The Queen’s father smirked. “Clearly you have bewitched him, daughter,” he said as the Queen watched the King’s convoy ride off, disappearing as it dipped below a hill, only to reemerge on the next incline, seemingly smaller and certainly farther away.
She sat in her small, spare room that evening, gazing out her window at the star-speckled sky. Could the King be thinking of her this night? she mused as she gazed at the stars, imagining her mother looking over her, flying through the darkness; the jewels of her dress sparkling, camouflaging her among the blanket of celestial lights that twinkled in the night sky. She imagined that she was flying alongside her mother, gazing at dying suns and seeing others burst to life. She was surrounded by luminescent stardust, floating in darkness dotted with brilliant iridescence. It was the memory of the King that brought her back to her humble room.
She was sure he wouldn’t come back for her.
Soon after the King’s departure, the Queen suffered a new loss—her father.
In the days following her father’s death, her own life was infused with light. It was as though in leaving this world, he brought all darkness with him and left her in a place where she might be able to find, if not love and happiness, at least something more than she had had up till now.
On the day her father died—before word had traveled to the King or anyone else in the land—the Queen brought every one of his mirrors out into the light. She hung the smaller ones from a giant maple tree on their grounds. It was remarkable. The mirrors swayed in the breeze, catching the sunlight and reflecting it in the most magnificent and unusual ways. Rays and beams of light danced upon the maple leaves. Reflections, like tiny playful sprites, dotted the house and the grounds.
Soon, travelers from far and wide came to see the beautiful tribute she was making to her father.
Including the King.
“Your eyes are sparkling brilliantly in the light reflected from your father’s mirrors,” said the King, standing under a dazzling sun.
The bright light was shining into her dark eyes, turning them a light caramel color. The King told her she was enchanting. A terror seized her. Enchanting. What if her beauty were just that, as her father had claimed—an enchantment? Should she deceive such a kind, loving man? Or was it possible that she really possessed some kind of beauty?
The King made his way inside her house, and unsure of what to do, she followed him.
“Is this a portrait of you?” the King asked, looking at the only decoration in the living space of the tiny home.
“That was my mother, Sire. I never knew her.”
“The resemblance is uncanny.”
“I wish I were as beautiful as she was.”
“You look almost exactly like her. You must see it.”
The Queen just looked at the portrait in wonderment, wishing his words were sincere, but unable to take them as anything but flattery from someone who must have needed something from her. Her father’s estate perhaps? The remaining mirrors? Whatever it was that the King wanted, it could not have been her.
But over time, and many visits, it seemed that she was all that the King wanted. Her life began to seem like a dream: light, ethereal, and breathtaking. The King’s people embraced her. Around fires to the melody of a minstrel’s harp, the entire kingdom—and even beyond—sang of the beautiful daughter of the renowned maker of mirrors, who had stolen the heart of the King.
Verona interrupted the Queen’s thoughts, bringing her back to the present. “The court, in fact, the kingdom, is filled with throngs wishing to glimpse their new Queen. We had best make our way.”
The Queen smiled.
“And what a fine trio we will make walking in procession,” she remarked as she took Verona and Snow by the hands and proceeded to the wedding celebration.
Verona had not exaggerated. Huge crowds were gathered outside, and the Queen could see this through the small windows that dotted the wall as she descended the spiral stairway. Among the crowd, the Queen recognized the King’s most beloved uncle, Marcus, who caught a glimpse of her through the window and smiled. He was a large man, unkempt and jolly-looking. The Queen remembered that his wife, Vivian, had recently fallen ill. And yet—he was here for his nephew. He was standing with his dear friend, the court’s Huntsman, who was a handsome man, well built with dark eyes, hair, and beard.
There were kings and consorts from far and wide. And the King’s three strange cousins, who dressed oddly and stuck closely together. They smiled in unison and tilted their heads thoughtfully, as one. The Queen observed their weird behavior as she passed by another window—this one shaped like a huge letter X.
The entire castle was warmly lit with candlelight, glowing and ethereal, conjuring images of the Queen’s favorite holiday, the winter solstice. There were so many candles lit that the room felt hot. Too hot. The Queen’s face flushed and her head spun. Her heart pounded as she walked down the aisle toward her King. He waited by the old well, which he had ordered moved from the Mirror Maker’s home to the castle courtyard, so that he might always be reminded of where he first saw the Queen.
With Verona’s help, the Queen steadied herself and focused her attention on her King, who was smiling brilliantly. He was beautiful, but even more so in his formal attire, with his dark hair and pale eyes. His glistening sword hung at his side, and his tall boots shined in the candlelight.
The Queen felt as if she were floating in a dream. Women with faces painted white as sheets and cheeks and lips the colors of red roses were peering at her as she glided past them. She attempted not to read the looks on their faces, instead focusing her gaze on her bridegroom.
But surely they were smiling condescendingly at her as she passed, some of them with little bundles of jasmine in their hands, the scent intoxicating and slightly overwhelming. Not only would they be jealous of her marriage, but they would also think, Why her? Of all the ladies in the kingdom, why this peasant girl? There would be whispers accusing her of enchantment and evil eyes cursing her.
She finally reached the King, who stood by the well, and he took her by the hand. Perhaps he sensed her dizziness and her buckling knees. But her heart finally slowed its pounding when she locked eyes with him. The ceremony began. Verona and Snow stood off to the side. The officiant stepped forward. The King and Queen exchanged words of love, promises, rings, and finally a kiss.
Bliss.
The crowd erupted into cheers, and had the King not caught her, the Queen would have collapsed. There was a flurry, then a shower of pink rose petals illuminated by shafts of light streaming through stained-glass windows, casting an unearthly charm over the entire castle. She was in love. Beautiful. The Queen.
Everyone she encountered remarked on her beauty. She tried not to let their compliments confound her. But when she thought of it, it made her already dizzied head swim. The day whirled by in a pink haze. Her hand must have been kissed a thousand times, and she never danced so much in her entire life, not even as a child with her Nanny.
Oh, Nanny. How she wished she were here to see her on this day. She remembered something Nanny had told her in her father’s kitchen one sun-drenched morning while eating strawberries and cream.
“You are beautiful, my dear, truly. Do not ever forget that, even if I am not here to remind you.”
“Not here? But where would you go?”