Poisoned

A woman walks through her gardens, holding a small lamp in the dead of night, treading through the midnight snow.

She pauses at her roses, admiring the strong power that it took for them to stay.

“If only,” she says, “I had a daughter with lips red as these roses. With hair blacker than night, her skin paler than the snow that keeps my prints. And the strength of these flowers.”

That next winter, she is granted her wish. A daughter is born to the Queen, her looks just as she wished. Her beauty is more than anyone could imagine, as if she was a copy of an angel.

“Snow White,” she murmurs, then falls asleep with the child in her arms.

Her second child is born, another angel. The elder sister watches over her, in the moments that the mother cannot.

“She is special,” says the grandmother.

“Yes,” says the Queen. “She will be something special too.”

The grandmother nods. “Of course she will be.”