairy godmother in residence."

"You're staying there for good? Why can't I have a fairy godmother to watch over me?"

Mirabelle sighed. "Wicked queens don't get a fairy godmother, you know that. That's why you have your own magic."

"But that means I'm all alone." Grimhelda's eyes brimmed with tears.

Mirabelle glanced around, making sure they were far from prying eyes. Fairy godmothers weren't supposed to comfort wicked queens in waiting, after all. "Tell you what, I'll come visit you regularly, then it will be like you do have a fairy godmother. How does that sound?"

The girl brightened at that, and Mirabelle grabbed her into a hug. "Aw, my pet, fairytales aren't easy."

"Fairytales suck." Grimhelda's voice was muffled against the fairy's shoulder.

"Unfortunately, we don't have a choice but to live by them." Mirabelle stepped back. "And now I really have to dash. I shouldn't have booked two namings back to back. Bad enough that I—"

"Screwed up the first one?" Grimhelda asked, grinning.

"Hush now."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks, pet."

Grimhelda gave a wicked grin, a flash of the queen she would become. "People are too stupid to think for themselves and notice, anyway."

Mirabelle frowned. "You shouldn't say such things."

Grimhelda shrugged. "Well, it's true."

Mirabelle patted her cheek. "I'll be back to see you soon." When Grimhelda's eyes filled with worry again, Mirabelle paused. "And once your storyline truly starts, once you marry the king, if you need me, you can call for me, and I'll come to you. It will be fine, Grimhelda. All will work out. Fairytales always do."

And the fairy godmother winked out.

Chapter 1

The knock at the door was discreet, deferential. “Your Royal Highness?”

Grimhelda was sprawled across her bed, still in her nightdress, a thick book open in her hands. Several piles of books were scattered across the foot of her bed, with more on the floor. The room was opulent, with silk drapes at the windows and gilding on the furniture. An inordinate number of mirrors covered the walls, with an additional triptych at the vanity and a selection of silver hand mirrors on the nightstand.

Grimhelda didn't like having so many mirrors, but it couldn't be helped. A wicked queen, especially one as beautiful as her, was supposed to preen and be obsessed with her appearance. Well, in truth, a part of Grimhelda enjoyed the mirrors, just as she enjoyed the attention, the looks. Being beautiful was a nice thing, after all. Who didn't want to be stunning?

But she also knew her looks would get wrenched away when the Happy Ever After came, so she was trying to control the vain part of her. The Happy Ever After meant she'd be forced to leave the castle as an ugly spinster, a prematurely wrinkled old woman, to go live out her days in solitude in a little cottage lost in the woods, forgotten and irrelevant.

But Grimhelda still held on to the plan she'd made as a child. The cottage would be filled with books. It would have a cat—black, of course. There would be a nice tea set. There'd be shelves with dried herbs and spices and a small fireplace. It would be a cozy haven, a place she could read all day, every day, without anyone bothering her. Grimhelda's plans for retirement sounded blissful—far better than being a beautiful, wicked queen forced to rule over a kingdom she didn't want.

The knock at the door came again. Grimhelda turned the page, ignoring it. The knock came a third time, a little more insistent this time. “I know you're there, Royal Highness.” The last was added in irritatingly polite and gracious tones, the kind that set her teeth on edge.

Grimhelda made an angry huffing sound, throwing herself back on her bed, book against her chest.

“What, Bradford?” she snapped.

The door opened, and a small, neat man entered. He wore a sober midnight-blue suit with a discreet gold pin at his breast to indicate that he was her chief adviser. His hair was hidden beneath a tidy grey wig, and the pouches beneath his eyes spoke to the late and sleepless nights he spent poring over the finance ledgers. Grimhelda did an excellent job of squandering what little money the kingdom could scrounge from the perpetual winter.

“There’s an issue with the village mill,” Bradford said.

Grimhelda sighed. “There’s always an issue with the village mill.”

“It’s all the snow and ice,” Bradford said carefully.

“Yes, yes. I know. The snow and ice that descended on the kingdom ever since I became wicked queen.” She threw Bradford a look. “I wasn’t supposed to rule for this long. I was supposed to swan in, be beautiful and vapid and mean for a few years. Then Snow was supposed to meet a prince, get married, Happy Ever After, all the snow and ice disappears, and I get booted out of the castle and into retirement.”

Bradford cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.” He never liked it when she referred to things in such a straightforward manner.

“I don’t want to rule, Bradford. In fact, I’m not meant to rule. I’m meant to say things like ‘less is more’, or ‘thin is in’, or ‘if they can’t make bread, then let them eat cake’. Preferably while wearing a negligé that’s worth more than a year’s income for a villager.”

“Yes,” Bradford said.

“I’m not supposed to be the good one,” Grimhelda added pointedly. “I’m the wicked one, and I’m very good at it. It’s not my fault the good one is so useless at playing her role.”

“Yes,” Bradford said.

“It’s not my fault that my reign is lasting way longer than it should.” Grimhelda was growing annoyed. “I didn’t want this—nobody wanted this.”

“Yes,” Bradford said.

“Oh my goodness, man!” She tossed her book aside, throwing her hands in the air. “Stop harassing me in this way. Fine, fine! You win. I’ll go sort out this mill issue. But you better make sure nobody knows about it. If anyone hears that I fixed the mill, I will wring your throat myself.”

“Absolutely.” Bradford’s small smile was ever so irritating.

“I mean it, Bradford. If I hear the slightest good thing said about me, I will roast your feet over the fire.”

“Of course.”

“I will douse you with honey and feed you to the ants. I’ll turn you into a flea and send you to live on the back of a cantankerous swamp beast. I’ll turn you into a toad and have your pustules squeezed daily for poison to put in my potions.”

“You can rest assured, Highness, that I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“I hope not,” Grimhelda groused. “I worked damn hard to build my reputation as a wicked queen, and it’s not for people to suddenly start thinking well of me.”

“Of course not.”

“In fact, after I’m done, you should tell the people that the queen has spent all their taxes on anti-wrinkle cream.”

“I will say that to the exact word. Might I suggest the addition of a facial made of goblin snot?”

Grimhelda wrinkled her nose. “Ew! Is that a thing?”

“Apparently so. I’m told of a beautiful witch who’s also trying to keep her looks, and she swears by them.”

“What do you mean, ‘also trying to keep her looks’?” Grimhelda shot an automatic look at the nearest mirror to check her beauty hadn’t suddenly collapsed like a bad soufflé.

But all was fine. Her thick blonde hair was a shining cascade down her back. Her skin was smooth and firm, her grey eyes wide and crystalline.

“Err, I mean that unlike your beauty, which is completely natural, she’s having to resort to all kinds of concoctions.”

“Well done, Bradford, good save.” She gave her mirror a quick smile to check her teeth were still nicely white and even.

“Thank you, Highness.”

“And yes, you may tell the people that I slather goblin snot on my face.”

Grimhelda turned to grab the book she’d tossed away earlier and flicked back to her page, reassured that all was still well.

“Of course. So...does that mean Your Highness will take a look at the mill?”

Grimhelda rolled her eyes to the sky.

“Your Highness did say—”

“Yes, yes.” She shut her book with a huff. Such a good book, too. It took place in a tropical city, and the main character was an assassin with a fear of blood. She found him rather entertaining.

She shuffled to the edge of her bed and clambered down. It was a tall bed—not as tall as the pea princess’s, of course, but still tall enough to be as imposing as was needed for a wicked queen.

Bradford beamed. “Thank you, Highness. You’ll also be pleased to hear that Snow Is White has a visitor.”

Grimhelda spun around, her nightdress whirling around her. “A visitor? What visitor? Is it a prince?”

“...Yes.”

“And you waited this long to tell me? Bradford! What is wrong with you? This could be a potential suitor!” She sprinted out the door, her book entirely forgotten.

“What about the mill?” Bradford called behind her.

“It can wait!” Grimhelda shouted over her shoulder as she rushed out into the corridor. “In the meantime, just tell the villagers that thin is in and to eat cake!”