Danielle’s mother had remained with her, surviving in the hazel tree Danielle planted in their garden. She had gifted Danielle with a silver gown and glass slippers, allowing her to attend the ball where she met Armand. She continued to defy death to this day, living on in the enchanted glass blade of Danielle’s sword, all for the love of her daughter.
What of Snow’s own mother, Queen Rose Curtana? Rose’s ghost had lingered for years, searching for a way to regain her power. She had plotted with Danielle’s stepsisters, hoping to possess the body of Danielle’s child.
But Beatrice had turned away.
“Why didn’t you stay?” Bea had been more of a mother to Snow than Rose Curtana ever was. If Bea had died naturally, taken by the ailments of age, that would have been one thing. But she could have lived for many more years. She should have lived. Would have, if Snow had been skilled enough to save her. If she had been strong enough.
Snow stared into the mirror. The glass showed only her own face. Black hair dusted with white. Red-veined eyes, swollen and shadowed. Faint wrinkles around the eyes, and laugh lines at the corners of her mouth. With every year, she looked more like her mother.
She picked up the candle. Clear wax burned her fingers as it spilled onto the floor. She should leave. Find Danielle and Talia.
The thought made her wince. Danielle would forgive her for not being there with Bea, but Talia was another story. Talia was angry and hurting. She had known Beatrice a long time. Almost as long as Snow had.
“You’re safe now,” Beatrice had said on that first journey to Lorindar. Snow had woken from a nightmare in the middle of the night, screaming loudly enough to wake half the crew. The smell of burning flesh had been so real. She had thought she was back in Allesandria, reliving her duel with her mother. Beatrice had held her, running her hands through Snow’s hair and whispering softly, “I’ll look after you.”
Snow flung the candle away. It broke into pieces, splattering hot wax over the stone wall.
She stared at the broken chunks of wax for a long time. There were other spells. Spells her mother had known, magic Snow had never tried. Slowly, she reached down to take the largest piece of wax from the floor.
She pressed the wax directly to the mirror, drawing a simple circle. She adjusted her hold, using a corner to sketch the more detailed symbols of binding. A modified summoning circle soon took shape on the glass. She finished the final characters, working Beatrice’s name into the runes, and tossed the wax aside.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Let Queen Beatrice hear my call. Seek her out where e’er she be. Mirror, find my queen for me.” The words spilled forth without thought. The mirror changed, once again showing Queen Beatrice’s lifeless body. Armand and Danielle knelt together at her side. Tears spilled freely down Danielle’s cheeks.
Snow scowled and pushed beyond the image. That was but the body. Where was Beatrice’s soul?
Light filled the mirror, bright as the sun. Snow squinted but refused to turn away. The light spread into the library. She felt as though she were falling into the glass.
She grabbed the mirror’s frame with both hands. Wisps of fog curled from the glass. She peered into the light, trying to see what lay beyond, trying to follow Beatrice’s soul wherever it had gone.
Never had the mirror responded so easily to her will. She felt as though she flew through the sky. In Snow’s hands, the mirror could pierce Heaven itself if that was what it took to find Beatrice.
Sweat made her grip slippery. She tightened her fingers until they cramped. The wax runes began to flake away from the glass.
They didn’t matter. The reflection of the runes remained in the mirror, their power pouring forth in pursuit of the queen.
She blinked to clear the tears from her vision. Her blood battered her head from within as though straining to crack the skull. Her body felt numb, and she clung to the mirror to keep from falling. Through the pain, a part of her marveled at what the mirror had done, reaching out so far in pursuit of the dead. If only she could see beyond the light.
“Come back to us, Bea.” Silence swallowed her words. Snow wasn’t even certain she had spoken aloud. She could no longer make out the library around her. Nothing existed save the light and the place that lay on the other side. The place Beatrice’s spirit had gone.
The first crack made no sound. With her hands clenched around the frame, she felt the glass shift ever so slightly. Pain exploded behind her eyes as she tried to focus not on the light, but on the mirror’s surface, where a white line now curved across the center of the glass.
Beatrice was there. She was so close. Snow could feel the pressure from beyond the mirror, as though Bea was pushing to escape back into this world.
Another crack grew from the center of the mirror, curving up and to the right to create a triangular shard that might have fallen if Snow hadn’t moved her hand to hold it in place.
Lines spread in a starburst from her hand. Fragments of glass no larger than pebbles fell to the floor. Blood dripped down the frame, though Snow hadn’t felt the cuts.
The magic surged like a living thing. She imagined she could hear Talia’s voice, chastising her. How many times had Talia warned her against bending the laws of the universe too far? Push hard enough, and things were going to snap. Even her mother’s mirror had limits. Snow tried to end her spell, but it was far too late.
This was a hell of a time for Talia to be right.
The light faded as the cracks spread through the rest of the mirror. For a moment, Snow saw herself in the reflection, her features distorted by the broken glass. Herself, and something more.
“Oh, Mother. What did you do?”
CHAPTER 2
Danielle squeezed her husband’s hand. “The first time I ever saw her was at the ball,” she whispered. “Beatrice was watching the two of us dance.”
“I didn’t notice,” Armand said, a sad smile on his bearded face. His hair was a rumpled mess, and his eyes were shadowed. Here in this room, away from the world, he allowed the mask of prince to slip, revealing the son who longed for just one more day with his mother. He wiped his cheek, never looking away from Beatrice’s body. “I never wanted a ball in my honor, but she insisted. I never found the words to thank her.”
“She knew,” whispered the king. “Seeing you both, seeing your happiness, was enough.”
Father Isaac folded the queen’s hands together on her chest. The nails were short and chipped. Her wedding ring hung loose on her finger.
“My own stepmother didn’t recognize me,” Danielle said. “My stepsisters glared at me all night long without ever realizing who I was. But Beatrice knew. She knew me the moment I set foot in the great hall. I nearly fled the palace.”
“As I recall, you did flee,” said Armand.
“Not until midnight.” Danielle gave her husband a mock scowl. “Beatrice smiled at me. A small kindness, but enough to tell me I was welcome.”
Even at the end, when pain and weakness imprisoned Beatrice in her bed, she had always smiled with genuine love and affection when Danielle stopped by to visit, or when she brought Jakob to see his grandmother.
Father Isaac straightened and clasped his hands. His fingers moved stiffly, the skin scarred and wrinkled from burns he had received months before. It was strange to see him in such formal black robes. His blood-red collar was starched as stiff as boiled leather. The ruby-capped crucifix around his neck shone like glass. If not for the disheveled curls of his beard and hair, and the compassion in his eyes, he would have appeared a different person altogether.