Mirror, Mirr- A Twisted Tale (Disney Twisted Tales) - Jen Calonita Page 0,3

the gold buttons on this cloak. She would play with them when she was standing close to her mother during processions through the village streets. It loosened the buttons and drove their tailor mad, but it made Snow feel safe and warm, like her mother did. She rarely ever wanted to leave her side—except during games of hide-and-seek.

“But you haven’t caught me yet!” Snow cried, and she took off through the garden’s maze of bushes. Her mother started to laugh.

Snow wasn’t sure which way to turn. Every path looked the same. The high, neatly trimmed green hedges blocked all but the view of the gray, snowy sky. Most of the flowers had been pruned for the season, leaving much of the normally beautiful grounds bare and Snow’s position in the gardens more visible than usual. If Snow kept weaving around the corners, she knew she would reach the center of the maze and her mother’s beloved aviary. The two-story wrought iron dome looked like a giant birdcage. It was her mother’s pride and joy and the first thing she had commissioned when she became queen. She’d always had a love of birds. Snow’s mother kept several species inside the netted walls, and she patiently explained each bird’s nature to Snow in detail. The two had spent countless hours watching the aviary, with Snow naming all of the creatures inside it. Her favorite was Snowball, a small white canary.

As Snow rounded the turn and spotted the dome in front of her, Snowball fluttered to a perch and spotted her, tweeting loudly and giving away Snow’s position. That was okay. Sometimes Mother catching her was half the fun.

“Here I come!” called Mother.

Snow giggled even harder, her breath leaving smoky rings in the cold air. She could hear her mother’s footsteps growing closer, so she rounded the aviary fast to hide on the opposite side. But she wasn’t being careful—her mother always told her to be careful—and she felt herself begin to slip on a patch of ice. Soon Snow was falling, sliding out of control into a rosebush.

“Ouch!” she cried as she pulled herself free of the thorny branch that was pricking through her cloak and into her right hand. Snow saw the blood trickle down her pale white palm and began to cry.

“Snow!” her mother said, drawing down close to her. “Are you okay? Where are you hurt?” She leaned in and Snow’s vision began to blur, as if the snow was falling harder now. Even through the haze, Snow could still see her mother’s dark eyes peering at her intently. “It’s all right, Snow. Everything is going to be all right.” She took Snow’s injured hand, pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed it into the snow, and then pressed it against her daughter’s wound. It cooled the burn from the cut. She wrapped the handkerchief tightly around Snow’s hand. “There. All better. We can clean you up when we get you inside.”

Snow pouted. “I hate roses! They hurt!”

Her mother smiled, her image softening along with the sound of her voice. She seemed so far away. “They can, yes, when you get nicked by a thorn.” She plucked a single red rose off the bush. It was petrified from the snow and frozen, but still perfectly preserved and almost crimson in color. Snow peered at it closely. “But you shouldn’t be afraid to hold on to something beautiful, even if there are thorns in your path. If you want something, sometimes you have to take risks. And when you do”—she handed Snow the rose—“you reap wonderful rewards.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Your Majesty.”

Snow looked up. Her mother’s sister and lady-in-waiting, her aunt Ingrid, was staring at them sharply. Almost angrily. Somehow, Snow knew this look well. “You’re already late.”

Seventeen-year-old Snow awoke with a start, gasping for air as she sat up in bed. “Mother!” she cried out.

But there was no one there to hear her.

There never was. Not anymore.

Instead, Snow was greeted by the sound of silence.

As she wiped the sweat from her brow, she wondered: had this been another dream turned nightmare, or was it a true memory? She had them more frequently now. It had been more than ten years since she’d seen her mother’s face; sometimes she wasn’t sure.

She hardly ever saw Aunt Ingrid these days. No one in the castle did. Her aunt had become all but a recluse, letting very few into her inner circle. Her niece, whom she was begrudgingly raising, was not