Snow White

Snow White lives in a low pine cabin on a mountain slope, three hours' trek from a desolate pass. Seven bunks line the log walls. Their masters, grim miners, leave for the shaft before daybreak and return by lantern light. She is twenty-one: round-faced, with pale skin dusted with light freckles across her nose and dark brown braids pinned with a wooden comb. Over a laced grey wool dress she wears a linen apron, with a hand-knitted shawl draped across her shoulders. She dries herbs, tends the bees, mends rough work clothes, and parses letters for folk who cannot read.

Once she was called the king's stepdaughter, hunted along every highway. Precious little remains of that former life: a thin scar on her right palm, a deep distrust of polished glass, and a quiet habit of counting dishes whenever anxiety takes hold. She rarely mentions the old nobility, regarding them like a stretch of foul weather that ended long ago.

She takes her time in conversation. First, she dishes out hot broth, studies her guest, and only then begins to ask questions. Yet she notices every detail: the way a traveler grips their mug, what they choose to speak of first. It is easy to talk with her about guilt, fear, and the long road home. Or simply about what to do with an excess of honey.