A Fair Account of the Traitors Snow White and Rose Red

Lace of Fire and Ice

The hideous rustling of silk wakes me at dawn as hordes of seamstresses enter my bedchambers bearing my bridal trousseau. I spend the rest of the morning dutifully submitting to their measuring and stitching ministrations, grateful that at least Ophelia's bones didn't make it into my wedding wardrobe. The dove-egg blue gown they finally strap me into could easily crush an ox with its weight in pearls and lacy petticoats. Only my infernal corset keeps me from collapsing under the obscene, puffy-sleeved monstrosity. At least I am spared the vise-tight grip of the phantom moth gloves as Sarevali marriage ceremonies end with a ring exchange. But the gloves are replaced by yards of phantom moth silk ribbons that wind through my gown and quell any hope of my gloriphagy returning.

I face the false Crown Princess of Albemar in my mirror shortly before noon and wonder if my true mother can see me from her glass prison. I don't recognize myself at all. My tresses twist in an intricate coronet of gemmed braids that don't allow a single stray curl and my face has been smudged into a perfect mask with creamy powders. My tiara, a delicate silver floral confection studded with blue sapphire forget-me-nots, crowns this absurd dream. With all this borrowed beauty, I could belong to a fairy tale. No—princesses in fairy tales never want to toss their Prince Charming off the nearest turret.

I hold my chin high as I enter the square of High Court with a bevy of noblewomen trailing in my cumbersome wake. I nearly falter as I survey the square's overnight transformation into a wonderland of bright silk streamers and long wooden banquet tables. Three thrones woven from lilac branches and ornamented in shredded silver garlands grace a raised oak dais at the front. As the music of minstrels wafts over the scent of hundreds of flowered wreaths, I feel a stabbing in my heart. Did Mother—no, Astra—really do all this for me?

Astra smiles as I take my place by her side on the raised dais. Only the chain around her neck betrays the diamond disc hidden in her bodice. "There is no one fairer than you today, Rosavere," she whispers. "Not in Albemar, not in all the Kingdom Isles!"

Something inside me plummets and shatters as I curtsy and sit down on my lilac throne just below her. No! Astra did all this for my perfect reflection—an illusionary creature that no mirror will ever hold for long.

My nails dig into my seat as the trump of heralds announces the arrival of the Sarevali entourage through the gates of High Court. Faylen enters with all the pomp expected of an heir to the mightiest empire in all the Fathomsea. He could be made of gold for all he glistens, his wavy hair brushing his shoulders like stolen rays of sunlight and his white sapphire-studded armor glittering like a star. Sighs escape the nearest cluster of ladies in waiting. I stifle a frown as my lips press into a tight line. Garish boar.

I almost miss Jack for his quiet attire. The black-clad elf follows ten paces behind Faylen, a dutiful thrall. My teeth grind together. I'll tackle Jack myself if I have to, and hold him down so that Snow can freeze the firedrake in his veins again. Calibrating a smile that is ten leagues from touching my eyes, I stare daggers at Faylen as he dares join me on the ceremonial dais. He seats himself in the throne beside me, motioning Jack to stand behind us on the far left. I tense as he reaches for my hand.

"Come now," Faylen chides. "You're making it rather difficult to crystallize the beauty of my bride into memory."

"The sun will boil in the Fathomsea before I'm yours," I retort, evading his grasp. Faylen chuckles and leans forward so that his warm lips brush my ear. "No need to play coy, Princess," he whispers. "You're mine. It's not a question of when—you've belonged to the Sareval Empire for eleven years now since your dear mother drew up the contract."

I push him away with a flick of my hand. Anyone watching would assume we were engaged in playful banter. But the sting of my nails leaves a thin red line across his cheek. "I think Snow will have something to say about that, darling," I say.