The Ringmaster's Game

A variation on the classic tale of Snow White.

The Storyteller approached the Alchemist, who watched everyone from a shadowy corner. "You know what must be done." The Storyteller murmured, low enough that none of the other members of the tent noticed their conversation. "This has been set in motion long before us and will continue long after us. Our choices make no difference in that."

The Alchemist glared up at the Storyteller, her back curved from age, "only because the choices we make are not our own. I do not do this of my own volition. Remember that, when we meet again, After. Remember that because of this, I see you as Weakness, and nothing more."

"Such a lovely necklace," the Storyteller murmured, eyes trailing down the silver chain to the pendant shard of mirror that rested against the old crone's chest. "Is that all that's left of it?"

"Time changes many things; it is us to us to adapt." The Alchemist backed away from the young woman.
"Adapt...or die," the Storyteller said, cocking her head to the side as she spoke, but it was more to herself than to the old lady, who had already begun to hobble away toward her trunk, pulling out three cups and a vial that held a milky white liquid that fizzed when jostled.

"Dear child," she addressed Snow Drop now, walking toward her, "a gift, as condolences for your pain." She poured the liquid into the cup, distributing it first to the young woman, then to her stepmother, and finally, deaf to his protests, to Max, who finally accepted it, realizing that agreeing to the old woman would take less energy than fighting her.