Apparently here at the dwarfs’ home we all ate like servants. A lump of bread dough sat rising on a board. I slid it into a dome-shaped oven that was built into the side of the hearth.
Then I picked vegetables from a basket on the floor, cut them up, and added them into the pot. Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the 105/431
pot, nine days old. I used to think that was just a nurs-ery rhyme, not a way of life.
From the kitchen, I heard them discussing me as they came into the main room from outside. “One of us will just have to stay at the cottage and keep an eye on her.
That’s all there is to it.”
“You know we can’t do that. The mine takes all of our time.”
“Let’s see if Widow Hazel wouldn’t take her in during the day, maybe teach her something useful—”
“No, remember when she learned how to knit? Now we’re stuck wearing these dreadful hats.”
“Not so loud! She’ll hear you.” In a lower voice, one of the dwarfs said, “H. A. T. S.” Apparently Snow White didn’t know how to knit or how to spell. I left the soup and stood by the doorway so I could hear them better.
“Besides,” another dwarf said, “we can’t pawn her off on our neighbor forever. We need to find her a proper husband.”
“You’ve tasted her soup. What kind of man would be willing to take her for a wife?” There was a long pause, then one of the dwarfs said,
“One who’s wealthy enough to have a cook. After all, Snow White’s a beauty and from a royal line. And you couldn’t find a more caring lass.” 106/431
A general murmuring of consensus floated around the room and some even threw out names in suggestion, until one of the dwarfs said, “None of those men would have her—not when her head’s as empty as her dowry.” Another murmuring of consensus rose from the room, which I resented. My head was not empty.
“Aye, we’re doomed. We’ll be eating burned bread for the rest of our lives.”
“And chasing after her every time she wanders off into the forest.”
“And worrying that the queen will try to poison her again.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I think Prince Hubert would do nicely for her.”
“Prince Hubert? Who’s he?”
“In the kingdom to the north—he’s the fourth son. Not really in line for the crown, but a decent chap. I hear he’s kind to animals.”
Someone let out a low laugh. “I hear he talks to goats and sheep—in their own language. They don’t talk back, mind you, but he keeps trying. He tells people that one day he’ll make a breakthrough and discover the secrets of animal speech.”
More silence, then someone said, “Well, Snow White sings to the animals. The two of them will never be short of friends.”
107/431
“We should send a message to him.”
“He doesn’t read.”
“Is that smoke coming from the kitchen?”
“I’ll go north and read the message to him myself.” I didn’t hear any more of their conversation because I had to run to check on the bread, which was indeed burning. In my defense, the cook from the last fairy tale always baked the bread. Plus, did they really expect me to pay attention to the food while they were discussing my future with Prince Hubert?
As I pulled the smoldering loaf out of the oven, I tried to remember exactly what I’d told Chrissy I wanted in a guy. I’d said I wanted him to be more than just handsome and rich. He had to be nice and kind. And apparently Prince Hubert was kind. Kind of crazy.
Honestly, was she trying to get my wishes wrong and stick me with horrible guys?
I waved my hands over the bread in an attempt to cool it down. Perhaps I’d taken it out before it was completely ruined. It’s hard to tell with rye bread since it’s dark brown to start with. I hoped it was salvageable because I really didn’t want to look incompetent right now.
I had to present myself to the dwarfs as an intelligent, capable person so they wouldn’t try to marry me off to some half-wit prince before Chrissy showed up again.
108/431
My hand waving wasn’t very effective in cooling off the bread so I decided to flip it off the board, sort of like the way my dad flips pancakes when he makes them.
And that’s what I was doing when the dwarfs came into the kitchen to check on dinner.
Seven faces peered at me from the doorway. They wore seven different colored caps, and now that I saw them all together, I could tell how uneven and poorly knitted they were.
The one in the brown cap gave me a questioning smile. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cooling down the bread.”
“Thank goodness,” a dwarf in a red cap whispered.
“For a moment I thought she was trying to teach it to fly.”
The one in brown elbowed the one in red, then turned back to me. “Why don’t you put it on the windowsill?
That’s always worked in the past.” I put the bread on the windowsill, feeling their gazes still on me. Then I thought of the perfect way to learn the dwarfs’ names. I’d just call out a name and see which dwarf answered me. It would be easy. Ha—and they thought I wasn’t smart.
“Dopey?” I asked.
“Of course you’re not,” the one in the brown cap said.
“You’re just not used to cooking yet.” He went to the 109/431
cupboard, took out a stack of bowls and spoons, and handed them out.
A dwarf in a blue cap went to the soup pot and stirred it. He kept poking the spoon through it as though searching for something, then sighed, disappointed.
“Well, bring over your bowls and we’ll say grace.” The gray-capped dwarf looked into the pot. “Aye, it needs praying.”
“Sleepy?” I called out.
“I am now,” the gray-capped dwarf said. “Think I’ll turn in for the night instead of eating.” I tried one more time, searching the dwarfs’ faces.
“Doc?”
“Don’t be a pessimist,” The brown-capped dwarf said and handed me a bowl. “No one’s gotten sick from eating your food for days now.”
Why was this not working? Should I just come right out and ask them their names? We all took our bowls out to the dining room where a long table with short benches waited for us. One of the dwarfs took the bread from the kitchen windowsill, another brought a cellar of salt. When I sat down, I bumped my knees against the table because it was so low.
The blue-capped dwarf said grace and then they passed around the loaf of rye bread. The custom was to tear off a piece of bread and then pass the loaf to the 110/431
next person. This is what we’d done at the servants’
table when I was Cinderella. But that was when the cook made the bread. As Snow White I’d cooked the loaf so long it had turned into a rye brick, and each dwarf struggled to break a piece off. Finally they took to smacking it against the edge of table in order to get a portion.
The brown-capped dwarf next to me smacked off a piece for himself and then one for me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It will soften right up once it’s soaked in porridge.”
“Thank you.” I dipped my bread into the porridge, blew on it, then put it in my mouth. Only a sense of manners kept me from spitting it back out. I’ve never been a fan of rye bread to begin with, but burned rye bread in bad porridge is worse. I made myself swallow, then took a long drink of water. It was really the only decent thing on the table.
The dwarf in the yellow cap coughed into his napkin, a clear sign that he was spitting his food out instead of eating it. “Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Me? Oh yeah. You know me, I’m just sneezing again.”
“You’re Sneezy?” I asked, glad to at least have one name figured out.
“It’s almost as though I’m allergic to dinnertime,” he said, coughing into his napkin again.