“Snow White,” came Liora’s voice.
“Yes, Mother,” she called. “Come in.”
The queen swept in without waiting for permission. She wore amethyst tonight. Not the deep crimson of her throne room gown, but a deeper shade, like the evening sky just before the dawn. The fabric clung to her like water pouring over her curves. Her hair was piled high, adorned with a crown of diamonds and gold. Her face was a work of art—thick black lashes, lips painted bright apple-red.
Beside the queen, Snow White felt more like a girl playing dress-up. She was almost giddy with excitement, readying herself many hours too early for the evening’s agenda.
Liora’s gaze made a slow, measuring sweep down her daughter’s form. “Well,” she said at last, “let’s find you something sensible to wear tonight, without holes.” She moved toward the wardrobe, snatching a corset and slamming the door. “Hurry up,” she insisted. “You move like the slow drip of honey.”
Snow White obeyed, stepping into the undergarment.
Liora said. “Turn around.”
Snow White hesitated. Something in her mother’s tone had an edge she didn’t recognize.
“Now,” Liora snapped.
Snow White turned, offering Liora her back.
The queen’s fingers closed around the laces at once. For a moment, the sensation was almost comforting—a faint echo of childhood mornings when Liora had brushed her hair and hummed while she plaited it.
“Lift your arms,” Liora said.
Snow White did. The corset shifted, sliding slightly lower as the queen tugged.
“At least you have posture,” Liora scoffed. “All that riding did something besides ruin your shoes.” She gave the laces a firm pull.
Snow White felt that same nauseated feeling when her mother first cut her hair. The corset bit her ribs. She winced. “That’s… tight,” she said.
“Corsets are meant to be tight,” Liora replied. “Beauty is pain.” She tugged again, harder this time. The whalebone dug into Snow White’s sides. Air fled her lungs.
“Mother,” Snow White gasped. “Wait—just—a little—”
“You want to look perfect tonight, don’t you?” Liora said, her voice smooth as cream. “All those noble eyes. All those fluttering hearts. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”
The laces pressed into Snow White’s torso as she grabbed at the doorframe for balance. “I don’t—” she tried. “I just want—”
“What you want,” Liora said, “is irrelevant. What you are is a reflection. A reflection of me. A reflection of the kingdom. You must act properly, like a lady, like a princess. Strong, proud. No nonsense tonight.”
She jerked the laces again. Snow White felt the world tilt. Dots of light danced at the edges of her vision.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Please. It’s too—”
“Too what?” Liora asked. “Too much like work? Too much like something you didn’t choose?” Her tone was pleasant, her hands, merciless.
Snow White’s chest burned. Her lungs felt bound, unable to draw in more than a sip of air at a time. The edges of the room blurred. “Mother,” she croaked.
Liora leaned in, lips near her ear. “You begged to be allowed at this ball,” she said softly. “You’ve pestered me for weeks. ‘Please, Mother, just this once. Let me have a dress, let me hear the music, let me be there with you.’”
Snow White’s fingers slipped on the frame. “I—just—wanted—”
“You wanted.” Liora repeated, as if tasting the word. “And wanting is dangerous. For you. For me.” Her hands moved faster, tugging the laces until the corset felt less like clothing and more like a cage.
Snow White’s knees buckled. She tried to suck in air; her chest refused to expand. Panic flared. Her heart hammered against the unyielding bone, desperate. “Mama,” she whispered, the word barely a sound.
Liora didn’t stop. “You think this ball is about finding me a husband,” she said. “You think some foreign king will win my affection and renew something in my life. You think I will soften, because he will take some of the burden from my shoulders.”
Snow White’s vision tunneled. The room shrank to the feeling of her mother’s hands at her back and the roaring in her ears.
