Chapter One

You have listened to and known fairy tales for ages and ages. They have been tossed and thrown apart from generation to generation. Through one of these stories, you may have heard of the fair Snow White and her seven dwarves. You may have, but you do not know what really happened to her. She is just a character in a storybook, enfolded by thousands of tellings of her story. But my story you have not heard…yet. My story, of magic and evil and love and friendship, the real story of Snow White and her seven dwarfs, you are yet to hear. So, to start a fairy tale, how do you begin? Oh yes…

Once upon a time, in a far off land long ago, there was a wealthy count and his wife. They had only one child, a girl. Me. I never knew my mother. She had died at childbirth, but my father used to tell me the most wonderful stories of their courtship. For most of my childhood, I have fond memories of riding Nichols, the black stallion my father owned and loved, all throughout our pastures and castle gardens. There was never a dull moment. My father was always with me, caring for me in any way he could. By the age of five, my father decided that I should have a mother again. So he remarried a baroness from another county, a widow with no children. I was greatly disappointed for I longed for companionship in a brother or sister around my own age. My only friends consisted of Nichols and the servants who took pleasure in teasing me while they did their chores. Margaret, the cook, baked me fresh scones on Sunday mornings before mass and Erin, the maid who cleaned and dusted my room every Thursday, liked to tug at my hair and tickle my sides until I'd run screaming and laughing at the same time.

My stepmother was quite unlike my father. She never had time for me. I learned later that she married my father because, as a widow, she had lost much of her money trying to pay her debts of her estate. My father was one of the richest in the county, besides the king, and took pity on her. When I was older, I scolded my father for choosing a bride in such a way because marriage should be for love and not for pity or for money. He only brushed me aside and told me to be grateful that I even had a mother. I tried in every way to become close to my stepmother. Several times I attempted to begin a game of cards with her or bring her breakfast in bed. She would pretend to occupy herself with random tasks when I walked in with a deck of cards, telling me she was too busy and in the morning, she would give me a cold nod and wave me away. She questioned Father countless times to send me to boarding school, but, to my relief, he always declined.

And so I grew up, independent and dreamy, because I spent most of my time by myself, reading books, wandering through the castle's gardens and talking to myself and to Nichols, my most treasured listener. After spending hours with a tutor, I'd study my lessons in the Grand Stable, feeding Nichols apples and sugar cubes and every now and then lay down my book to tell him things. He'd look at me with those huge soft brown horse eyes and seem to smile back at me, even when I was crying. He'd nudge my shoulder with his nose and I'd lie back in the sweet-smelling hay, feeling better that he was there.

When I was nine, my life changed forever. My father grew ill and died quickly of pneumonia. I was devastated, especially because since my stepmother had entered our intimate little world, he had grown apart from me, always upon the demands of my stepmother and throwing himself into his work. And now he was gone completely. My stepmother, I knew pretended to be saddened by his lost, but it only made her all the more richer and happier. She inherited all his money and his property, only to purchase more servants and more of her own possessions. I hardly ever saw her, except for meals, usually she kept to herself, probably reveling in her own filth and greed and fortune. I didn't care; it made me even more independent. Little did she care if I went walking through town to buy myself a bun from the pastry shop or to stop in at the library.

One of those days, in which I decided to spend wandering around the streets of the village, marked a start to my story.

I had just come out of the library with a particular favorite book held in my basket, not really paying attention to anyone except myself and humming a tune Mary usually sang while she was cooking breakfast. I had tied my long black hair carelessly back in a loose braid and by now, through the dust and the breeze, it had fallen about my face. I was in a fantasy world; nothing could be better than walking alone on a sunny day with a favorite book and a stomach full of pastries. I sighed and twirled about until my fantasy world burst as I crashed into someone. I then tripped over my skirt and went down hard on my hands and knees, my basket and book flying. Utterly humiliated and turning beet red, I slowly got up, gathering my thoughts that had scattered all over the street.

"Pardon me, I didn't see you," a boy's voice said. I looked up and brushed myself off, even more embarrassed. It was a boy I had seen before, often in the village, buying things. He was of great wealth by the way he dressed and I always saw him with a number of servants scurrying after him. He was about a head taller than I was and his grey eyes stared down on a trembling girl now full of dirt.

"I'm sorry." He scooped up my basket and my book and handed them to me, grinning, "I'll remember to watch where I'm going next time, Lady."

I smiled back at him, "It is entirely my fault, sir, the sun and the spring weather have entirely taken over my senses and thoughts, therefore also denying me of wit and seriousness," I replied gaily, though now fully aware of my dusty and dirty appearance.

He laughed.

"Are you—" he started, but one of his servants called for him and he glanced at me again before running off. I shrugged and strolled out of town into the quietness and peace of the woodland path outside the walls of noise and chaos.

Ah, this was where I was meant to be. I loved the woods. It fulfilled a certain part of me, especially when I was missing my father most, because he would often take me walking. We would name trees and shrubs and he'd pick flowers and stick them in my hair. He used to call me Snow because I was fair and my complexion reminded him of my mother, who's skin was as white as the star-flowers we used to find along the path. Now I picked a bouquet of them and strung them together, tying them around my head and filling my basket.

I carefully sat and untied my boots and proceeded to climb a tree and sit, perched in between two branches and read my book. This was solitude as it was meant to be. As I turned each page, I'd look up and gaze over the village and in the distance, I could see the towers of the palace, a place that sparked great interest in me. My father, in his business, used to take trips there to do work for the king Himself and he'd come back telling me stories of how grand and elegant the grounds and the halls were in the palace, making our own estate seem like a shack. I have yet only seen the palace from a distance, but I have made a promise to myself to visit it before I die. My father had unfulfilled dreams. He said once he would take me to Paris and travel along the river in Venice. Once he even said he'd take me where the fairies live and to where a certain witch brews magical potions. But, in my solitude, I have come to the conclusion that there are no witches or fairies. But, for some reason I don't know of, I keep searching, as if to find a reason to prove myself wrong. It's just as well, you know, to keep on dreaming, to make life seem a bit less complicated.

A church bell chimed in the distance. I jumped, nearly throwing myself to my death out of the tree and gasped, climbing down the tree as fast as I could. I had told my stepmother I would be home by five o'clock.

"I don't know why she does care if I come home or not," I muttered to myself as I grabbed my basket, flowers flying to the ground as I turned, hair spinning. Grabbing my boots, I ran in my bare feet to reach our castle's grounds. Panting and wiping my forehead, I hurried into the front garden where I crashed, for the second time, into someone. It was John, the gardener and tree-cutter.

"Well, you'd better hurry, my lady. She's in one of her moods," he warned, shaking his head, speaking of my stepmother. My hands began to shake as I slowed and walked in through the front doors. I found my stepmother standing by the side wall.