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“Very well, then,” the Queen answered. “We shall leave that dolt Tilley behind. Never in my life have I been met with such incompetence.”
The Queen laughed, and Verona laughed along. But it was no longer the laughter of camaraderie. The Queen’s laugh was one of power and disdain, and Verona’s was uncomfortable.
That evening, while the Queen was alone in her chamber, she began to feel restless. She had already questioned the Slave today. But that was before Verona had returned.
She needed to call on him again.
She needed to know.
She stumbled through the darkened room, approached the Magic Mirror, and summoned the Slave. Then she asked her question.
“I cannot determine who is fairest with Verona at court, my Queen,” the Slave responded. “Your beauty is so close. Elements of hers almost surpass your own. While elements of yours nearly eclipse hers.”
The Queen fought the impulse to banish Verona—even to kill her. The urge was powerful, but the Queen found an old strength within her, forged around friendship and love, that allowed her to fight harder.
She ripped the curtains from her windows and wrapped them around the mirror. Then she called for Uncle Marcus’s good friend, the Huntsman. He was perhaps the strongest man in the court and could easily perform the task she had at hand. He arrived quickly and she pushed the mirror toward him.
“Take this with you and bury it deep within the forest. Leave no marker to its whereabouts, and never, no matter how I implore you, never tell me where you have buried it—this part is paramount—never tell me where you have buried it! Do you understand?”
“Yes, my Queen,” the Huntsman replied.
“And tell absolutely no one of this conversation or where you have hidden it, and whatever you do, do not seek to know what is wrapped in this cloth. I will know if you have deceived me in any way.”
“I would never deceive you, my Queen. Never. I only wish to seek your favor,” the Huntsman said, bowing.
The Queen watched from her window as the Huntsman rode away on a two-horse carriage, with the Magic Mirror wrapped and stowed in the rear. The Huntsman vanished into the forest, taking with him the thing that had bolstered the Queen since her greatest loss, but which had also become her greatest weakness.
Having Verona at court should have been a great comfort to the Queen, but she couldn’t keep her mind from drifting to the Magic Mirror or its location, and this made her especially bothered and easily agitated.
It was madness that she should be so consumed. Surely if she asked the Huntsman he would have little choice other than to follow her orders. Perhaps after some persuading, he would reveal the location. But would she subject herself to that torment, the knowledge that she was too weak-minded to keep herself from the mirror? And would she have the Huntsman know of this weakness as well?
The days that followed were pure agony. The Queen was so caught up in her need of the Magic Mirror that she was haunted even in her dreams, leaving her sleepless and ill. Every day that she was parted from the mirror, she seemed to become sicklier—so much so that she often felt near to death.
She often woke terrified to a dream that dominated her restless slumber.…
In the dream she was in the forest, frantically searching for the mirror. The canopy of trees obscured the sky, leaving her alone in darkness and in fear. The sisters were there, too—coming and going, and changing shape and form, the way things do in dreams. The Queen would come upon a freshly disturbed mound of dirt and begin digging with her bare hands. Desperate to find the mirror, she would dig for what felt like an eternity, her hands bleeding, her body weak, and her mind spinning out of control. Finally, she would feel something soft and wet covered in cloth. After unwrapping it she would discover there, in the cloth, a heart, its blood pouring all over her hands.
“Momma?” she would hear. It would be Snow, a young girl once again, standing there with a look of terrible sadness on her little face, her white dressing gown covered in blood, dripping from where her heart once was. Her face blank; her eyes hollow and blackened, her skin ashen, and
her expression reproachful. The sisters were always about, giggling their eerie laughter. The Queen would move to scream, but no sound would come, she was so paralyzed with fear.
Every morning she woke, soaked in sweat, anxious from this exact dream, or a similar one. It sent a tremor through her and made her feel weak. She had no control over her own will.
She felt defeated.
One evening she dreamed of the sisters. “Over—there!” they called, standing in the forest, appearing and disappearing under the moonless, midnight sky. “Dig—here—the—Magic—Mirror—your—Slave—” They chattered and laughed, and the moon illuminated their ghastly doll-like faces with a pale blue glow.
And when she awoke the morning after this dream, she found something wrapped in soiled cloth sitting on the floor beside her bed. Her hands, too, were covered in earth, and her nightdress was tattered and caked with mud.
She thought she must still have been dreaming. Or, had she gone into the forest in search of the mirror while she slept? For the first time in more than a week she felt renewed, her strength coming back to her and her sense of self returning. She unwrapped the large object and there—staring back at her—was her reflection. She collapsed on top of the mirror and embraced it like a lost lover returned.
Something within her had changed. Verona was right. She wasn’t the same woman who had married the King those many years ago; she was something wholly different and it frightened her. But it also gave her a sense of strength and of power. She would never be parted from the Magic Mirror again. Her life, her soul, seemed dependent upon it. She tore open the cloth that covered the mirror revealing its face.
“Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
“Your beauty is beyond compare, but Verona is fairest.”
“Perhaps then,” the Queen said, smiling wickedly, “it is time for her to go.”
