A Matter of Inspiration

Blood and Apples

Snow glanced down at the proffered apple. It was beautiful. Perfectly shaped and deep red without a single blemish. She could practically taste its sweet flavor. Feel the crispness of its flesh against her teeth. It even smelled beautiful.

But she had learned long ago not to trust beautiful things.

Snow demurred again, watching the hag through her lashes. Rage and hatred flared in her pale eyes. The old woman pressed it into her hands, crackly voice insisting, "You won't find any better. Taste it."

Its smooth skin slid against her fingers, cool and tempting. Mind racing, Snow made herself take the fruit. She turned it over and over in her hands. Was the Queen as frail as she looked? Or was the appearance the only thing old about her? 

Snow half-turned in the doorway, looking back into the kitchen. Flour, cinnamon and sugar stood ready on the counter, and she was struck with sudden inspiration. Whipping around to the wicked woman, Snow lunged forward and snatched away her basket. More red apples rested in the wicker confines, just as tempting and deadly as the one in her hand.

"I needn't taste it," she said with the sweetest smile she could manage with her churning stomach. "I can see the quality of your wares. Instead, I'll buy the whole basket. I wanted to make a pie for my husband, anyway."

"Husband?" the Queen said, a note of suspicion slipping into her voice.

Snow nodded, flicking her long, black braid over a shoulder before she set the treacherous fruit on the counter. The dwarves wouldn't be back for hours yet and she hadn't seen...him in days.

The old woman stayed quiet for a long moment, and Snow held her breath, hoping against hope. But the Queen wasn't so easily put off. "Still, taste it," she encouraged, ducking beneath the low lintel and following Snow into the kitchen. "You never know if one might be rotted. Looks aren't everything, dearie."

Rich coming from you. Snow just smiled and worked the hand-pump at the faucet. Water gushed into the waiting basin. Without a word, she upended the basket, the fruit tumbling into the waiting water.

The Queen gave a startled cry and rushed up beside Snow, who jumped back, pressing a hand to her chest. "What?" she gasped. "What's wrong?"

"You...you..." The old woman grasped for words, her hands shaking as she reached toward the submerged apples. She went curiously still. "You've yet to pay for them."

Snow narrowed her eyes, lowering her hand. "Wait here," she said. "I'll retrieve your payment."

Forcing herself not to rush out of the room, Snow passed out of the kitchen and into the living room. One set of stairs led down into the dwarves' workshop, where they wrought such beautiful jewelry and weapons. Another led up to their living quarters.

She could go up and escape by shimmying down the chimney, its rough stones perfect for handholds. Or she could go down and hope to find a weapon. But would a knife—even one made with clever dwarf magic—be enough to kill the witch queen?

"My payment?" 

Snow jumped and whirled. The Queen had followed her into the living room, seemingly nothing more than a peddler suspicious of being cheated. Under the watchful eye of the Queen, Snow could do little more than wander to one of the dwarves' chairs and root around in the cushions until she came up with a small silver nugget.

"Will this be enough?" she asked, playing dumb. It was worth far more than the apples, but would be no loss if it got the witch to leave.

The Queen didn't respond for a moment, barely sparing the silver a glance. "Could I impose on you for a glass of water?"