Once upon a time she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The King met her while hunting in a snow-capped forest at the edge of his lands, saw her sitting eating a piece of ripe red fruit. The moment their eyes met his heart belonged to her.

Rumors flew when he declared she was to be his consort, whispers that she had created some enchantment, that her beauty could be nothing but result of one. The day she was made Queen there was talk of the forest she'd lived in, stories almost forgotten recalled and passed person to person as the crowd stood waiting. But then she appeared, crowned and glorious, and she was enchantment personified, shimmering as she stepped through the streets with her husband, the King, by her side.

She was so lovely even flowers paled next to her. To look at her was to know you'd seen a glimpse of something extraordinary, and the stories about her faded into silence. The King shone a little brighter every time he looked at her and together they ruled a kingdom made glorious by what they shared, their perfection.

Then things became even more perfect, for there was going to be a baby. The Queen danced the day she found out, a delicate spinning turn that twirled her into the King's arms. The King smiled and the nobles in attendance clapped and cheered. The nation rejoiced.

She grew even more beautiful, ordered baskets of fruit brought from her former home and ate them as she gazed into the mirrors of her room. Her belly rounded and when she walked her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. To look at her face once was to have it burned into your mind's eye forever.

The babe grew but did not come. Nine months passed, then ten, then twelve, and she was still hugely ripe, swollen glorious and glowing. She paid for a witch woman, old and crooked-backed, bent by the wisdom she'd learned, to come to the castle as the thirteenth month started.

"Is my babe dead?" she asked and her lovely voice trembled, tears sparkling in her eyes.

The old woman shook her head and watched the Queen take a bite of fruit as she smoothed her other hand over her stomach. She noted the overflowing basket of it that sat by her side. "He's alive and healthy."

"A son," the Queen said, and her smile lit up the room. "Will I give birth soon?"

The old woman nodded.

"When?"

The old woman reached out and rested her hand on top of the basket, watched the Queen's eyes darken. "When he's more beautiful than you."

The Queen laughed, mouth trembling, and had the old woman sent away. More beautiful than her? It couldn't be. She patted her stomach and looked in the mirrors, took another bite of the fruit she held. Her reflection glowed back at her.

                                                              ***

The babe did not come. The Queen waited. Day after day, alone with her silent attendants and her own thoughts. She found herself staring into the mirrors more, watching her reflection ripple golden back at her. On the thirteenth day of the thirteenth month she woke up screaming. She looked in her mirrors, saw her face drained white and contorted with pain.

"It's true," she whispered, and then screamed again as her belly rippled and the child inside her made himself ready to be born.

Outside, it began to snow.

That was how the prince was born. He was given a long string of unpronounceable names and titles as soon as he drew his first breath. His nurse, upon hearing them, promptly forgot them all and called him David because that was the name of a saint she'd prayed to as a child. She was a simple creature.

His mother closed her eyes when he was shown to her, shrank back when the royal physicians attempted to place him into her arms. "He's beautiful," they told her soothingly. "Look. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"He's taken everything," she said, and turned her face away. When she was left alone, soft words of reassurance whispered to her and a cup of restoring wine placed where she could reach it, she got up. She walked over to her mirrors. She saw a pale creature, bloodied and hollowed out, her beauty taken from her as if it had never been.

She smashed the mirrors with her hands and their pieces sank into her flesh. She closed her eyes.

Outside, it continued to snow.

                                                                 ***

The King mourned his Queen for six years. His kingdom mourned with him for one year, then two, and then moved on to bitterness, to murmurs of witchcraft and whispers of curses. Winter had descended upon the land, seemingly forever, and starvation drained any remaining sympathy the people felt away. 

It wasn't that the King couldn't govern. It was that he didn't want to. He listened to his ministers' reports and agreed that food had to be imported, that something had to be done. He said all the right things and nodded at all the right times but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. His ministers weren't bad men but they were men and the temptation to earn a fortune was too much for them to resist. Food prices grew, new taxes added seemingly every day, and the people began to spit whenever the King was mentioned, to grimace and curse his name. They remembered that the Queen had been from a strange place, a forest closed tight around itself, and that with her death it had grown stranger still, and cursed her name as well.

The only thing that could rouse the King was the sight of a mirror. He'd had all of them removed after the Queen died, declared them banned from his sight. A minister surprised by a morning visit from the King was caught arranging what was left of his hair by peering into one propped up against an open dresser drawer. His head rolled across the great courtyard that very day and the people dared to hope a little. Perhaps the King knew how they were suffering. Perhaps he cared.

Nothing changed. The minister's belongings were burned, the mirror melting down to a silver puddle. It kept snowing.

                                                                       ***

David saw his father for the first time when he was three. He was trailing down the hall after his nurse, distracted by the windows they were passing. They were covered with a thick layer of ice, rendering the outside world nothing more than a blur of glazed crystal white.

His father was on his way to his afternoon meeting with the ministers. He was not thinking of anything or anyone as he walked down the hall, but the sight of the nurse caused him to stop for a moment, peer at her cowering against the wall. He thought perhaps he remembered her.

Then he noticed the boy behind her. The boy didn't see him. He was staring out the windows, trying to see, and the King saw his wife's face etched in the boy's own, written in his cheekbones and the shape of his chin, the curve of his forehead. It made him smile. He bent down and peered at the boy, then turned to the nurse and said,

"How old is he?"

The nurse cowered back further against the wall. "Three," she said softly and then added "Your Majesty" in a tripping rush.

The King touched his son's head, ruffled his dark hair. He opened his mouth to greet him, a tiny portion of his heart thawing, waking up.

Then his son looked at him. He gazed up at his father with eyes the King knew. The last time he'd seen them his wife had been staring at him sightless and bloodied on the floor, jagged cold silver pieces of mirror all around her.

He walked away. He did not meet his ministers. He went to his rooms and stayed there for five days. On the sixth day he emerged, told the waiting ministers he was ready to begin his day.

"Would you like to see your son?" one of them asked. His name was Hugh, and he nurtured hopes that the King had drifted so far into melancholy that overthrowing him would be as simple as a question of seven words. He'd told his wife of his plan the previous night, watched her dream of a crown and jewels. He'd dreamed of removing her head with a sword and marrying her cousin, a young maiden who was forever watching him with shyly downcast eyes.

The King stared at him. "I have no son," he said softly, and motioned for his guards. Hugh's head rolled across the courtyard that afternoon. His wife entered a convent and found God to be a far more satisfactory husband.

After that day the King came back to life. He began to take an interest in his kingdom. He discovered what his ministers had done. He had their heads removed, a river of blood racing across the courtyard until the next day's snowfall erased it. He promised that things would be better and they were. Food became affordable again and the feral starved eyes that gleamed out of everyone's face gradually disappeared.

It continued to snow. There was talk of curses still, but mostly late at night as slurred whispers over cups of ale. Occasionally a prophet would proclaim that there was a way to end the snow. A few of them spoke so convincingly that people believed and gave away everything they had or traveled to faraway lands where all they found were slave traders waiting to make a profit from them.

The snow never stopped falling. The prophets all either lost their heads or were shunned, wandering wrecked through the kingdom cursed by everyone they met.

Continued in Chapter One