It was nearly daybreak on the solstice before all the guests had departed and the King and Queen were able to retreat to their chamber. The Queen, whose countenance had not softened during the evening, directed her anger at her husband once more.

“I can’t imagine what those witches told you to cause you to treat Snow so horribly.”

The King hung his head.

“I’ve talked to Snow and assured her of my love for her. I told her I was deeply sorry and she has forgiven me, why can you not do the same?” he said.

The Queen’s eyes filled with tears.

“My darling, what is it? Please tell me,” the King pleaded.

The Queen looked directly into the King’s eyes. “I never thought I would see you lay a hand on our daughter.”

The King looked completely diminished.

“I didn’t hurt her, my love, I swear to you.”

“You hurt her heart,” the Queen said, breaking down completely. “I know that look, that pained brokenhearted little face. It is the same one—the same face—I would stare at over and over again in my father’s mirrors as a child. Oh, he was a cruel man. A real beast. To think my mother, my lovely, beautiful mother, was married to him. He hated me. Oh yes, he did, and he told me as much. ‘Ugly, useless, senseless girl,’ he would say. The words wounded deeper than the bruises and the scars from any physical pain he inflicted on me. At least those wounds healed.”

The Queen collapsed to the floor, sitting there in the paradise of the castle with her face buried in her hands.

She looked up at the King, who gazed down upon her pitifully.

“Please, forgive me, dear,” said the King. “You mentioned the battlefield earlier. You were correct, it does change you. It turns you into something more than a man…and at the same time something less. I was not myself.”

The Queen saw this was true. She saw it in his eyes, and written on the scars on his face, and in the wildness of his unkempt hair.

“I will go check on Snow,” the King said, clearly processing everything he had just learned of the Queen’s early life.

“Of course, my darling, kiss her for me. I’m going to change for bed.”

The King kissed the Queen, leaving her sitting on the edge of the massive four-poster bed. He kissed her again and went off to lay eyes on his sleeping girl, no doubt with the hope of easing his guilt-ridden conscience.

The Queen was utterly spent. She lay back on the feather bed, without the energy to change into her nightclothes. She heaved a deep sigh, rubbing her temples.

“Good evening, my Queen.”

She sat bolt upright, expecting one of the guards with news of the sisters. But no one had entered the room, at least it didn’t seem so.

“Over here, my Queen.”

She directed her gaze to the opposite end of the room, where the voice seemed to be coming from.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Show yourself then. And state your business, man.”

She approached the hearth.

“Up above you, my Queen. There is no need to fear, my Queen.”

The Queen looked above her, all around the chamber, even within the fiery hearth, but she could not see anyone.

“I am your slave,” the voice said.

“My slave? This kingdom keeps no slaves.”

“It is my duty to deliver you news of the kingdom, anything you wish to know; I see far, I can show you anything you desire.”

“Can you?”

“I see all, my Queen, into the hearts and minds of every last soul in the kingdom.”

“Tell me then, where is the King?”

“With his daughter.”

“You just heard him say as much before he left the room. What is happening now?”

“He is crying. He is deeply shamed by his treatment of the girl and how profoundly it hurt you.”

The Queen felt dizzy.

“What is this lame trickery? You must have been in the room the whole while. Heard everything the King was saying. Now show yourself!”

“Please don’t be frightened, my Queen, I’m here to assist you in all things. I am not the man you perceive me to be in your dreams, I cannot hurt you.”

“You know of my dreams?”

“Indeed, my Queen. And though you have been looking all about the room, you have not looked in the one place where you know you can find me.”

The Queen’s heart seemed to stop and all the blood in her body felt as if it were rushing to her head. She whipped around and tore the curtain from her father’s mirror. Though she already half expected what she would find there, she was not prepared for the shock of seeing a living, moving face, hovering before her in the mirror. Her eyes grew wide with terror, her mouth gaped. It was a petrifying apparition—a disembodied head that looked like some sort of grotesque mask. Plumes of mystical smoke whirled around its hollow eyes and its long drooping mouth; its macabre face seemed forlorn.

“Who are you?” the Queen gasped.

“Do you not recognize me? Dear, has it been so long? Have the years that separated us caused you to forget me…enchantress?”

And in that moment, the Queen’s face blanched.

She recognized the face in the mirror, promptly lost all ability to steady herself, and collapsed.

But before she had fallen into blackness, she heard two final words ushered from the mouth of the visage in the mirror: “My daughter…”