Any accurate assessment of how long Emma had been confined in her cell had long since disappeared from the princess' mind. Time now, rather than being measured in hours, days or weeks, was the gaps between visits from the Queen. Her meals, wholesome fare and decent portions, hardly what she had expected, were serving by the same pock-faced guards who initially locked her in the cell. At each meal, they replaced the burning torches that had been installed in the corridor opposite the cell soon after her arrival, throwing flickering orange light in all directions. Occasionally, Emma would wake from fitful sleep to find something new in the cell with her – once there had been a clean mattress, other times fresh clothes, a book, a brush for her hair, a blanket and even, once, a finely crafted hair tie, a small silver apple fastened at each end. Though still clearly a dungeon cell, the space she lived in was becoming more permanent, more comfortable.
Perhaps there was some schedule to the visits, a pattern, a purpose, but it was indiscernible to the captive princess. Each visit started the same way – the queen would bring her apples, and Emma would refuse to take even the smallest bite. The queen would pout and plead, teasing with every half-lidded look and breathy exhortations to take a bite, just one bite, of her forbidden fruit. Sometimes, there would be a flash and a puff of smoke, and the queen would stand in front of her, apple raised to her own lips, white and even teeth perfectly poised to take a seductive bite. On those occasions Emma would knock the fruit away, replacing it with her own mouth, hands grasping needily at the queen's dress, her own body compelling her, driving her actions, even as her mind told her to cease and desist, to remember who this was. The queen never stopped her, or failed to return the kiss, but rather responded with equal fervour, clutching and grabbing, holding Emma close.
The still thinking part of Emma forced her to concede that this was most likely part of some power play, a way of distracting her from the outside world and the possibility of rescue. Another part, a small, quiet part the rest of her fought to silence, reminded her of the silent gifts, of the tie holding back her hair, and dared to wonder at other reasons. Nonsense, she heard her mother's voice say – the queen is without feeling, and don't forget it.
Once, the queen had pressed her face to the bars separating them, hand reaching through to capture her wrist, pulling Emma closer. Faces just inches apart, the queen had searched Emma's face intently before speaking. "All this time you've been here," she said, "and not one escape attempt. Why?" The question, for once, had seemed designed to tease or provoke. Its tone, and accompanying facial expression, had been sincere, nervous even, as if the asker were afraid of the question, and the answer that might follow.
Emma had looked away, unwilling to meet the searing, searching look. It was unlike her, she acknowledged, not to fight authority, not to struggle for freedom and independence. If there was a reason, a real reason, behind her lack of fight, she had buried it so deeply that even she could not bring it to mind. She'd looked up, then, stared back at her interrogator and shrugged. "I don't know," she said, a half smile on her lips. "I wish I would. But it seems so pointless, somehow." Her answer clearly had not satisfied the queen, who drew back, frowning.
When she spoke again, the old, mocking tone was back and Emma flinched away. "Come now little princess, aren't you missing mummy? Or was your poor, privileged life so lonely that you even prefer this mangy cell and my infrequent attentions?" Emma did not respond, and the queen's laughter echoed from the walls in her head, long after the woman herself had gone.