I scowl at him. “If you aren’t going to be supportive, you can go straight to your lamp and stay there until you learn some manners.”
Wow, it’s not like me to be this grouchy. I must be hangry.
“Continue,” I urge the dwarves.
The spectacled one steps forward. “Our princess has deviated.”
“Snow?” I check. Best to make sure we’re all speaking about the same royal.
“Yes,” the smiling one says.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She left,” says the yawner.
“With the prince?”
“No.”
“With a hunter?” I try. There’s something about a dude with a knife who falls for the princess. I’d pick him over a pompousprince. But then again, I do like my men a little rough around the edges. Soft kisses and caresses are all fine and dandy, but give me a tumble of passion over that any diurnal.
“Also no,” the one with the pickax grumbles as he swings it over his shoulder, making all the knights stiffen with readiness. He needs to be careful where he’s swinging his weapon. Too close, and he’ll find it’s his own head he loses.
They exchange looks. The cheerful one giggles. “She started a glassblowing business.”
I tilt my head. “A what?”
“She says she’s tired of ‘lying in caskets,’” the pickax one explains with air quotes.
I press my fingers to my temples. Fair play. My thoughts skitter to the Snows rotting in the belly of the Hallows castle. They need to be woken and freed from a fairy tale that has forgotten them. I'll add that to my growing list of things that need sorting.
The genie removes his turban, rubs his forehead, then replaces it. “Of course she has,” he groans. “Self-determining princesses. It’s spreading.”
“Spreading?” Nash asks.
“Like glitter,” the genie says with a shrug. “Once it’s loose in the realm, you’ll never sweep it all away.”
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot smacks the genie in the face, making him stop his uninvited commentary on whatever is happening.
Wait… “How did she get out of the casket in the first place?” I wonder.
“There was an incident with some clumsy maiden and a bunch of ugly big dudes,” the happy one says. “We had a spare casket when she found us, but no matter how long she lies in it, she cannot return to slumber.”
She’sthatSnow? What are the chances?
“And she got pissed with the pushy fruit-bearing witch,” pickax adds. “But we took care of that.”
I focus on the dwarves. “She declined the apple and the chance of becomingtheSnow?”
The ledger dwarf nods. “She’s expressed a desire for autonomy.”
Oh. No, no, no. I’m not quite ready for the fallout. I need my dragon first. I can’t do this while I’m not whole. Everyone needs to give me a few diurnals before causing an uprising or staging a coup.
First sidekicks, now protagonists.
“And you?” I whisper. “Why are you at my campsite at dawn?”
Seven beards bristle, and the blue bird chatters as if it can sense the unease.
