To salvage what little dignity he could, the young man reached for the sack as well. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” she said.
He pulled out another apple, this one a little smaller, and turned toward the brown gelding. The horse eyed him with suspicion, then, tempted by the scent of fruit, inched closer. The young man held out the apple flat on his palm, making soft, soothing noises. “There,” he said under his breath. “See? We’re friends. No one’s going to hurt you today.”
Snow White watched him, something tender unfolding in her chest. There was an ease in the way he moved around the animals, a patience that matched her own. When the gelding finally snatched the apple, their hands brushed as she steadied the bag. Just a graze of skin against skin. It was enough. A spark shot up Snow White’s arm. Her cheeks burned. She was shockingly aware of every place her body existed in space—herfingertips, her toes, the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered wildly.
He looked up at her, eyes wide for a half second as if he’d felt the same jolt. Then he ducked his head, smiling into his collar in an attempt at nonchalance.
Above them, unseen, a curtain in the tower window shifted. Queen Liora, watching from on high, saw only enough to know everything she needed: her daughter on a magnificent black horse, a handsome young prince closer than any man had been allowed to stand in years, the air between them crackling with something new.
Her hand clenched on the windowsill. “Interesting,” she murmured, and the word was anything but pleased.
Chapter six
The Queen’s Fury
Lioradidnotbelievein coincidence. She believed in timing. In patterns. In threats. The moment she saw the way Snow White and the visiting prince looked at each other in the stable yard, a cold, familiar fear slid into her gut. Not again, it whispered. We will not do this again. She had carved her path to the throne with her beauty. She had learned every way it could be used—for her, against her, over her. She had seen how easily men’s loyalties shifted when a younger, fresher face appeared. Now her own daughter—her mirror’s ghost—was starting to draw glances the way Liora once had. This could not be allowed. She turned from the window before the scene below could fully play out and swept back into the throne room, skirts swirling behind her like spilled wine.
The visiting king sat in the high-backed chair to her right, a goblet in hand. He was speaking to one of his advisors, gesturing to a map laid across the nearby table. His knights lounged further down the hall, trading quiet jests.
Liora did not smile as she approached. The mask she wore now was colder, sharper.
“Majesty?” the visiting king said, looking up at her change in air.
“Our discussions are concluded,” Liora said. “You will leave at once!”
The table went still. A drop of wine slid down the outside of the king’s goblet. “I beg your pardon?” he said slowly.
“Now!” she repeated. Was it anger, jealousy, or fear behind her perfectly painted eyes?
A flush crept up his neck. “We had an understanding. A ball tomorrow night. Time to deepen our alliance—”
“Our alliance,” she said, “no longer interests me.” In truth, it did. His armies were strong. His coffers full. A union between their kingdoms could have paved a swath of influence across half the continent.
But none of that mattered if her throne—hermirror—was threatened.
The king was a man of pride and didn’t need to hear another word. He inclined his head—too sharp to be called a bow—and gestured to his men. “We ride,” he said. “Make haste.”
Chairs scraped. Boots thundered. In moments, the grand hall that had been prepared for feasting and dancing felt more like the mouth of a cave disgorging an angry beast. As they swept past her, the king’s entourage split around Liora like water around a stone. She did not move. Her eyes were not on them.
“Hunter!” she called.
He had been lingering near the side entrance, jaw tight from the scene in the stables, anger barely leashed. At her call, he straightened, masking his turmoil under duty. “Yes, Majesty,” he said, stepping into her path.
“Bring me Snow White,” she said. Her tone could have etched frost onto the tapestries. “At once.”
Downinthestables,Snow White was trying to find her courage. She wanted to ask the knight’s name. Before she could speak, a commotion rose from the direction of the courtyard. Shouts. The sharp tone of the steward trying to make his voice heard over the clatter of boots. The young man’s head snapped up. The shouts grew louder. Someone called for him down the corridor. “Your Highness!”
He winced. “That would be my cue.”
Your Highness?Her chest froze, the words rearranging everything she thought she knew about him. He was a prince. Before she could speak again, his attendants appeared in the stable doorway, faces tight.
“Your Highness,” one said, catching his breath. “We have to go immediately. Your father is already halfway out the gate.”
The prince took a half step toward her, then stopped, clearly torn between impulse and decorum. In a moment of reckless gallantry, he caught her hand in his and raised it gently to his lips. His mouth brushed the back of her knuckles. The warmth of that brief touch seared into her skin. Her heart thundered so loudly she was sure Grimm could hear it.
At that moment, two of the king’s men, frustrated by the prince’s hesitation as they were being hurried out, grabbed the prince by each arm in a big commotion and started to pull him. Something near the prince’s chest wentsnapas the men grabbed him. In three strides he was at the door, his attendants falling in around him. In six, he was swallowed by the corridor shadows. A small object slid free unnoticed by everyone—a simple silvertoken on a cord from around his neck, oval and worn from years of handling, stamped with the image of a falcon in flight.
