The old woman took a step forward, looking down at the apple in her hand. Snow, half involuntarily, took a step back. She was almost on the doorstep of the den now. The walls rose low and solid behind her.
“From the tree in the courtyard,” said the old woman. She took another step forward, extending her hand. “Take it. It’s for you.”
Snow reached out her hand and took the apple.
It fit perfectly into her hand. The skin was crisp green silk. If she bit into it, it would be tart and sweet and the juice would run down her chin.
It was beautiful. It was the essence of autumn. And there was a green haze on the trees, because the world was in springtime now, and autumn was a long way off.
Snow looked up. There was a strange shine under the dimness of the woman’s eyes, like clouded mirrors.
“How do you have ripe apples in spring?” said Snow.
Rage flashed over the old woman’s face, so stark and sudden that Snow recoiled. The apple fell from her hand and struck the stone doorstep. The ripe skin split open.
“How dare you!” hissed the old woman.
“I’m sorry — ” Snow began, but the old woman did not stop.
“How dare you stand there? When I made you?”
The smell of the apple’s flesh rose up around them, rotten-sweet. Snow had time to think What? What did I do to make her angry? and then the old woman’s hands closed around her throat.
They fell backward together into the den. Snow clawed at the old woman’s hands, feeling her throat slam shut, unable to get a breath in or out. Her pulse pounded in her head like drums.
“Who?” cried the old woman. “Who?”
Who is she talking to? Snow thought. She’s mad, she’s gone mad, if I can get her hands off I can tell her I’m not who she’s looking for I can’t breathe —
She got her fingers underneath one of the woman’s swollen-knuckled hands and wrenched it loose. The other was digging deep trenches in her flesh, but she got half a ragged breath into her lungs before the old woman got another grip.
There was no breaking this one. Her fingers were strong, frighteningly strong, strong as tree roots grinding stones.
And then the old woman screamed, a high cracked note, and the hands fell away. Snow stumbled back, away, hands going to her neck.
Ashes, shy timid Ashes, had sunk her teeth into the old woman’s thigh.
Snow had fallen into the habit of thinking of Ashes as small, compared to the horse-sized boars, but Ashes weighed three hundred pounds and had canine teeth like daggers. She jerked her head and the old woman fell across the sow’s back, shrieking.
Someone was making a terrible noise — ahh-hunggh — ahh-hunhggh — with a gurgle in it. Snow had a dreadful feeling that if she listened too closely, she’d find that it was coming from her own throat.
I have to do something — help Ashes — the poker, in the fireplace —
The old woman screamed again — and then Ashes squealed and there was a sharp crack! Snow thought she must be going mad, or she was going to faint, because it seemed to her that something picked Ashes up and flung her — flung her across the den, into the wall, where she struck and slid down and lay boneless against the floor.
(It was the witchblood, of course. Witchblood protects itself, even if the owner can’t. If you don’t believe me, go out and spill a great deal of it, and see how long you keep hold of the knife.)
Panting, the old woman staggered back to her feet. One leg dragged useless behind her, but she was too close and too fast and Snow was too far from the door.
“Tell me who is fair!” she cried, and her tree-root fingers reached for Snow again.
“I don’t know!” Snow tried to say, but her throat was ruined and she gagged on blood when she tried to speak.
The old woman slammed into her, half-falling. Snow went to one knee, feeling blindly for the poker.
“Fair,” said her attacker, “fair fair fair!” It no longer sounded like words, but like the hunting cry of some strange beast.
Snow’s hands closed over something, just as the old woman’s hands closed over her throat.
It was a bad angle for both of them. The woman had to adjust her grip, and that gave Snow time to grab with the other hand, brace herself, and swing.
Not with the poker. With the gigantic frying pan that the boars used to cook potatoes.
The great iron slab struck the old woman in the side, and one corner caught the wound where Ashes had bit her. Iron touched witchblood and set it burning.
The old woman made a sound that Snow had never heard before and hoped to never hear again, a high, bitter wail, and fell to the floor. She fell partly on top of Snow, still wailing, and Snow croaked her disgust and scrabbled backward, dropping the pan, unable to think of anything except the desperate need to get away.
But it was over. The old woman’s limbs drew in on themselves, jerkily, like a dying spider. Her flesh collapsed as the witchblood boiled away, splitting across her cheeks and puckering into the hollows of her bones.
Snow thought she looked as if she had died a long time ago.
But what do I know? I can barely breathe … and those spots on my eyes weren’t there a minute ago …
Her whole body buckled. It was a very strange sensation and she seemed to fall over very slowly onto her side, and then even that was too much, and she was lying on her back.
Two things, thought Snow, gazing up at the ceiling. There was a darkness seeping in around the corners of her vision. My life came down to two things. Knowing that truffles are worth more than potatoes, and knowing that you don’t
