overwhelming.
“Look,” he said, pointing up.
There was a scaffold, and on top of it, a man applying pigment to the ceiling. Sketched across it was a massive work, with full figures and animals and clouds and fields. Only part of it had been painted.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A unicorn hunt,” he said, “designed and painted by one of the world’s masters.”
“That’s him?” I asked.
“Yes, the great Bernard Morel. And these are his helpers and apprentices. I’ve set up a studio for them here.”
I walked farther in and focused more closely on the ceiling. The flank of the unicorn was already a glowing white, and slowly the scene came to life before me—the hunters lying in wait, the unicorn’s horn stretched out in front of it. The scent of paint fell away and instead I felt as if I’d been transported back into the woods, tracking the magical beast glowing above us. I’d never imagined such wonders that could be made at the hand of a man. This was its own kind of magic, I realized.
“It’s fantastic,” I said.
Josef called to the artist and asked him to step down and meet me. I trembled with the import of that moment, seeing that someone as talented and blessed as the small, weathered man would bow down before me and call me his queen.
“It is an honor,” I said, “to meet you and see you work.”
“The honor is mine, Your Grace,” the artist said. “I feel I’m in the presence of a creature even more rare than the mythical unicorn.”
Josef smiled, looking from Bernard to me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Perhaps you will paint her portrait when you have finished this room,” Josef said.
“It would be my pleasure.”
I was thrilled, but at the same time hated to think of myself as one of the faces on those walls, to think of future men and women standing in front of the canvas and staring at my face, imagining what I’d been like once.
“I have many plans,” Josef said, as we walked back into the hallway. “This is why an heir is so important, to secure the kingdom and the Chauvin line, and to continue to make us great after I’m gone.”
“I do not think that will be a problem, my king,” I said, smiling up at him.
We continued walking down the hallway, and I discovered that the unicorn ceiling was not the only masterwork in progress. In another room, a man was sculpting a large statue from a block of marble, the figure of a centaur emerging from it. In another, a group of painters was at work on a large altarpiece for the chapel, with winged angels dropping from the heavens.
“It will do Snow White good,” he said, “to have a brother.”
I thought it was doubtful that she would want a brother surpassing her to the throne, but I kept quiet. “I am sure it will,” I said. “But in the meantime, I will try to be a good mother to her.”
My voice caught, as I said those words. It surprised me, how much I liked the idea.
10
A few days later, I arranged a meeting between myself and Snow White in the gardens. It was a glorious afternoon as I waited for her, after a morning of heavy rain. The gardens were in full bloom. Tall hedges created a labyrinth structure, and paths stretched from every side, lined by herbs and flowers and wonderful trees that looked like hats, draped in bell-shaped white and purple blossoms. My hair was loose and falling on the ground around me, collecting wet grass and petals, the thrum of life vibrating along the strands. In the distance, mountains rose into the sky. The air smelled of honeysuckle and wet earth.
Snow White appeared at the castle door and I studied her as she approached. She was dressed in a red cloak the same color as her lips. She seemed oddly formal, as usual, a worried look on her face.
“Hello,” I said.
“Your Highness,” she replied, curtsying shyly.
I nodded to her nurse, who stepped back. Two guards appeared behind her.
“Shall we walk together?” I asked.
She nodded, and we set out side by side. Her back was perfectly straight, her hair braided about her head.
“How old are you?”
“I am seven,” she said.
“And you study a great many things?” I asked.
She looked at me, seeming to find the question confusing. “Yes.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
There was a long pause before she answered. “I like to study poetry,” she said.
“Oh, like your father.”
“My mother loved poetry,” she said, and she turned her head to look straight at me.
I felt awkward, trying to talk with her. Behind us, her nurse and two guards followed. In front of us, the world opened into a series of manicured gardens.
“Did she?” I asked. “And you? You are a lover of poetry?”
“Yes. And I sing, and can dance. I would like to write poetry, like my mother.”
“Your mother was a very talented woman.”
“I know. Is it true you are a witch?”
I stopped, and was unable to hide my surprise. “What did you say?”
She stared right up at me, unafraid, her eyes so blue they were nearly lavender. “Is it true you are a witch?”
“Who told you that?”
She shrugged. “I have heard people speak of it. They say my father has gone mad.”
“Do you think he’s gone mad?”
She seemed to seriously consider the question. “He was very upset when my mother died.”
“Of course he was. I’m sure everyone was. It must have been very devastating for you.”
She nodded, and suddenly looked as if she were about to cry. Her sadness already weighed on me too heavily, so strong it was already latching itself onto my hair, moving into me. I desperately did not want her to cry.
“Look, some elderberries,” I said quickly, pointing to bunches of the dark berries. “Do you know what these can be used for?”
“No.” She stepped closer to me, looked down at them intently. She plucked a berry from the plant and rolled it between her fingers. “I think the cooks make jam with them.”
“They can also help cure someone sick from influenza, when they’re mashed and used in a tea. That’s what people mean, when they say witch. I know how plants can help us.”
She stared up at me with a wondering expression. “What about this?” she asked, pointing to a thick plant with yellow blossoms nearby.
I made sure no one was looking, and pulled off a leaf.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
She did, her eyelashes like brushes against her pale cheeks.
“When I rub this leaf against your eyelid, you’ll see the face of the man you’re meant to marry.”
I swept the leaf over her eyelids, and she gasped, blinked her eyes open.
“And who did you see?” I asked.
“My cousin!” she said.
“Oh?”
