Mirrored Snow [short story]

Comb

The following morning, snow started to fall. It blanketed the forest floor in big, pillowy mounds as it fluttered softly down from the sky. I watched enviously from Snowdon's axe as he and the dwarfs trudged through the carpet of white. I would give anything to feel the snow: the soft tickle of it landing on my hair, the icy shiver of it falling down my back, even the sharp sting of the cold on my hands. I had been watching the snow fall from mirrors near windows for as long as I could remember. I had memorised every reaction, every joy, laugh or complaint it inspired. But I wanted to see my footsteps mapped out behind me, to lay down and make snow angels, to throw a frozen ball at the back of someone (okay, the queen's) head. It made the kingdom brighter, cleaner and prettier. I didn't even mind that my view was partially obscured by the flakes that clung to the axe, spotting most of my vision and blurring the rest.

Snowdon and the dwarfs did not share my enthusiasm.

"Cursed stuff," Col grumbled, kicking his way through a drift which came up to his stomach.

"Frozen tears of hatred, sent down by the gods," Xander agreed.

"I always heard it was supposed to be their dandruff," Snowdon said, good-naturedly, although he was scowling as he pulled his tattered shirts around him more tightly. In the absence of any non-cursed clothing, he had taken to wearing both layered on top of each other.

"I thought you would like it, given your name," Zeus said, looking at him curiously. I nodded in agreement. Surely anyone called Snowdon would have to love snow.

"I do under the right circumstances: when classes have been snowed off and I have adversaries to pelt with snowballs and a pretty girl to cosy up with by a roaring fire afterwards... But with no coat or properly fitting clothing, on my way to a day's labour in a mine - which I am expecting to be full of the stuff - I would rather it were a fine spring day."

"It's not all bad," Maus said, trying to look on the bright side. "It's more comfortable in the mine on a snowy day than it is during a heatwave."

As they reached the entrance to the mine, the others mumbled their agreement. They started to file inside, but before he could venture into the gloom, Snowdon turned and caught sight of the view.

"Wow." From my position at his side, I had to agree with his speechlessness. The forest, normally so dark and eerie, a patchwork of towering trees and razor-sharp thorns, had been transformed into a dazzling kingdom of ice. Flurries spun through the air, whipping through branches, which were already dripping with white. Even the thorns, usually so menacing and deadly, had been sheathed. At the very edge of our hazy view, the castle glittered in the weak morning sun, like something straight out of a fairytale.

While Snowdon and I gazed, awestruck, at the beauty before us, the dwarfs had all travelled out of sight. We were therefore the only ones around to hear the cries of the young woman, stuck fast in the thorns a little way down the path.

That's odd. I was sure she hadn't been there when we arrived. Surely we would have noticed her by now...

She was well and truly trapped, tangled from her hair to her boots, which were lined with a thick, cosy fur. In fact, her whole outfit was fine. This was no village peasant. As we grew closer, I realised that I knew her, as did Snowdon.

"Help me, please!" Marianne Proust, the treasurer's daughter, cried out to Snowdon, tears streaming down her flushed pink cheeks. Even trapped and distressed, she was as pretty as usual; her dark hair glossy though tangled, her skin as smooth as silk. The perfect girl for a perfect prince. But then her eyes caught my attention. They seemed darker than usual, tainted by a cold, steely glint. A glint I knew all too well...