The Prettiest Poison

by Vivi Dahlin

Two years into her marriage to Leopold, Regina Mills is a lonely and miserable young queen who experiences yet another tragic loss. Help arrives in the form of her 12-year-old nemesis, Snow White. (Highlights of their angsty mother/daughter bonding include: angst, angsty homicidal tendencies, angstily ganging up on the help, bath time angst, and Snow's introduction to angsty porn.)

A/N: This was intended to be a drabble-length response to a writing prompt I got on Tumblr, but as you can see, my Snow Queen feelings cannot be condensed to drabble size. I may have taken some liberties here and there, but mostly tried to stay within canon & the time period. Totally appropriated the premise of "Meadowlark" from The Baker's Wife for my own twisted purposes, though. Also, a bit of warning: there's some triggery subject matter herein (miscarriage, implied non-con, sketchy behavior involving a minor, possible incest). Proceed with caution and in the event of a crash-landing into the ocean of my creys, your R&Rs may be used as a flotation device.

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Regina had never seen so much blood, at least not coming from her own body. It might have been frightening had she not expected it, but the only real surprise was that it didn't happen sooner. The first had lasted no longer than a few weeks—barely the lifespan of the rosebuds she cultivated in the palace gardens to pass time. She wouldn't even have known it existed if Leopold hadn't insisted she see a midwife upon noticing her increase in appetite and radiant complexion. Once his suspicions were confirmed, he had been so kind and attentive that she'd almost begun to care for him. But the distance between them grew ever wider the morning she awoke to a grisly stain on her nightdress and a hollow ache in her belly. Several weeks passed before he sent for her again, and her 19th birthday had already come and gone without celebration by the time her second child was conceived.

He didn't know about that one. It survived just long enough that she'd been able to make out the two tiny black specks that would have been the eyes (brown like hers? Or perhaps a soft jade, like the childish pair that so often grazed over her with mild disinterest, as if she were an outgrown toy on the nursery shelf). Afterward, she had disgraced her husband by leaping up from the table during the welcoming feast for a visiting nobleman and fleeing the great hall, hand over her mouth, when she spotted the seeds of a kiwifruit on a dessert tray that was placed in front of her. She had managed to reach the courtyard before expelling the previous courses, sullying the cobbles underfoot. The dark splotches were still there the following day—a visible reminder of her failure as wife, mother, queen—when the King had whisked away his beloved daughter on a family excursion, to which Regina was not invited.

Now, months shy of her 20th year, she was mother to a third infant who would remain forever faceless and nameless, its life over before it began. It was inevitable, really. She destroyed everything she touched, everyone she knew. Why should a child be any different? She hadn't allowed herself to want this one like the others. All the same, she couldn't bring herself to look at it as she wrapped it into one of her old shirtwaists. She would bury it beneath her apple tree come nightfall, with only the moon to guide her through the palace grounds. She had become quite adept at slipping through the shadowy corridors undetected, a behavior most unsuitable for a young queen. But nothing about this life suited her.

Gathering up the rest of the bloody rags, she shuffled over to the fireplace with a slow, wincing gate, one arm gripping her abdomen. A weak toss landed the heap among the flames and drew a sharp gasp from her lips, stars dancing across her vision. She gripped the mantel as a stabbing pain doubled her forward, the heat from the fire unbearably warm against her cheeks. She lost track of how long she stayed like that, staring into the blaze and wishing she could curl in on herself and disappear like the soiled cloth being consumed by the flames. It had a mesmerizing effect, her little makeshift pyre, at once soothing and sinister. Tongues of red-gold flame leapt among the kindling like tiny devilish imps caught up in a fevered dance. They darted to and fro in the spaces between each log, cloaked in smoldering robes of ash and cinder, beckoning with bright, elegant fingers, inviting her to join the promenade. But even as they welcomed her into their midst, they whispered secrets to one another, secrets she was not meant to hear, and their dry, crackling bursts of laughter made her eyes tear.

Behind this veil of moisture, the fire took on a muted glow from which Regina still could not look away. She got the distinct feeling that it was watching her in return, its gleaming ember eyes reminding her of something she couldn't quite put a finger on. Something dispassionate and cruel that delighted in her misery. Something so dark and dreadful that most dared not speak its name. No, not something.

Someone.

"Rumple-" Regina breathed, her throat constricting before the final syllables could be uttered.

Dare she call on him? More often than not he simply ignored her summonses, pretending he had more pressing matters to tend to (though she was his sole apprentice and, as far as she could tell, his only company besides an ever-revolving spinning wheel). Even when he did show, she usually rued the experience for hours or days afterwards. His visits brought with them a thousand casual cruelties—remarks about her inaptitude for magic; biting comparisons to her mother, whose skill and beauty and determination she lacked; slanted gazes and snickering inquiries as to the progress of her "queenly duties." The latter had occurred with increasing frequency and increasing spite, making Regina wonder if Rumplestiltskin had somehow guessed her condition long before she did. Yet, for all his malicious ways, she still got the sense that he required her. Maybe not wanted or needed her, but required her just the same. And wasn't that sort of like being loved?

Nodding to herself, Regina made her decision. Let him taunt if he must. At least she wouldn't be alone in this tomb of a bedchamber, the ghost of Leopold's first wife clinging like cobwebs in every corner, the gruesome bundle that had been fished from the thrice-emptied chamber pot lying on cold stones beneath her bed, waiting, waiting, waiting . . . .

If nothing else, he might have a potion to staunch the bleeding.

She cleared her throat and tried to square her shoulders. Eyes still fixed on the fireplace, she spoke into it as if he would appear there. And knowing him, he just might: "Rum—"

"Why haven't you dressed?"

The high, childish timbre sliced through Regina like a knife. It was not the voice of Rumplestiltskin, but of someone whose presence she desired even less. She turned too abruptly, forgetting how unstable her balance had become, and very nearly toppled backwards onto the hearth.

Snow White's eyes went saucer-wide, her little rosebud lips rounding into a silent "O" of surprise. Both arms shot out reflexively, though she was halfway across the room and never would have caught Regina in time. "I'm so sorry, stepmother," she said in a small, breathless tone. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"What do you want?" Regina snapped, reaching out to steady herself on the mantelpiece. Her gaze cut over to the chamber doors which were cracked open just enough for a 12-year-old girl to slip between, though they had been firmly shut moments before. Snow had a habit of roaming the castle unchecked and failing to knock; it was maddening. But Regina realized her own carelessness when she glanced back at the girl, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, brow crinkled in fear and confusion. The king had never raised a hand to Regina, but on the rare occasions she forgot herself and spoke in anything less than dulcet tones to his child, he had spent hours lecturing her on the proper conduct of a woman and then confined her to a room of his choosing for the rest of the evening, typically his bedchamber. She had quickly learned it was best to hold her wicked tongue. That's what her mother had always called it: your wicked tongue.

Forcing a pained smile, she released her clawlike grip on the mantel and cautiously straightened her posture, hands trembling as she smoothed the front of her dressing gown. "What is it?" she asked in a voice so honeyed it could probably attract bees. Her teeth clenched without her consent as she added, "Dear?"

Snow hesitated for such a long time that Regina got the urge to step forward and shake her. Finally, the girl's features softened into a tentative smile, like winter melting into an early spring. "I was wondering if you might like to have tea with me," she said, unable to keep her eyes from straying to Regina's midday attire and rumpled bedding. She was brimming with curiosity, but managed to hide it well. Folded to her ruffled bodice, as if it were a small shield, she held a burgundy-colored book, elaborate gilt lettering on the spine, which she now indicated with a nod. "And I've been reading the book you gave me. Meadowlark. It's so lovely, but I'm afraid there are passages I don't understand. I hoped you could explain them to me."

"Oh." Regina blinked at the proffered book, a yellow-breasted bird etched on the cover, its beak open in mute, perpetual song.

"I . . . I brought you these as well." Snow reached for the embroidered pocket at her waistband and withdrew a fistful of dainty white flowers that looked like miniature scullery maid bonnets. She trod, light-footed in velvet slippers and as delicate as the flowers themselves, towards Regina, the bouquet outstretched. "Lily of the valley. Aren't they sweet?"

Regina continued to stare, accepting the gift in a slight daze and sniffing the flowers without actually smelling them. "Yes. Yes, how thoughtful," she said, the words coming out flat, even though she had meant to sound sincere. She held the nosegay dutifully to her bosom. "Thank you, dear."

The child didn't seem to notice any discrepancy. She gave a polite little curtsy and beamed up at Regina, heart-shaped face alight with obvious adoration. "You look like a bride. Just like the day you married my papa," she gushed, and then her arms were suddenly around Regina's middle, hugging her close. Too close. "You made him such a happy man that day. I wish—"

But whatever heart's desire Snow was about to divulge got cut short as a gray fog of sickness descended on Regina. She lurched free of the girl's grasp, knocking Snow back a step, and dropped the bunch of flowers at her feet. Doubling over, Regina dry heaved uncontrollably for several seconds, until all that remained was a deep, hacking cough that rattled her to the core.

They're bleeding, she thought—distantly—her vision tunneling, hazy around the edges as she studied the flowers below. Crimson splotches decorated the once pristine petals. Something wet and warm squelched beneath her foot and she drew away in disgust, leaving behind five perfect toe prints in the bloody trail that most certainly had not come from any lily of the valley. For one wild moment she wondered if the blood belonged to Snow, if her terrible visions of harming the child had at last come to pass

(please no!)

but when she looked up, Snow was still there in front of her, very much alive and frozen in terror.

The girl's book thumped to the floor, and her hands flew to her mouth like small nesting birds startled from a hedgerow. "Oh, Regina!" she said, pointing at the mess that seeped into the crevices of the stone tiling. "What's happened to you? Are you hurt?"

Regina cringed at the shrill note rising in her stepdaughter's voice. She put out a calming hand, but it landed heavily on Snow's shoulder as another bout of nausea and dizziness set in. A faint protest caught in her throat when Snow's arm, surprisingly strong for such a wisp of a thing, encircled her waist and guided her toward the high-backed mahogany chair where she often sat fireside, practicing dark magic with the flames, coaxing them to her as if they were lapdogs to be petted and tamed. Thankfully she kept a cushion on the chair, and she settled onto it with a grateful sigh while Snow stood by anxiously, hands poised to help. Almost at once, Regina felt her symptoms improve. The clouds parted from her mind and the heavy knot in her lower abdomen unfurled into a diffuse heat. "I'm fine," she said lamely, then repeated it with more conviction.

"But there's blood," Snow said, still on the verge of full panic. "And you're as pale as a ghost. Have you cut yourself? Shall I send for Father?"

"No!" Regina's spine stiffened and she shook her head vehemently. "Your father mustn't know about this. It's none of his concern. Do you hear me?"

Snow looked taken aback, but underneath her shock lay an air of indignation. It glimmered in her mossy-green eyes for just a moment before she stooped to Regina's level, the wild heather scent of her hair invading the space between them. "But you are his wife. And he is the king. It's your duty to tell him everything, especially if you're unwell." She spoke like a schoolteacher explaining difficult equations to a young pupil; a sympathetic smile graced her lips. "I'll go and send word for him right away. He'll know what to do."

"Wait." Regina clamped onto the girl's forearm as she turned to go, fingernails biting into soft flesh.

(twist it break it bet it sounds like a snapping twig)

Snow gave a brief cry, more surprised than hurt. No one had ever grabbed her with the least show of force in her entire twelve years on earth. No one had ever dared. "What are you— ow, let go!" She wrenched away without much effort (Regina was still too weak to tighten her grip) and retreated a safe distance, cradling the assaulted limb against her. Dark accusations brewed on normally angelic features. "I'm telling my papa about this! He's already disappointed in your behavior, I know because—"

"My baby is dead."

The words tumbled out on their own, and Regina regretted them as soon as she had spoken. But at least the brat had shut her mouth. Encouraged by the abrupt silence and unable to hold back any longer, Regina leveled Snow with a malicious, serpentine gaze and began to pour out some of the venom she had bottled up for the past two years. She wanted Snow to drown in it:

"That's right, princess. I was to bear your precious father a child, an heir to his throne, so he would have something to show for this damned marriage. Something besides my failure to be his beloved Eva and your nursemaid. But it died this morning. Just like the others. Rotted inside of me like bad fruit, because that's all my cursed womb will ever produce." She splayed a hand to her stomach, the other giving a dismissive wave. "So, go ahead. Run and tell your father what a beastly stepmother I am. Tell him all that's left of your brother or sister is what just leaked out of me onto the floor. See if he'll know what to do about that."

When Regina was ten years old, her mother had taken her to an art exhibition in the hopes of adding some culture to what Cora called "a perfectly good summer I will not allow you to fritter away playing hopscotch and climbing trees with filthy urchins." Instead, Regina had returned to boarding school that fall with horrible nightmares of one particular painting: a vast, swirling canvas depicting lost souls trapped in purgatory ("It's where unruly children go," Cora whispered in her ear), their upturned hands and faces crying out for mercy as fire and brimstone rained down on them in violent strokes of black, red and orange. Regina could almost feel the heat emanating off that artwork. At the bottom, secluded in a corner all by itself, the tragic countenance of a small sexless child stared out at her, its arms threatening to reach right off the canvas and grab onto someone with whom it could switch places. Regina had never forgotten that child she left behind to languish in eternal damnation.

And now it appeared to be standing right in front of her, ghastly pale and woebegone, its massive eyes awash with tears and too big for its face.

For what seemed like hours, Snow's only movement was a rapid flutter of eyelashes and a resultant stream of moisture on either cheek. Then all at once she began to cry in earnest, head down, body racked by huge gulping sobs. She cried without affectation or propriety, her mouth gapped wide open to catch the salty flow of tears and mucus. She cried the way Regina felt inside—lost, desperate, and irrevocably shattered.

Regina preferred this Snow. A bit broken, a bit tattered around the edges, maybe even a little obnoxious with the sniveling. But real. Not that artificial living-doll who skipped around the palace grounds on tiptoe, forever cheerful, her incessant humming accompanied by choruses of chirping birds. For the first time since that fateful night in the stables with Daniel, Regina found she sincerely wanted to comfort her stepdaughter.

Stretching forward with a soft grunt, she snagged the girl's hand and guided her over to sit on the chair's ornately carved armrest. Snow put up no resistance and caught Regina off guard by sinking down next to her on the seat cushion, worming into the narrow space between Regina's hip and the wooden frame. Snow threw herself into the waiting embrace and spent the next several minutes dampening the shoulder of Regina's dressing gown with hot tears.

"Are you going to die too?" she asked, once the worst of the storm had passed. "Like Madge?"

The previous spring, a dapple gray mare named Madge—short for Majesty—had died in the royal stables, hours after miscarrying her severely deformed foal. Rocinante had been inconsolable for days afterward, refusing to eat unless handfed, and kicking at his stall door until the wood splintered. He was haunted by the image of that colt, covered in gore and trapped inside a slimy, membranous sac, its legs twisted beyond recognition; Regina knew, because it was the same image that had haunted her dreams.

After studying Snow's troubled expression and deeming it guileless, Regina decided not to take offense at being compared to the horse. At twelve, with limited understanding of such subjects, she probably would have made the same innocent conclusion.

(Nothing is innocent, dearie.)

"No," Regina sighed, gliding a hand over the thick curtain of hair that fell down Snow's back. Idly, she used her opposite thumb to stroke the pink crescent moons her fingernails had left in the girl's arm, almost too depleted to conjure the simple magic it took to smooth them away. "I won't die. I'll just be ill for a while. Tired. With a few days' rest and some ginger root to ease the pain, I should be fine. It will be as though it never happened . . ." Voice trailing off, she gazed at the rust-colored stain drying nearby and the lone, bloody footprint leading away from it, like the last trace of some roving homicidal phantom. She sensed Snow watching her intently, but pretended not to notice.

"I'm sorry I was cross with you," Snow said finally. She took a great stuttering breath. "I didn't realize— I didn't know . . ." And whisper-thin, "About the baby."

Regina avoided the eyes pleading up at her, expecting forgiveness she would not grant. Nor would she apologize for her own outburst (though it wasn't nearly as satisfying now as it had felt while sheer hatred broiled in her gut). But she continued combing through Snow's hair, occasionally twisting strands around her finger and letting them unravel into inky black ringlets, and said, "It doesn't matter now. You had no way of knowing." She paused, thoughtfully, then gave another careworn sigh and gazed off into the distance. "I only wish your father didn't have to find out. He'll be heartbroken. I worry how such terrible news might affect his health."

Snow let the words sink in, the furrow between her brows deepening. "Papa is strong." Decisive, absolute. "He can handle anything."

"Mm." From the corner of her eye, Regina watched the internal struggle waging war on the little girl's face. She folded her lips into a thin, hard line, and waited.

"But maybe . . ." Snow swiped at her wet cheeks and gave a soft hiccup. She sat forward, peering cautiously up at Regina. "Maybe we shouldn't tell him, all the same. He is awfully busy with his travels right now. And he's been so troubled over that business with the ogres."

This time Regina looked Snow straight in the eye, widening her own in astonishment. "Are you suggesting I lie to the king? Why, that's treason."

"No! Not a lie, not really. Just . . . just don't tell him about the baby at all. I'll keep it to myself, and you can do the same. He never has to find out."

"Like a secret?"

"Yes, exactly." Snow's nod was so vigorous the bow in her hair ribbon came untied. "A secret."

And what would you know of those, my dear, Regina thought bitterly, besides how to betray them? Her fist closed around the dense hair at the nape of the girl's neck, held it, squeezed it for the briefest moment—then let it go. She resumed stroking, Snow none the wiser.

"I suppose we could do that." Regina spidered her fingernails along a knobby length of spine, leaning in to murmur in the girl's ear: "If you think it's for the best." She indulged in a light smirk as goose bumps sprouted on ivory skin, a faint shiver running up Snow's back.

"Oh, I do. Thank you, stepmother." Mistaking their close proximity for an invitation, Snow nuzzled into Regina's neck and looped an arm around the opposite shoulder. She stayed there quite a while, until it almost appeared she had fallen asleep. But her shallow, tickling breaths steadily became a series of rapid-fire hitches, and once again she started to cry. "Perhaps someday you can give him another child," she said with a tinge of uncertainty—the exact process eluded her—that would have been amusing in happier times. "To make up for the loss of this one."

Regina grasped the back of Snow's head in her palm, wondering if human skulls could be smashed open like melons. She blinked at the thought and pulled Snow into a bone-crushing hug. The girl wheezed but didn't pull away. Her voice was muffled against Regina's chest, making her easier to tune out as she went on lamenting her dead sibling: oh, how she would have liked to hold him, take him for walks in the gardens, dress him up in the finest duds! She seemed to be under the impression that not only had the child been undeniably male but also undeniably hers. Regina was just the vessel, the bitch whose sole purpose it was to deliver a healthy litter of pups for the king's daughter to play with.

"Stepmother?"

Flinching at the title, Regina emerged from the grim path her mind had wandered down. She had missed a question about . . . something. Unable to muster enough energy to inquire what it was—and not caring anyway—she simply cocked an eyebrow.

"I asked what you would have named him." Snow's dewy eyes glistened like forest leaves after a storm. "My brother."

"He—" It sprang to Regina's lips automatically, though she had never considered the answer until now. (Why bother when Leopold would have the final say?) She bit down on her tongue and swallowed the name, refusing to share the rest. Too much had been given away already. "Joshua," she said, tossing it out with a gesture as flippant as her tone.

Years ago she had read a book about some mythical desert land with trees called Joshua. Those were the only details of the story she could recall, but no matter. It rarely snowed in the desert.

"Joshua," Snow repeated, as if the name were sacred. "That's beautiful."

Regina closed her eyes and nodded, letting her head loll back against the chair. What she wouldn't give to be in the desert this very minute. So what if it was hot as the sun and dry as a bone? That would suit her just fine. At least it was far, far away from here . . . Away from this prison in which she had been confined for crimes unknown; away from cold and dreary Leopold, with his cold and dreary bedchamber; away from the porcelain princess in her arms and poor dead Joshua swaddled in rags under the bed . . .

A subtle shift in weight beside Regina roused her just as she neared the precipice of sleep. But a feather-soft kiss on the cheek lured her to the edge once again, like a siren's hypnotic song. Before she drifted underneath the gentle, rolling waves, she heard Snow White's disembodied voice surrounding her, as if it were the very air she breathed:

"You rest awhile. I won't be gone long."

xXxXx

Stirring to the tinkling sounds of glassware and spoons, Regina half expected to open her eyes and find her mother's austere expression looking back, a cutting remark about lie-abeds at the ready. Instead, she saw Snow carrying a wide silver tray fully laid out for tea. True to her word, the girl had returned in what seemed like seconds, although Regina could tell by the mellowed slant of sunlight through the windows that it had been at least an hour or two.

Snow carefully deposited the tray on the cedar chest in front of Regina's bed and motioned at the doorway where Millie, head cook in the palace kitchens, stood with a large platter of her own. "Set it over there next to Her Majesty," Snow instructed, already busy pouring steaming hot liquid from pot to teacup.

Millie hesitated, casting an uncertain glance at her surroundings and the drowsy queen within, then steeled herself and marched forth, chin leading the way. She eyed the lace doily that someone—presumably Snow—had used to cover the blot on the floor, but sidestepped it without a word and continued on. Book and bouquet were gone.

"Miss said you'd be taking an early supper in your chambers, mum," Millie offered in a quizzical tone, setting the platter down on the wooden pedestal beside Regina. Its contents emitted a warm, meaty smell that permeated the air and took up residence in the nostrils. "Figger'd it best to comply. Since you was absent when lunch was served."

Flushing under the older woman's scrutinizing gaze, Regina sat up and tucked the folds of her dressing gown around her knees. She still didn't quite feel comfortable dealing with servants. Instinct told her to treat them as equals, but her mother had always insisted that was entirely unacceptable. And Leopold's lot were a strange breed—tightknit as a family; worshipful of their king; but merely tolerant towards Regina in his presence, resentful of her authority outside it. Saint Eva cast a long shadow that extended beyond the marriage bed. It threatened to swallow Regina whole.

"Oh yes, um, thank you. Millie."

"Beggin' your pardon if it's not up to the queen's standards." Millie removed the domed tray cover without ceremony, revealing a heaping bowl of stew, slabs of sourdough bread sliced as thick as garden bricks, a dish of dried figs and a variety of toppings, including butter and what looked to be apple preserves. Bubbles formed on the stew's surface and popped enticingly. "Kitchen weren't prepared for a meal at such a . . . well, if you don't mind my sayin' so, mum, such an unusual hour."

Actually, I do mind, you impudent sow. The words were as clear in Regina's head as if she had spoken aloud, but she quickly dismissed them and kept a neutral expression. She would rather not spend the rest of her days as queen wondering if the "special ingredient" in Millie's cooking was saliva. Fighting the urge to become smaller in her chair, she said, "You really needn't have troubled yourself. I'm not very hungry—"

"It was no trouble," Snow said, stepping in to present Regina with cup and saucer. A distinct, spicy fragrance wafted from the tea inside—ginger. "And you must eat something. It will help keep your strength up."

"Are you feelin' poorly then?" Millie asked, looking at Regina with genuine interest for the first time since arriving. Good gossip could be hard to come by when you spent your days cooped up in a castle.

Snow turned on her heel and, with the bearing of someone twice her size and three times her age, spoke in a voice Regina had never heard her use before: "That's quite enough, Millie. My stepmother is just a bit under the weather today, as I've already explained to you." She rested a hand on Regina's shoulder and posed there, neck extended regally, as if they were sitting for a portrait. There was an eerily similar painting of Snow and her mother hanging in Leopold's study. "And you really ought to address her by her proper title from now on."

The cook's naturally rosy complexion turned a shade brighter, blending in with the orangey-red frizz piled into a bun at the top of her head. With her squat little frame and shapeless brown tunic, she almost resembled a pumpkin. A somewhat disgruntled pumpkin, to be exact. "Highness," she said, an injured look on her face as she ducked an apology to the young royal. To Regina, she turned a cool eye, hands clasped together tightly beneath ample breasts. "Will you be needin' anything else?" Then, sounding as if she had an obstruction, "Your Majesty."

Regina pursed her lips to hide the smug smile that twitched at their corners. Still, she couldn't suppress a haughty jut of her chin, only mildly aware that she was mimicking Snow White's posture. She started to decline the older woman's prompting, then thought better of it. "Now that you mention it, yes. Be a dear and draw me a hot bath while I dine, won't you?" It was a legitimate request, made without enmity (or at least not much). Beneath the heavy brocade of her dressing gown, the white shift she had slept in—no doubt spoiled beyond repair—clung to the backs of her thighs, which stuck together unpleasantly when she moved. The discomfort was almost worthwhile just to see Millie's failure to mask her chagrin over the decadence of wanting a bath at such an unusual hour.

"A bath? Now?"

"Have you developed a hearing affliction, Millie?" Snow asked, head tilted to one side. Sweet as can be.

"I, uh . . . why, no, Miss."

"Be smart about it then." Snow dispatched the cook with an imperial nod. "Oh, and have the tub brought up here so the queen can bathe in her chambers," she directed over her shoulder, going to fetch a second teacup and saucer from the tray.

For the first time, Regina noticed the fresh sprigs of lily of the valley in a crystalline vase beside the teapot. Leave it to that little wretch to bring me the prettiest poison, she thought, smiling despite herself. She watched Snow over the brim of her cup, sipping cautiously at scalding, bittersweet tea, and ignored the stiff "m'lady" Millie bobbed in her direction before hurrying off to boil bath water. Her eyes tracked the girl's every movement—fingers nimble as they lit on each utensil like busy honeybees; pinky expertly curved as, after a moment's consideration, a second sugar cube followed the first: plop, plop!; delicate profile a study in concentration as she tried to lift her drink without spilling. At least she wasn't humming as she worked, Regina noted with a sliver of approval. She was, however, coming this way and toeing a footstool from behind the chair along with her.

"What are you doing?" Regina asked.

"Having tea with you," Snow replied, and if she had discerned the edge in her stepmother's voice, it did not show. She settled onto the stool just to one side of Regina, facing her at knee-level, and took an experimental sip.

Well.

"I hope you like the tea," Snow went on conversationally, teacup poised midair (pinky extended, of course). "I asked Millie to steep it in ginger root for you."

Regina glanced down as if suspicious of the amber-colored liquid. She considered ginger root to be only slightly more palatable than sheep's dung, but the midwife had prescribed it for the intense abdominal pains after her first miscarriage. It seemed to help. And to be honest, this brew was better than any she had ever concocted on her own. "I suppose it will have to do," she said, shrugging and leaving it at that.

An awkward silence followed, giving Snow few options but to sample the drink again. She let it bulge inside her cheeks as if she might spit it right back out. Swallowing after much effort, she exhaled noisily through her mouth and scrunched her face up in disbelief. "Is it supposed to taste like that?"

"More or less." Regina set her tea aside and dipped a spoon from the dinner tray into a small pot next to the butter. Honey, golden and viscous, drizzled from the bowl of the spoon when she withdrew it, reaching down to swirl it into Snow's tea. The girl watched in fascination as Regina tapped off excess fluid on the glass brim then swiped the spoon clean between her lips. Ever the lady.

"Oh!" Snow tested the new flavoring, face lighting up when she found it satisfactory. "Oh yes, thank you. That's much better," she said, even as her eyes wandered hungrily over to the honeypot.

"What a greedy little beggar you are," Regina observed, though not unkindly. She dunked a serving of honey into her own cup before indulging the girl with another generous scoop.

Snow had manners enough to look a bit sheepish, or at least pretended to. But she also intercepted the spoon and ran it through her lips in a perfect imitation of Regina. There was a wicked glint in her eye when she handed it back. Her tongue darted out to capture some dribble from the cleft above her chin. "Mmm."

"Indeed." Regina gave a dry laugh. Subdued but almost natural.

After nursing the initial sweetness from her tea, Snow glanced back and forth between Regina and the cooling platter of food. "Eat up."

Regina demurred for a moment, not trusting herself to keep down anything substantial. She had skipped breakfast and lunch, her stomach churning at the mere idea of food. But the honey seemed to have whetted her appetite, and that top hunk of sourdough bread did look mighty appealing. She pinched off a couple of bites, allowing them to go doughy on her tongue before swallowing one at a time. Soon, she was slathering the entire slice in butter and nibbling at it like a pantry mouse, purposely avoiding Snow's widening grin.

"I added the figs myself," Snow said, nose hovering above the dish of withered fruit. "I remembered you said they're a favorite of yours."

If Regina had ever said such a thing, she didn't recall. She was partial to figs, though. Acknowledging the kindness with a nod, she went on chewing quietly, loathe to admit she could feel her strength returning little by little with each mouthful. She chanced soaking a piece of crust in the stew, but quickly abandoned it when a chunk of stringy beef bobbled to the surface. Submerged in broth, the crust disappeared from sight. She settled for spooning globs of apple preserves onto the bread until it was nearly half gone. As she teethed into a tough corner, she stole sideways glances at her stepdaughter: Snow was lost in thought, her head close enough to rest against Regina's knee. A desire to touch, to reach out and stroke raven-colored locks or perhaps spruce the blue ribbon that adorned them, seized Regina at once. In the blink of an eye it was gone. The day she got that desperate for a pet, she would go ask Maleficent where to find the best miniature unicorns.

Still.

"Aren't you hungry, dear?" Regina told herself it was just good breeding that made her self-conscious about eating in front of the girl. She couldn't account for the term of endearment, nor did she try.

"Not very," Snow said. "I really shouldn't spoil my supper. Although . . . well, Millie's sourdough does go quite nicely with preserves . . ."

Wordlessly, Regina nudged the bread basket towards Snow. Together they had picked it clean by the time ewerers arrived with the tub, burnished arms weighted down with steaming buckets. A gaggle of chambermaids followed in close procession, their chatter dying out as they entered, toting linens and a variety of oils in colorful bottles. The women emptied these bottles over the copper tub, seemingly at random, until they had coaxed the inching water into a swirling, lilac-scented froth. They snuck curious glimpses of the royal audience—whose not-unpleasant silences were interwoven with their own occasional small talk, also surprisingly tolerable—while they worked, sometimes whispering amongst themselves.

It crossed Regina's mind that they resembled a coven of witches toiling over a cauldron. I could teach you lovelies a thing or two, she thought, sniggering to herself. That would really give them something to talk about. She plucked a fig off the tray as she entertained the idea, absently suckling the tender skin. When she caught one of the younger maids, a girl perhaps two or three years older than Snow, watching her with particular interest, Regina bared her front teeth, sank them into the pulpy fruit, and crunched the seeds between her back molars. The girl almost dropped the bottle she was holding and received a brisk slap on the hand from one of her elders. Regina laughed out loud this time, a throaty chuckle she had only recently noticed replacing the fuller, richer laughter of her youth. Strange . . .

The sound drew Snow's attention, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled like she was in on the joke. Probably congratulating herself on lifting Regina's spirits. Well, let her believe that if she wanted to. Let her grow up thinking anything, even a dead child (or a dead lover), could be cured simply by biting into a sweet morsel. It would break her that much easier when she found the opposite to be true.

Pinching the remaining fig daintily between thumb and forefinger, Regina brought it to Snow's lips as if it were a holy wafer in a religious ceremony. Her hand lingered there after Snow accepted the fruit into that little bow of a mouth and began working it between perfect, pearly white teeth. Regina grazed the backs of her fingers along Snow's jawline, where the bones were as fine as that of a robin's wing, then drew away like it was hot to the touch.

Before Snow could ask what was wrong, the young chambermaid approached and, not daring to look directly at Regina, announced that m'lady's bath was ready and would there be anything else? Regina draped back against the chair, letting her body become fluid, catlike, and fluttered her fingers above the dinner tray, indicating its removal. The girl scuttled forward, soft springy curls bouncing under her frilled white cap (maybe I'll stick you in a vase by my bed one day, purred a dangerous voice inside Regina's head). She collected the platter of crumb-dusted dishes and untouched stew—that would surely set Millie's pumpkin face ablaze!—then scampered off behind her companions, glassware clinking frantically.

Snow got to her feet and began gathering the cups and saucers, empty now except for sugary dregs hardening at the bottoms. When she carried them to the tea set, situated the flower vase aesthetically on the cedar chest, and lifted the tray, it became clear she intended to leave also.

"Where are you going?" Regina asked.

"I thought you would want some privacy." Snow angled her head to the side, questioning. "You usually prefer to bathe alone."

This was true. For the first year of her marriage to Leopold, Regina had received many an odd stare from the servants she dismissed at bath time. Apparently Queen Eva had favored the custom of public bathing and being waited on hand and foot. But then, she probably never had a mother who insisted on attending every washing, keen eyes reading exposed flesh like words on parchment, keen hands probing her daughter's body as if it belonged to a show horse. And it was a safe bet that dear departed Eva also never dabbled in magicks with a strange little man who had the habit of popping up at the most inopportune moments. Regina had begun to suspect this was on purpose; that Rumplestiltskin somehow sensed her vulnerabilities and tailored his arrival to each precise weakness. It would have been impressive were it not so frightening.

Normally the desire to best him outweighed her fear. Right now she just wanted to sink into fragrant waters, soak the grime from between her legs and buttocks, and not hear a single note of that ridiculous voice trilling in her ear. With Snow present, he was certain not to show. He had no particular dislike for the child—although he once shared a rare laugh with his apprentice, flouncing around the room in mockery of Snow's prancing gait—but he seldom appeared to Regina in front of others. Unless there was a cloak and a crowd to hide behind.

"Shall I stay?" Snow prompted when there was no response.

"If you like." Regina brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap and stood up. "Wasn't there something you wished to ask me about? Something from your book?"

xXxXx

Five minutes later, Regina had shucked her garments into a heap on the floor and settled into the tub. She hissed as the heat engulfed her, searing her skin, loosening her aching muscles until they were as pliable as warm candle wax. There was a fine line separating pleasure and pain, and Regina often felt she couldn't distinguish between the two anymore. But surely, surely this was bliss.

The bleeding had finally stopped some time ago. Using a tentative hand, she scrubbed at the crusty residue on her thighs and privates. Her palm glided higher to the slight curve of her belly, rested there for a fleeting moment, drifted away. She slid a little farther down into the tub, drew her knees together under the water and cleared her throat.

Snow White's head poked around the side of the dressing screen. She tarried behind the scalloped frame, shadowy whorls and darting fireflies of reflected light playing across her face. It gave her an otherworldly appearance. In that one brief second, while she readied herself to partake in this rather adult ritual, there was a glimpse of the woman she would become—beautiful, courageous, determined. Then she was a child again, edging around the screen with a footstool in one hand, a sponge in the other. She set the stool down next to the tub and took a seat, doing a fair job of pretending not to be curious about what lay beneath the water.

"This was with the linens." Snow displayed the sponge on her upturned palm.

"Thank you." But when Regina reached out, Snow's hand closed around the porous little wedge. It gave easily beneath her fingers, like angel cake or cotton tufts. Or . . .

Tear it out, dearie. Now crush it.

"Shall I . . . shall I wash your back?"

"What?" Regina snapped back to reality. She couldn't tell if the heartbeat pounding in her ears was her own, or if this was an evolution in talent: the ability to hear another's heart so distinctly she could feel it palpitating in her hand. Bringing both knees up, she gripped them tightly to her chest.

"Your back?" Snow pointed, a bit timid.

"Oh, um . . . I suppose."

Still hugging her legs, Regina sat forward a little more and gathered the errant strands of her loosely upswept hair over one shoulder. She tensed and looked in the opposite direction when Snow wetted the sponge and squeezed out some of the water. The girl started between her shoulder blades with a gentle rotation that gradually expanded outward. It was much more soothing than the abrasive up and down motion Regina had half anticipated. For a while, the only sounds in the room were faint sploshes whenever Snow replenished the thirsty sponge. Regina rested her head on her bridged knees, lulled by the tranquil noises and the water trickling down her back.

"My mother used to do this for me," Snow said quietly.

Regina waited, but the child went no further. Her voice came out in a low monotone when she responded, "As did mine."

"Do you miss her a great deal? Your mother."

How to answer that? Most of the time, Regina didn't spare a moment's thought on her mother; didn't allow herself that option; couldn't allow it. And yet Cora was with her in every waking hour—and most of the ones spent dreaming as well. The face in the mirror, the fury in the soul. It seemed to Regina that nothing would ever break Cora's hold on her, not even separate realms.

Of course none of this could be spoken out loud. As far as Snow or anyone else who didn't answer to the name Rumplestiltskin was concerned, Cora had tragically died the day of her daughter's wedding, the body never recovered.

From the wreath of her arms, Regina gazed askance at Snow and prepared to lie some more. Instead, observing the girl's serene face in the firelight glow, she heard herself say, "Sometimes . . . sometimes I miss her so much I can barely breathe."

The sponge halted mid-stroke, then resumed bumping along the ridge of Regina's spine. Snow blinked rapidly and swallowed several times. "That's how I feel about my mother too. I wish you could have known her. She was wonderful. I'm so sorry you had to lose your mother like I did, Regina. She was a lovely—"

Regina reached around and captured Snow's hand at the small of her back. She applied no pressure, but the girl gasped as if she had been caught pickpocketing, arm hooked over the basin, up to her elbow in soapy water. They held each other's gaze until Snow finally looked away, breathless, and retracted her dripping limb. She gave it a light shake, trying to regain composure as Regina straightened up and let her body unfold beneath the wavy surface. Snow toyed with the sponge, passing it back and forth in her hands, before ever so slowly, ever so cautiously, resuming her work. Regina was surprised enough by the bold move to let it continue, eyes following the sponge's trajectory along her arm—now propped on the lip of the tub—and up the slope of her shoulder. A flex from Snow's hand sent water streaming down Regina's front, tiny rivulets branching off in every direction when they met the swell of her breasts. Although suds afforded her some modesty, she was acutely aware that her pregnancy had given her much more to cover up. Snow seemed to have noticed, too; her envy was so blatant it had turned her eyes the shade of clover.

Well, well, well.

Regina ladled a handful of water into her palm and spilled it lazily down the other shoulder, smoothing it all the way to her wrist. She splashed some against her collarbones and patted it across her chest. She sprinkled drops of it against her neck, massaging them in like oil with her fingertips, head listing from side to side. Eyes heavy-lidded but open to gauge the reaction, she inhaled deeply and let it out in a long, steady sigh. To her delight, the apples of the girl's cheeks were now as red as any honeycrisp. But all gloating was cut short when Snow dropped the sponge into the tub and turned away, busying herself at the nearby vanity.

Regina felt the rebuff like a slap. She hadn't realized how much she craved an affectionate touch until one was taken from her. Sometimes she went days or weeks without any physical contact at all save for Rocinante. Leopold approached her from time to time, but he might as well have been overseeing land disputes with a neighboring kingdom for all the tenderness he showed. A stout and unconquerable fortress of a man, he inevitably emerged victorious, holding onto his properties with an iron-fist.

Her dealings with Rumplestiltskin were even less sentimental. He was an omnipresent shadow who loomed behind her, intangible and forever out of reach. Impossible to satisfy, yet always wanting what she had to give. Seldom did he lay a finger on her—and she imagined hers would only pass through air if she ever ventured a touch of those tarnished gold scales—but she felt his gaze upon her as violently and possessively as the hands of a jealous lover.

And then there was her father. Apart from Daniel, Henry Mills was the kindest, dearest soul she had ever known. But also the weakest. There were moments when she observed his cowering stance, his quaking jowls as he offered her useless pretty words that amounted to little more than beggar's spit, and she felt a loathing so profound it made her head swim. In those moments, she would hug him fiercely to her, silently pleading his forgiveness and reveling in the loving warmth that emanated from his hands upon her back. When they parted, he would smile at her with a fond but puzzled expression that made her heart ache. Only recently had she understood why: she frightened him. It was the same look she had seen him give her mother countless times throughout her childhood, his wish to placate Cora stronger than any instinct to protect his daughter. Now Regina inspired the same fear and blind devotion in the one person she loved most. It sickened her. Sometimes she didn't even mind when Leopold punished her willfulness by banning visitation with her father. At least then he couldn't follow her around like an abused mutt.

Bile coated the back of her throat at the thought. Forcing it down, she grabbed for the sponge and sank it beneath the water. She dragged it across her stomach and thighs with the vigor of a laundress at a washboard. What a pathetic fool she must look sitting there stewing in lilac juice (for the remainder of her days, she would associate that smell and the image of pinkened suds with her dead infant—Joshua whose hair smelled of spring; who had ten perfect little pink fingers and toes) while bemoaning her spineless father and her failure to entice a twelve-year-old. Another sensation burned deep within her throat, but this time it was a sob. She choked it back, scrunching her eyes shut against prickling tears, and at first, didn't hear Snow's polite:

"Ahem."

"Hm?" Regina sat up too quickly and nearly sloshed water onto the floor.

Snow brandished a silver hairbrush in one hand; she had folded a small white cloth over that arm like she was prepared to serve wine. With the other hand, she circled her finger through the air in a counterclockwise motion. "Turn."

Regina arched her eyebrows, but checked the tart remark that sprang to her lips. Gradually, and despising herself for it all the while, she obeyed her stepdaughter's command and turned until her back was flush with the shallow side of the tub. Unable to extend her legs at this angle, she planted her toes where the basin curved upwards, and grasped the edge in both hands as if bracing for an impact. She held her breath as the cloth neared her shoulders, wicking moisture from each side and the valley between. Gooseflesh stood out in stark relief on every inch of her body when Snow released her hair from its ivory comb, letting it swing free with a heavy flourish like velveteen drapes closing on a stage play. Her senses were abuzz with anticipation and something else she didn't quite have a name for, though it was not dissimilar to the jolts of pleasure-pain she felt while summoning the darkest magic. It should have been shameful, she supposed, that Snow White—of all people—incited such a visceral reaction. But then the girl's slender fingers sifted through her hair, and she no longer cared.

All the tension in her body exited in a single deep sigh.

Lifting thick sections of Regina's hair, Snow began running the brush top to bottom through each one, her hand guiding the strands from below. "I wish you wore it down like this more often," she said after several lengthy whisks. She sounded dreamy and far away. "It's so pretty."

"Well, it wouldn't behoove the king for his wife to go traipsing about the castle with untidy locks, now would it?" Regina asked lightly, a husky quality to her own distant voice. She tipped her head farther back, lips parting slightly, eyes sliding shut. It occurred to her that she hadn't let her guard down this much in front of the girl since before the betrayal that cost Daniel his life. Since then, she had regarded Snow as a dangerous enemy who was just as likely to stick a dagger in her back as come skipping into her chamber with a handful of flowers. But right now it didn't matter to Regina what implement would finally hasten her demise, be it blade or blossom, as long as it didn't interfere with having her hair brushed.

"I suppose not," Snow said.

"That was rhetorical."

"Ritora-what?"

"Never mind, dear."

They winced in unison when the smooth strokes hit a snag. Regina's fingers went to her tingling scalp, rubbing at the spot where it had pulled. She glanced over her shoulder, frowning, mostly because Snow stilled the brush, snatched her hand from the nape of Regina's neck, and took a tremulous step back.

"I'm sorry," Snow said gravely.

"Nonsense. It didn't hurt," Regina lied. She pasted on an expression that was all teeth but no smile and beckoned with a crook of her index finger.

Taking the bait, Snow returned to her task with renewed vigilance, piecing through strands and gliding the bristles over them with painstaking care. Regina was practically purring in contentment by the time the final tresses settled around her shoulders. With a pang of disappointment, she resigned herself to losing the soothing attentions, but Snow wasn't finished. She placed her fingertips near Regina's temples and raked them backwards, gathering onyx-black streamers of hair through each digit. She began weaving them together adeptly, keeping them taut with an occasional tug that went straight from the roots of Regina's hair to the tips of her toes.

Whatever defenses had built up in the interlude between brushing and braiding came toppling down, and Regina was so subdued that she didn't even mind when Snow started to hum. It was some monstrous nursery rhyme about a pair of maidens fair who hid in the woods to escape ravishment by the barbarians pillaging their town. Regina hadn't heard it since she was in pantalettes, but the words came back to her as if no time had passed. Joining in at the chorus, she sang in a tuneful murmur about the poor little dears who were currently weeping by a brook. She was only mildly annoyed that her voice blended so well with Snow's, the soprano notes, sweet and canarylike, a perfect complement to Regina's rich alto. They made it through all five verses and corresponding refrains, seeing the maidens home to what was left of their families, the ordeal forever memorialized in a bank of willow trees that grew from the seeds of their tears.

Snow began merging the two intricate side braids into a single plait. Midway down Regina's back she asked, "What does it mean when a man and woman 'join flesh'?"

Regina almost choked on her own saliva. She gave a strangled little cough, palm splayed open against her chest, and turned a wide-eyed gaze on Snow (who looked about as benign as if she had asked Regina to pass the table salt). "What did you say?" she demanded hoarsely.

"You know . . . like when Solan sneaks into Evelyn's bower at midnight and she surrenders to his ardent affections and they join flesh."

The tub squeaked loudly in protest when Regina twisted farther around. "What?!"

With a perturbed huff, Snow followed the braid's twitchy movement to keep it from yanking in her hands. "It's one of the parts I don't understand in Meadowlark." She rolled her eyes at the blank stare she received, and added in a tone reserved for the very aged or the very daft, "The book you lent me." And then, with a bit more patience, but not much: "Honestly, it's as if you've never read it."

Honestly, Regina hadn't. Weeks ago—on a rainy day when Snow was trapped inside with her boredom, and Regina with what she now knew to be morning sickness—she had grabbed the book from a shelf in Leopold's library, thrust it into the girl's hands, and sent her shuffling off to some remote corner on the other side of the castle. Until today, she hadn't given it a second thought.

Reaching around slyly, she snatched at the rectangular bulge in Snow's pocket and began rifling through Meadowlark, ignoring the girl's squawks about wet fingers. "What page is it?" she asked, thumbing furiously.

Snow heaved a resigned sigh. "Thirty-six."

"Goodness. Apparently the old bird didn't hold out long."

"What?"

Regina put up a finger for silence as she scanned page thirty-six, which did indeed conclude with young Evelyn giving herself over to Solan, a sun god disguised as human. The scene was vague enough not to be too scandalous, but raunchy enough that Regina felt a warm stirring in her belly. She closed the book with an abrupt snap. Then she started to giggle. She giggled the way she used to, in high, girlish peals that swelled into wave after crashing wave of breathless laughter. She giggled until her sides ached and she could barely lift her head off the edge of the tub.

Chest hitching spasmodically, she opened her eyes to an upside-down room and an upside-down Snow. The little girl looked entirely perplexed. Regina reached backwards, dropping the book into its slot, and, between residual shudders of laughter, said, "They're having intercourse, you dolt."

"Oh." Snow fiddled with the remaining strands of hair that hung loosely from her fingers. "What's intercourse?"

Turning room and girl right side up, Regina narrowed her eyes and studied Snow long and hard. "I'm not sure that's an appropriate conversation for someone of your . . . tender sensibilities," she finally deduced, voice quavering with suppressed mirth.

"Then why give me the book at all?"

Clever girl. Regina tapped a finger to her chin and pretended to mull it over. She drew out the answer for much longer than necessary, thoroughly enjoying the challenge that gleamed in her petite adversary's eye. "Well . . ." she drawled, stalling a few— agonizing— moments— more.— "You do know the singular difference between a man and a woman, I presume?"

Snow nodded uncertainly; paused; shrugged instead.

"Think, dear. Have you never taken a second look at a nude sculpture or painting?" Regina smirked, adding or perhaps a third to herself.

The toe of one tiny slipper turned inward, and Snow kicked it idly against the outer wall of the tub. She ducked her head, curls clustered like garland beneath her snubbed chin, and peered up coyly through eyelashes the length of butterfly antennas. "There is an anatomy book I found in Papa's study . . ." Two more light kicks. "Sometimes I sneak in and look at the illustrations."

Regina stifled a stray giggle behind her hand. This was proving to be the most informative bath she had ever taken. Who would have thought a pampered twelve-year-old who was chaperoned practically everywhere she went could have so many interesting secrets?

"And I trust you've noticed a minor discrepancy between the male and female form," Regina said, coaxing the words along with a spiraling hand, as if that might set the wheels of enlightenment in motion.

"Oh, that? Yes, I've noticed that."

"Yes, well, that is what makes it possible for Evelyn and Solan to join their flesh. When a man and woman lie together, they use those discrepancies to express their love." Regina couldn't resist sneering at the last part. She supposed it might be true, but she didn't have the proof to back it up. In her experience, intercourse meant lying still and praying for it to be over.

"But . . ." Snow snared her bottom lip against her top teeth. She glanced around the room like she might find a better explanation tucked away in the folds of the bedclothes or filtered subliminally through the patchwork light from the stained glass windows. "How?"

An exasperated sound escaped Regina's throat and she made a vague gesture that died out when it occurred to her that she didn't really know how to describe the finer points of lovemaking. But she needed to act quickly. Snow was regarding her as if suspicious that she had ever actually had intercourse. Regina grabbed the nearest object—the sponge—and wrung it out, molding it into an ambiguous shape (not that unlike what Leopold had to offer, to be perfectly honest) with a series of firm squeezes. Her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth as she tried to discourage the makeshift phallus from expanding and ruining the effect. It was a losing battle. Making do with the lopsided instrument, she seized Snow's hand—the one that wasn't still holding the last few inches of her unbraided hair—and formed it into a small opening, fingers and thumb meeting in a loop.

Waggling the sponge, she specified in a bland tone, "Man"; and cupping her palm to the back of Snow's curved hand, she spoke a bit more gently: "Woman." Then she guided masculine to feminine, swirling the sponge inside the cylinder of Snow's hand until a rather convincing flesh-colored tip peeked through her bowled fingers. Regina urged it a little farther in. Like threading a needle, she thought, humorously at first, but then with a grim recognition she didn't care to dwell on.

Snow studied the demonstration with a rapt expression, gaze flitting from their coupled hands to Regina's face and back again. Her breath caught—she seemed on the brink of epiphany. "I . . ." Her shoulders sagged and she exhaled forcefully. Gave a mournful shake of her head. "I still don't understand."

"Oh, for Gorhm's sake, child!" Regina dropped her hand and the sponge, letting both slap against the water in a spray of tiny droplets that made her blink. So much for the art of subtlety. "You spend half your time gallivanting outdoors with woodland creatures. You mean to tell me you've never witnessed anything remotely odd during mating season?"

"One time I did see some deer behaving rather strangely," Snow said after a moment's pause. And seconds later, her features twisted into the grotesque likeness of a gargoyle perched on a castle parapet. "That's intercourse?" she asked, just shy of screeching.

And there it is.

"Carnality personified," Regina affirmed, dabbing beads of moisture from her brow with the back of one wrist. "Perhaps a little less refined than the marital variety. Though not by much."

Snow turned this over in her mind for quite a while, wiping her wet palm against the bodice of her dress long after it had dried. "And it's meant to be— err, pleasurable?"

Without warning, Regina's senses were overwhelmed by the heady aroma of ale and perspiration. It bore down on her with the weight of a man. She could feel Leopold slick and firm inside her; taste him—his musty, ashen flavor reminiscent of the toadstools he consumed avidly—in her mouth; hear his porcine grunting in her ear. She had the sudden clawing, desperate urge to gag or scream. Or maybe wrap her fingers around Snow's pretty white throat and squeeze the gags and screams silent.

Gripping the sides of the tub until her knuckles whitened, she tempered her brewing rage with memories of Daniel. The thrilling, aching pressure of his body on hers as they tumbled into haystacks, stealing kisses whenever her mother's back was turned (occasionally his knee would fit itself against her groin, innocent enough at first, but then her thighs would clench and . . . and . . . . Sometimes she fretted that Cora would find evidence of these trysts among her underclothes. Fortunately for Regina, Cora Mills would never stoop to handling laundry); the warmth in his touch as he found excuses to help her in and out of the saddle, hands lingering for a brief eternity at her waist, her calf, her elbow; the wild, windblown scent of him when he returned from riding the pastures, ruddy-cheeked and handsomer than any god made manifest could ever hope to be.

They never consummated their love, of course. Daniel had been far too much of a gentleman, and Regina was convinced beyond reason that Cora would somehow know—whether by instinct, sorcery, or simple touch—that her daughter had, even for a short time, belonged to another. But that Regina was too naïve to realize the extent of her mother's control—its power over the mind, as well as the body—and she had let her imagination roam free when it came to her stable boy. Oh, how she had let it roam.

"Evelyn certainly seems to think so," she said thinly. Exhaustion was seeping back into her bones at an alarming rate. With one last ounce of playfulness, she floated her loose fist partially underwater and clamped it shut quickly. A jet of water shot skyward and dampened Snow's skirt with a dark pattern that spread like blood.

Lost in starry-eyed wonder, the girl looked down and absently swiped at the spot. When she glanced up again, there was high color on her cheeks. She tutted and went back to braiding in earnest. "If you ask me, it sounds revolting. I'm never doing something so . . . so . . . obsteen."

"Obscene." Regina allowed herself a tired smile at the child's mispronunciation. "You'll grow up and change your mind. Once you've found your prince."

"No. Shan't."

"Well, then, my dear," Regina said, feeling a bit drunk in her weariness, a bit reckless, "prepare to be made a very unhappy wife someday."

During the lengthy silence that followed, Snow completed the plait and let its heft dangle from her hand like a bullwhip. Then she cracked it: "Are you very unhappy married to my father?"

Regina considered lying. Under normal circumstances self-preservation would have guaranteed she did so, but there had been nothing normal about the past several hours. And as she looked up into a face filled with such genuine concern, such deep compassion that it wrenched at her heart and brought tears to her eyes, she found herself once again needing to tell the truth, consequences be damned. "He doesn't love me, Snow," she said in a choked whisper.

"Yes, he—"

"No. He doesn't." Her voice was stronger this time and she caught Snow's wrist in the middle of a dismissive gesture, pinning it to the girl's hip with unnecessary force. She held onto it, wanting to cling to something, and leaned forward with an urgency that startled them both. "He loves the idea of me. He loves my youth and my vitality. He loves the way I look on his arm at banquets and what he can do with my body when they're over. But do you think he's ever once asked me what I want? Or shown the least interest in who I am when I'm not lying in his bed? He hasn't. I am nothing more than a possession to him. Bought and paid for at your behest. And I've little doubt that if you wished me tossed out on the street tomorrow, my next suit of clothes would be the rags of a pauper."

Snow had begun to cry now, but with none of her previous vengeance. These tears fell slowly and quietly, rolling down either cheek in fat droplets the size of pearls and meeting under her chin. They dripped onto Regina's outstretched arm, mingling with the moisture from the bath, as Snow shook her head and started to deny the claims that her father was anything less than the ideal husband. But even she seemed unable to come up with a convincing argument. "I would never do that to you, Regina," she said eventually, her voice breaking. "Don't you know how much I love you? I've loved you since the day we met."

Only two people had ever declared their love for Regina with enough conviction to make her believe it: her dead fiancé, moments before the heart was rent from his body, and now the little girl who was responsible for it all. Deep in Regina's soul something small and gnarled and knot-hard, something she had tended as vigilantly as an apple tree, began to crack. It splintered down her spine like a lightning bolt tearing through bark and wood, leaving behind only charred and smoking remains. Its roots—grasping, impossibly far-reaching—withered and uncoiled from around her heart and lungs, letting her breathe for what felt like the first time in two years. Maybe twenty. She inhaled sharply, greedily, and with an audible gasp, then exhaled a wounded little moan. People sometimes made that sound when you reached into their chests.

Blinded by tears, she made a fumbling grab for Snow's waist and pulled the girl to her. She threw her arms around the slight frame, its untouched purity both a comfort and an insult, and buried her face against the flat chest. Her sobs came as relentlessly as the giggles had moments ago, jerking up and out of her throat with a violence that quaked her entire body and the one she held onto. All of the emotion she had suppressed since her wedding day—the ugly dark anger, the bitterness and fear, the loneliness that consumed with voracious jaws—seemed to be regurgitating at once. If she opened her eyes, she was sure to see it oozing out of her in a curdled black sludge. It would fill this tub and ten more just like it. She closed her lids tighter and sobbed harder, smothering the awful keening noises in silks and lace. Snow's hands were at her back, helplessly chafing bare skin. She became dimly aware that such an episode might very well call her sanity into question—and so be it. No amount of holes drilled into the skull or lashes from scourge-wielding clerics could be more painful than what she had already endured in her lifetime.

She didn't know how long she stayed there bawling into the front of Snow's gown, handfuls of skirt bunched into her fists, but the material was soaked through when she turned a cheek to it and gathered air into her bursting lungs. As she gulped down hungry mouthfuls and snuffled back her runny nose, she heard a voice apologizing over and over again. It took a moment for her to realize the waterlogged pleas were her own. Even worse, Snow White was the one comforting her, telling her she had nothing to be sorry for, and that everything would be all right.

Listening to the steady heartbeat and soothing murmurs that rumbled in the girl's chest, Regina let a fresh wave of tears sweep her away.

xXxXx

"You're cold," Snow said a while later, when shuddery breaths gave way to bone-rattling chills.

Regina nodded. I am sitting in a tepid bath in a drafty castle with a fire dying on the hearth, she thought, but couldn't find the motivation to speak it. "Yes," she replied instead, and didn't even scold herself for the gratitude she felt when Snow offered her a hand out of the tub. Dazed and shivering, she watched as the girl hurried about the room in a flurry of activity, returning the brush to the vanity (Regina glimpsed a forlorn creature in the mirror, dripping wet and huddled with its arms crisscrossed in front of its chest) and collecting an armload of linens. The latter were soon wrapped around Regina so thoroughly it felt as if she had donned a corset. Another went around her shoulders and received a quick, vigorous rub.

"Oh, wait." Snow halted mid-step and whipped the satin ribbon from her hair, curls bounding off her shoulders and springing right back into place. She rounded Regina to tie off the braid, then completed her circuit by reappearing on the other side and resuming their path towards the bed. Only when she had deposited her stepmother safely atop the covers did she trot over to the armoire and begin rummaging for a nightdress.

"Bring two," Regina said, indicating the tears, snot and bathwater that still painted the front of Snow's frock in lurid streaks.

Snow glanced up from the open drawer. She had been sorting through garments as if they were sewn together with finer stuff than spider silk and butterfly wings. "Really?" she asked, slightly awed.

"Mm. I thought you might . . . I thought you might stay a while longer. You can read to me from that book of yours." This idea hadn't occurred to Regina until the words were coming from her mouth, but she liked the excuse as well as any. It was better than admitting she just didn't want to be alone. And easier than admitting to herself that she enjoyed Snow's company. "In fact, it's getting rather late," she added, nodding to the twilight haze beyond the windows. Crying had left her raspy, but she cleared her throat and made her tone light, effortless—the voice of a young girl who had yet to be split in two by grief time and time again; the voice of someone long dead; the voice of a ghost. "Perhaps you should sleep in here tonight. There's plenty of room."

Sliding the drawer shut with her hip, Snow looked hesitantly at the identical nightdresses she had procured. "Do you think it best? I wouldn't want to disturb your rest." She nibbled at her bottom lip. "And Father returns from his progress tomorrow."

"All the more reason you should stay. He wouldn't want you wandering the castle alone in his absence, especially while it's dark." Regina assumed her most winning smile, tipped her head, patted the quilted coverlet. "Nor would I."

An expression of deep yearning stole over the girl's face, her overbright eyes welling. She returned the smile through her tears and gave an exuberant nod, swiping at the glisten on her cheeks. "All right, then. Let me just go tell Johanna where I am, so she doesn't worry and—"

(Don't you walk away from me!)

For a moment, with a clarity so vivid it stung her senses like hartshorn, Regina felt the leather reins binding her arms, cutting off her circulation as she hung suspended in midair; the magic invading her body, controlling it, manipulating her to its will. She almost yelped in surprise—and pain—but caught herself just in time. Tucking both hands beneath her thighs, she clawed into the bedding and fought to maintain a level tone as she interrupted Snow's prattling: "That won't be necessary, dear. I'll ring the servants to remove my bath. One of them can inform Johanna of your whereabouts."

Deeming the offer satisfactory, Snow joined Regina at bedside, and less than an hour later they were propped shoulder to shoulder against the pillows, clad in Regina's nightdresses (she had folded the sleeves back to keep them from swallowing the girl's hands up) while the soiled ones fed the newly blazing fire, and watching the emptied tub being carted away as if the chambermaids were stage folk in a domestic drama. They made it through five chapters of Meadowlark—during which no one's virtue was besmirched, unfortunately—before Snow's lively narration dwindled into wider and wider yawns. Regina took over on the sixth and final chapter, curiosity about the main lovers' clandestine romance getting the better of her. It turned out to be an ill-fated and, to her supreme disappointment, terribly maudlin tale: inconsolable after Solan was forced to resume his godhood, Evelyn had thrown herself off a cliff, been turned into a bird, and flown off into the sunset.

"The lark took wing and soared heavenward, basking in warm, golden rays of light; none had ever heard a sweeter song than those who hearkened to her call," Regina recited in a lofty manner, over-enunciating each syllable of the closing sentence. She shut the book with exaggerated care, then tossed it onto the lump where her legs met Snow's beneath the blanket, and snorted. "Drivel," she announced. "Absolute hogwash."

Snow, who had been drowsing through the last several paragraphs, let out a sleepy giggle. She nudged her elbow lightly into Regina. "It isn't. I think it's ro-roman- . . ." Her mouth opened to cavernous depths and she covered it with her palm, muffling the roar that escaped. "Tic."

"What do you know of such things?" Regina asked airily, and patted a small yawn of her own. She set the book aside and burrowed deeper into the covers, allowing her head to drift until it came to rest against Snow's. She expected the floral scent that wafted from those dark curls, but there was something just underneath it—something vibrant and sturdy and green. Something difficult to uproot. "You know nothing of a woman's heart, little one."

"You're wrong," said Snow. But she snuggled closer, fitting herself against the curve of Regina's hip, looping their arms, and resting her head on the nearest shoulder. She pecked a soft kiss there and sighed contentedly. "I know all about love. You taught me, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

When it became obvious that no more would be spoken on the subject, Snow broached a new one, even though she was fading fast: "I shall have to visit the library tomorrow and find another book, I daresay."

"I daresay," Regina echoed faintly, twining a lock of the girl's hair in and out of her fingers in a ceaseless pattern somehow reminiscent of . . . of . . . what?

(spinning wheel)

She dropped the strands at once and pushed the thought away. But despite a valiant effort, she couldn't discourage her gaze from straying to the square pillow propped against the headboard on the opposite side of Snow: it was different than the others on the bed; smaller and, with its red silk casing and filigrees of golden thread, supposedly meant for decorative purposes only. Regina had chosen it for this very reason. The prettiest ornaments sometimes held the deadliest secrets—she knew that better than anyone. "Hand me that pillow, won't you, dear?" she said, gently rousing Snow from a light slumber.

Bleary-eyed, Snow glanced around in confusion, then reached for the only pillow that wasn't in use. When she discovered its unusual heft, she blinked herself back to lucidity and sat up a little, turning the cushion over in her hands. At the reverse side was a hemmed flap meant for easy removal of the inner padding, but it also made for excellent camouflage of other small items, such as . . . Snow plunged a hand into the casing and unveiled the spellbook wedged between it and the stuffing. She stared at it in wonder, her mouth ajar, tongue working silently, as if she were tasting the gold clasps and tiny, inlaid jewels on the cover beneath her fingertips. "Oh, how cunning," she said in a breathless whisper, tracing her thumb around the ruby heart at its center.

How cunning, indeed. Soberly, Regina watched her stepdaughter marveling over the newfound treasure, unaffected by the invasion of privacy. Snow had a habit of sticking her nose where it didn't belong and treating Regina's possessions as her own, but then, she was her father's daughter.

"Can we read it tonight?" Snow was asking, already lifting the front cover.

Rum-ple— Rumple-shtilt—

"Tomorrow." Regina laid a hand over the book, guiding it shut before the name appeared, and eased it from the girl's grasp. She placed it on the nightstand next to the bed.

"Just one chapter. Pretty please?"

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it, sweet girl? Pretty this, pretty that." Regina stroked the backs of her fingers along one round and ivory cheek, and exhaled, "Oh . . ."

She cupped Snow beneath the chin and whispered with a slight hiss, "So . . ."

"Pretty . . . ." She breathed the word like a benediction and kissed the girl soundly on the lips. Then she drew back and held the fluttering green-eyed gaze across from hers with a steadfastness that made Snow flush scarlet. Regina grinned, and repeated, "Tomorrow."

When Snow was sound asleep and curled snugly around her stepmother, head nestled beneath her chin, Regina felt herself being lured into a peaceful, weightless haze as well. Her thoughts took on a dreamy fluidity as she considered what the morning would bring: the king's return, a burial beneath the apple tree, and a mind-altering spell from the book at her side. It was almost a shame to cull every last trace of their day together from her stepdaughter's memory—she could have learned to care for this Snow, who doted on her like a mother hen and challenged her bratty behavior; who knew how to keep secrets and maybe even loved her a little bit. But it was also necessary. Perhaps in another lifetime they could have been friends, she and Snow, but in this one they were never meant to be. While the girl went on living her charmed and happy existence, Regina's path must always remain one of death and destruction. The evidence of that was wrapped in bloody rags beneath her bed, a cold hard floor for its cradle. Better for Snow if she forgot there had ever been something worth loving in one so wicked.

Yes, tomorrow, then.

First thing tomorrow, she would cast her spell. She would play the dutiful wife at her husband's homecoming. Then, when he inevitably lost interest in her, she would slip away and lay their son, Joshua, to rest under the apple tree with his sibling and a sprig of white bonnet-shaped flowers tied in blue satin ribbon. And while her children perished in the soil, she would go on living and breathing and cursing. But tonight . . .

Tonight, she would hold one child close and keep it safe from all harm.