“A rope,” she said. “A blanket. A ball of twine. Needle and thread. My clothes, if you can get them without any questions.” She smiled, a little sadly. “And any apples that Cook can spare.”
“I will do my best,” said Arrin. He reached out and touched her arm, and it had been so long since a human had touched her that Snow felt her breath catch.
She watched him ride away on his tall brown mare, and when she turned away she shook herself, as if something deep inside had shivered.
It was a hard time at the castle. The midwife spoke to no one. She would have thrown herself on the queen and throttled her with her bare hands, but she knew that her gardener might suffer for it, killed as a co-conspirator perhaps, so she grew quieter and quieter until she did not speak at all, and the gardener had to beg her to eat.
The steward met Arrin’s eyes and knew that Snow was not dead, but Arrin dared not speak and the steward dared not speak, and everyone knew that the huntsman had brought the queen a heart.
The queen’s chambers stank of rotting meat. The maids put sweet rushes on the floor and burned candles and hung bundles of dried herbs over the doors, but the sow’s heart was rotting in its box. They took to wearing cloths dipped in rose oil over their faces, and the first flies of spring scrabbled at the panes.
The queen spoke very little. If she smelled the rotting heart, she did not show it. Occasionally she would stroke the lid of the box as if it were a cat. But she also did not ask the mirror if she was the fairest in the kingdom.
She was troubled.
I do not want you to believe, my readers, that what the queen felt was remorse. When witchblood breaks good, it makes saints, but when it breaks bad, it makes monsters.
No, what troubled the queen was this. Sooner or later, the king would return. He would return with a new bride, most likely (the queen had no illusions about his feelings), and the new woman would be installed in the castle. The king would want to know where Snow was, because any heirs his new wife might beget would find an older daughter an inconvenience. And the steward and perhaps the huntsman would tell him, and then …
“Hmm,” said the queen to the mirror.
On the other hand, removing the steward and the huntsman might prove difficult. The huntsman could be executed, but the queen was aware, however dimly, that when the steward took to his bed with a fever, the household ground to a halt.
The mirror yawned. Spring made it sleepy, and there was enough magic in the old sow’s heart that the smell of it rotting left trails like fingerprints across its glass. “Yes, my queen?” it asked.
“It occurs to me that the king might not be pleased that Snow is dead,” said the queen.
“Possibly,” agreed the mirror. “There is a very large difference between an inconvenient daughter having a convenient accident, and an heir being murdered.” It yawned again. “Particularly if one is already looking for a reason to shed one’s current wife, O queen.”
“We think the same thoughts,” said the queen. She pulled her brush through her hair again.
“I very much doubt that,” said the mirror, and sank back into slumber.
When the peddler came, Snow’s worst suspicions were confirmed immediately.
He was a slovenly man, not neat in his manner, and his donkey looked ill-used and tired. He came with a dozen bulging sacks of potatoes and threw them down on the ground at Greatspot’s feet.
“Here,” he said. “Twelve sacks of potatoes for twelve truffles.”
The sow snuffled at them. “Good clean potatoes,” she said. “Not rotted. But we thought, maybe this year, we might get a little more — ”
“What?” asked the peddler. “One for one, as agreed! Or don’t you have the truffles?”
“They’ve got plenty of truffles,” said Snow, coming out from behind a tree. “They just don’t plan to trade them for potatoes — or not just for potatoes.”
The peddler scowled when he saw her, and something uneasy moved in his eyes. “What? You’re no pig!”
“Very true,” said Snow. “Although I begin to think that’s no great thing.”
He glared at her. Snow had been the target of many glares before, but not from strangers, and part of her wanted to sink back and become quiet and biddable and agreeable.
The other part, the stubborn part that climbed apple trees, said No. He’s stealing from the boars, or as good as. You can’t let him keep doing that. They deserve better.
She put a hand on Greatspot’s back, and found it hot and solid in the cold air.
“We have an agreement,” said the peddler. “Them and me. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He turned back to Greatspot. “Do we have a deal or not?”
Greatspot scuffled her feet and looked at Snow.
“Not,” said Snow firmly.
The peddler drew a deep breath through his nose. “Come on,” he said, turning to Snow, “I’m trying to make an honest living here.”
“An honest living wouldn’t involve trading potatoes for truffles worth their weight in gold.” Snow folded her arms over her chest.
She had been looking forward to seeing another human face. Now she simply wished that he would leave. He looked strange to her after a winter of looking at boars — too flat, too tall, too smooth-skinned.
The peddler took a step toward her, and then Hoofblack rumbled behind her and he thought better of taking another one.
“It’s value for value,” he whined. “They can’t grow potatoes, and I’m the only one who will come into the forest to deal with them. I deserve to make something extra for my time!”
“I wouldn’t begrudge you an honest broker’s fee,” said Snow, thinking of the men who
