“To dance with your mother in the heavens, dear. One day you will join us, but not for many years to come.”
“No, Nanny, stay here and dance with me now! I don’t want you to leave. Not ever!” And so they danced, spinning in circles, laughing and enjoying the sun streaming through the windows. That was one of the many ways Nanny would cheer her spirits—strawberries, cream, and dance.
She must do that with Snow soon. The thought of it made her feel light and protected. She would be happy with the King and his beautiful, delicate little flower of a girl. She would make the child her own daughter and love her. She would tell her how beautiful she was every day of her life, and they would dance together and laugh like mother and daughter. They would be mother and daughter.
She walked to the edge of the ballroom floor where Snow and Verona were standing as they watched all the lords and ladies dance in circles, like blossoms floating on a lovely summer’s breeze. The Queen scooped the child up, took her into her arms, and brought her into the colorful swirl of ladies’ dresses. She danced with the girl, pressing her tightly against her chest, feeling that surge of love again as they danced in what seemed to be a living garden of color and sound.
The King joined them, and the new family laughed until the early morning hours, long after the final guests had departed or retired to their rooms within the castle.
Exhausted and giddy after many hours of feasting and dance, the King and Queen took their sleeping girl to her bedchamber.
“Good night, little bird,” said the Queen as she kissed Snow.
The girl’s cheek felt as soft as silk on the Queen’s lips. She left the child to her dreams. She was sure they were filled with lovely ladies spinning in circles and colorful dresses and banners swirling all around her.
The King took his new wife by the hand and led her to their chamber. The sun, now coming through their curtains, was casting an otherworldly glow. They stood there for a moment looking at each other.
Bliss.
“I see you have opened my gift,” the King said looking at the mirror.
The mirror was oval-shaped and beautifully ornate, gilded, with serpentine designs around the perimeter, and crowned with an engraving of a headpiece fit for a Queen. It was nearly perfect. But something about it made her feel that same uneasiness that had shaken her before the ceremony. Her chest tightened and the room suddenly felt oppressively confining.
“What is the matter, my love?” the King asked.
The Queen moved to speak, but she could not.
“You don’t like it?” he asked, looking crestfallen.
“No, my love, it…I’m just…tired. So tired,” she finally muttered. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of the mirror.
The King took her by the shoulders and drew her close to him, kissing her.
“Of course you’re exhausted, my love. It’s been a terribly long day.”
She returned his kiss, attempting to banish all fear from her heart.
She was in love. Bliss. And she would allow nothing to ruin this day.
On the fourth night after the wedding, the Queen finally had her little family to herself. Lingering wedding guests and extended family had made their way back to their own kingdoms. The Queen had just said her good-bye to the King’s great-uncle Marcus that morning after breakfast. He was a funny man, as wide as he was tall. Stocky, sturdy, and well-built for a man his age. He was kind and clearly loved his nephew, so she couldn’t begrudge him the extra time at the castle. The King, along with his uncle and the castle’s Huntsman, had spent days in the forest hunting foul and game for the evening’s banquets.
“You may never see me again, my girl,” Uncle Marcus had said, as he bid the Queen farewell. “I venture south in pursuit of dragons! It’s a risky business, swamp dragons, but not quite as dangerous as cave dragons, I do swear to you! Did I ever recount my encounter with the great sapphire beast? The most beautiful and deadly creature I’ve ever stalked? She nearly burned my beard right off!”
Uncle Marcus was very animated when he spoke of dragons; he would gesticulate wildly, and reenacted the singeing of his beard.
“And what does Lady Aunt Vivian think of your adventures, Uncle?” the Queen asked.
“Oh, she has wild notions indeed!” he said.
“Does she? And what might those be?” the Queen asked.
“She thinks it’s all fancy. Can you imagine? Fancy, indeed! She thinks I’m fearful of becoming idle and bored in her company!”
The Queen laughed again. She had come to love this man and his wild tales of dragons lurking in damp caves and his grand campaigns to steal their treasures.
“Well, I’m nevertheless sorry she was unable to attend the wedding, Uncle. We must have her to visit as soon as she is well enough to travel.”
“Oh, you can be sure your aunt Vivian will swoop down on you in no time. She’ll take over the house, I gather.”
The Queen was sorry to see him leave. But she was happy to have her husband and daughter to herself, even if the castle seemed almost too quiet after so many festivities.
She arranged for a family dinner in one of the smaller dining halls. The Queen preferred the smaller rooms of the castle. They made her feel more at home. She wasn’t a Queen here. She was a wife and mother. She was herself.
The stone walls were covered in lavish tapestries depicting images of knights in battle or lovely maidens gazing at their own beauty in reflective ponds. The fireplace was the grandest focus of the room. It was twice as tall as any man, and decorated with the face of a woman carved from the finest white stone, her eyes, downcast and serene, made the room feel protected. The warm fire made the dining hall feel cozy. The Queen sometimes wondered if the white stone beauty had been modeled after the King’s former wife, Snow White’s mother. She wondered if she were there to watch over the household—watch over the Queen—to ensure she was a worthy mother and spouse. The Queen never asked her husband, for fear of slicing open his old wounds. He had loved Snow’s mother dearly, the Queen knew that, and she did her best to convince herself that it didn’t diminish his love for her.
Before dinner the King gave the Queen a small box filled with his first wife’s writings. The box was ornately carved with a heart and a sword lock. And the King told the Queen that it had once contained his first wife’s meagre dowry. “When she knew she was dying, Rose decided to document her life so Snow might know her a little,” he whispered to the Queen, “I want you to share these with Snow when you think she is ready.”
It warmed her heart that her husband should trust her with this task. But it troubled her as well. Would she be capable of it? Could she take on such a responsibility? And what if Snow fell so deeply in love with her mother through her letters that she began to resent the Queen?
“Of course,” the Queen said.
Tonight the Queen wore a simple and elegant empire-waist gown of deep red, edged with black ribbons. Her long dark hair was pulled high on her head in a circlet of braids intertwined with red ribbons and jewels, and her dark eyes sparkled in the firelight as she smiled at the sight of her daughter walking into the hall hand in hand with the King. Snow was wearing a deep blue dress, which brought out the rosy color in her plump little cheeks. The King was wearing one of his less formal, but still handsome, tunics of black, edged with gold finery.