stolen heart: a sapphic snow white noir
The heir to a vast business empire, Snow White may look naïve to her company’s rivals. Easy pickings. A little girl lost in the wake of her father’s sudden and unexpected demise. But this diamond princess is sharper and harder than she seems-and will fight to protect what’s hers.
It took years of clawing to reach the top. She knows the value of a soft smile. And of the unexpected gunshot in the dark. The people in the know call her the Queen, and they know she is not to be fucked with. The night belongs to her. She has eyes everywhere, eyes as cold as stiletto blades. And she has her sights on Snow White’s kingdom.
She knows she can never be accepted as her half-sister is; and cares nothing about the slurs of ‘bastard’ that others drape over her shoulders. Because her sister is everything to Rose Red. Her sun, her moon, and every star. She was told to protect Snow White at all costs. Knows how to slip the knife between the ribs when others would hesitate. Mercy is something she neither understands nor likes. And have no doubt: she will kill any who threaten her beloved sister.
The death of Arthur “King” White set all of this in motion. Placed his chosen heir on his emptied throne. Set her half-mad half-sister with a hound’s instincts for hunting at her side. And drew the attention of the Underworld’s Queen. Someone told her she could only have the King empire if she had the heart of Snow White.
One way or the other, she will have it. She will have everything. Or destroy it all in trying.
THE KING IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE QUEEN.
It was sleeting the day they buried the King.
Hundreds came out to gawp and stare-and some to even sincerely mourn. The board of directors. Lifelong employees. The household staff. Ordinary people with too much time to waste. Journalists with flashbulbs and yellow notepads. They jostled and murmured in hushed tones that could not entirely mask their curiosity as the pallbearers lowered the black and gold coffin into the cold, hard earth.
But their eyes were not on the coffin, not on the mortal shell of what had been the most powerful man in the city, the man many said had built the city, had made it the metropolis it was. Arthur “King” White was gone, and had been for some days. And with the King dead, the spotlight was now on the new Queen. The daughter left behind to fill the sudden vacuum, very young and very unprepared. Or so the analysts, the stockbrokers, the cabbies, the waiters, the hairdressers said.
Fresh from boarding school, she’d only been home for a few scant weeks. Had barely had any time to reconnect with her absent, powerful father. Stood now all in black, hand-in-hand beside the sister who was only spoken of in whispers, porcelain and ebony next to cream and cherries.
An unlikely pair. Snow: so quiet and unknown. Rose: sharp as a razor’s edge and twice as cutting. The first a mystery, the latter a scandal. One raised in her father’s image, carefully tutored and bred for leadership, fully aware of the weight being placed on her shoulders, the responsibilities that would be hers in time. The heir, the chosen one, the prodigal. And the other an acknowledged mistake, accident, unintended. A bastard in the traditional sense, lately come to the fold following her mother’s long illness and decline. Known to be wild and more than a little mad. Violent with words and looks and deeds. And yet utterly devoted to the King and his princess, the sister who had always been better loved and better favored.
There had been stories not so long ago, of a young man who had presumed to impose on Snow White’s company. And of how he had later been found, not wholly a man and long past caring about it. Blood in the water and sand in his mouth; and a dainty dagger fit for a lady fitted neatly in the grooves between ribs.
And that was why there was only whispering. It didn’t do to attract the attention of Rose Red.
The priest finished his prayer. Stepped back with a polite nod to the pair standing closest to the grave. Snow took a deep, visible breath and leaned forward, her free hand stretching out to drop a single red rose onto the coffin. And with that, as if it had been previously agreed to be the signal, the long line of mourners began to file past. Other flowers joined the first. Hands reached out to clasp shoulders, pat arms, squeeze fingers in gentle reassurance. The parade of apologies and condolences and solemn well wishes became an almost soothing susurration in the ears, blending together into a vast sea of murmurs. The newly crowned queen nodded and smiled blankly, her eyes skittering across earnest and masked faces alike.
“Everything has its time,” a voice said, the tone cutting through the white noise. Snow White’s gaze focused on a sharp face framing dark eyes. They were not kind eyes, too hard and unapologetic with their interest. But the light in them was magnetic. Undeniable. She felt her breath catch in the curve of her throat. “Pain is a momentary thing-you should relish it, while it lasts. Pain brings truth and knowledge with it.”
The black dress was perfectly tailored to fit the curves and slopes of her body. The veil of her hat did not hide those striking eyes, nor the dusky brown complexion of her skin. A red carnation at the buttonhole of her jacket was almost too bright, too vivid, against the otherwise unrelieved black of her clothes and the gray of the chilled sky.
Snow had never met this woman, but she felt as if she already knew her in some vital ways. She recognized wealth and power when she saw it, the confidence that came with control and earned respect. The large men standing behind each shoulder could have worn labels reading BODYGUARD, with their posture, jutting brows, and jackets that strained at the seams. This woman was like the Seven who sat on the board of directors-but with a whisper of something else around her, invisible yet very present. Snow could not place it…
“You have a strange way of offering condolences, Miss…”
“My name is Regine. I knew your father, well enough to know he was a hard man. Hard to love as well, I suspect. And I am sorry,” she said in a quieter voice, tilting her head and leaning closer. “Sorry that you must throw away your roses on a corpse.”
She felt the heat rush up her neck, through her cheeks, and she bit the inside of her cheek sharply. “I loved my father dearly,” she said, swallowing blood. “My heart broke the night he died.”
“A shame and a pity. We must find a way to stitch that heart back together.”
And she was gone, slipping through the tombstones on elegant legs smooth as satin in the splintered light.
TO RULE REQUIRES HEART.
“King’s empire was built on blood. His and the blood of others. It is now tied to that blood, embodied in the form of that green, untested daughter.”
“What are you saying, Mirror? Speak plainly with me.”
“Only that to have his kingdom, you will have to make a choice between thefts. You cannot have the world without the girl. Her heart. Possess it, and you will have the keys to the gates in your palm.”
Regine tapped a thoughtful finger against the smooth table, the half-moon curve of her black nail clicking like staccato insect wings. It was not often that her smooth face creased with emotion; today there was the faintest of lines across her brow that spoke of her concentration.
“It was easy enough to topple the King,” the man in the pinstriped suit to her left said. “This girl could be handled tomorrow. Jimmy could take care of it.”
“What of Rose Red? They say she never leaves her side. That she sleeps beside her with a switchblade beneath her pillow. I have seen her handiwork-I am not eager to rush into a confrontation with her,” countered the man to her right, hair slicked back with dark pomade.
“The Seven will have taken every precaution with her,” the man in the gray fedora said. “Tripled the security. Wrapped her in cotton gauze. That high-rise will be like a fortress now. Better to grab her somewhere public, but not too public. A bar. A bathroom.”
“How can you be sure eliminating the dame will be enough?” the man with the diamond stickpin interjected. “The empire would fall to the Seven then, wouldn’t it? Broken down and parceled out, without another legitimate heir to seize control?”
Regine heard all and said nothing, her glittering amber eyes fixed on the small dark man who sat at the far end of the table, his chair pulled back into a pool of shadow. No one knew where the Queen had found him. His creaking voice had the swamps of the bayou in it, the sing-song cadence of cypress trees and cicadas. His skin was leathered ebony, pockmarked and wrinkled into hundreds of folds. And his eyes were a gleaming milky white that sometimes seemed to swirl and undulate like smoke through water, giving off a luminous radiance that was anything but natural. He was the Mirror, her oldest and most trusted advisor, the one who could see through any murky tangle and find the single thread to pull-or cut. He reflected truth back at the only woman who was brave enough to meet those inhuman eyes unblinking. He was the secret of her power, the reason she had risen so far and so fast in a cutthroat Underworld of snakes and ruthless wolves. What the Mirror said, the Queen did.
“You said there would be a choice between thefts,” she said softly, the arguments of the men around her falling silent as if knives had been pressed to their throats.
“Of a life, or of a heart. My lady is fair-but Snow White is fairer still. Your beauty rules the night; hers is welcomed in the day. A formidable pair.”
Regine nodded, ruby lips curving in a feline smile. She understood. And she thought of the ice-touched skin that was almost translucent, so that a light seemed to shine from her bones. Of the dark hair falling over elegant shoulders. Crimson, generous lips and cheeks brushed by a first blush. Pale eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. The cushioned curves of a woman just past girlhood. There was much there to admire, to covet, to please.
“I will not bother with knives,” Regine said, quiet voice carrying across the room with all the weight of a hammer. “There are other ways to cut out a girl’s heart.”
BEWARE OF UNLOOKED FOR GIFTS.
The first box came the week after the funeral. Plain black, with only a simple red ribbon fastening the lid. No address, no name for the sender. It arrived via personal delivery, from a man in a black suit and leather gloves. He simply stepped into the lobby, handed it to the concierge, and said, “For the lady. From an admirer.”
Inside was a book of poetry, bound in red velvet. Snow took it to her window seat, mug of hot tea in hand, to examine it. Curiosity quickly turned to shock and the tea sat cold and forgotten when she realized it was no simple book of poetry-inside were the details of love at its most passionate, most violent, most intoxicating. There were photos and drawings to accompany the wild prose, indistinct in particulars but vivid in implication, and she felt herself flush and stiffen as she read. A detached, shameful guilt burned in her throat, yet still she read on, unable to tear away from the indecent but thrilling words. Rarely had she felt like this; only in the darkest and coldest hours of the night.
When Rose Red came to bring her to dinner, she startled from the heated spell and pressed the book beneath a pillow, unwilling to share her scandalous gift. She barely answered her sister’s questions as they sat before the fine china plates and crystal wineglasses, half her mind on darker, secret things.
Three days later the mysterious man returned with a second, longer box. The concierge had a small vanilla envelope waiting in exchange. Inside was a single sheet of paper folded three times, with only three words scrawled across it in black ink: Who are you?
The man took the envelope, unopened, and merely said: “Please tell the lady I am only the messenger.”
There were roses in the box. Two dozen that were the color of fresh blood, just bloomed and heady with fragrance. A small square of cardboard rested atop the stems. In a dramatic, elegant hand were the words: Flowers carry meanings.
She found a chart in the back of a dusty encyclopedia, in her father’s old office. Red roses represented passionate love, courage, and respect. When her sister stepped into the room later, to ask if she wished to go to the theatre that evening, Snow told her the bouquet had been a gesture of condolence from a friend of their father’s.
Two days after that, the man in the black suit came with another package.
In the third box was a smaller jewelry box, made of black jade fitted together with golden hinges. Inside was a necklace, the silver chain impossibly delicate and the locket finely engraved with twining rose stems around a bold ‘S’. And inside the locket was a tiny scrap of red paper, bearing the message: Write to me your heart’s desires.
She sat in her room, at her marble vanity, holding the locket up to her throat and staring into the eyes of her reflection. What do I do? her mirror-self mouthed. She shook her head slightly, not so much a no as a question in itself.
There had been heated fumblings in a darkened hallway. The back seat of a cab on a stormy night. Fingers under her skirt mouth at her neck back against the wall in a bar thick with smoke. She was not as pure and innocent as the world believed. Not a girl-a woman. She knew what it was to burn and yield and taste and hold.
But this? This felt forbidden. Dangerous. A secret that made her skin too tight, made her itch and sleep uneasily. She found herself pacing the room, staring out of the vaulted windows down at the gleaming, teeming city below and wondering just who it was, down there, who had sent these things to tempt and tease her.
She should put the locket back in the box. Throw the book of poetry into the fireplace. Dump the still vibrant roses in the trash. Refuse to accept any further mysterious packages. Put this admirer out of her mind. Focus on the running of her new empire. And tell Rose to be diligent, to discourage anyone who tried to get closer. She needed to have her full concentration on the business at hand, lest her father’s empire crumble and fall. She could not let his legacy become tarnished through simple mistakes and carelessness.
Instead, she fastened the clasp around her neck. Tucked the locket beneath her dress, into the hollow between her breasts, and savored the chill of the silver as it slowly warmed against her skin.
CLANDESTINED CORRESPONDANCE.
Did you enjoy my gifts?
…Yes. Please, tell me: who are you?
…I was the eldest of five children. My father died when I was ten. I’ve always had to fight for everything we had, by tooth and by nail. And when you live that sort of life, you realize quickly that there is very little in the world that is truly right or truly wrong. Everything is in degrees. And in desperation, when cornered, you sometimes have to do something others would see as evil-if you want to survive. But there is a difference between necessity and enjoyment. I have done hard things in my life, but I have enjoyed very little of it. And even I have lines I refuse to cross…
…If you are trying to instill trust, you are going about it badly. When that book arrived, I knew you were not decent. Not respectable. Hardly the sort I could show off in polite society…
…I care very little about ‘polite’ society. I never have. Doubt I ever will. That same society would call me trash without hesitation-so why should I put any stock in their labels or opinions? I know my own worth. And I wager that you will not condemn me, once you’ve heard all. Your opinion I will value. Your judgment I will trust…
…Why me? Why such faith in me? Why such… gifts for me? Have we met face-to-face? Have we ever spoken in the flesh? And if so, why this subterfuge? Why not step forward and court me openly? If you fancy yourself in love with me, but know me only through the newspapers and gossip, I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you-I am no paragon. No porcelain princess to be placed on a pedestal. I am a living, breathing woman with a personality that may be very ill-suited to yours. I will not be a doll, to be posed and played with then put away when the interest wanes…
…We have met-briefly. But it was enough for me to know that there was something about you that I was drawn to. Even in a single glance, can’t the obvious be made plain? As for this arrangement… I find it more freeing. In this fashion, I can be wholly open with you in a way that would be uncomfortable in typical conversation. Some are more eloquent through written word than spoken. Besides: is this not more exciting? Doesn’t this lend an air of mystery to the chase? I enjoy games, especially those with high stakes. And, as perhaps you have realized, this levels the odds. We both have equal power this way-the right to stop or continue when we wish. If I do not receive another letter from you, I will not pester you with more; and vice versa. You needn’t reveal more than you wish. You may hold back or give freely: the choice is yours…
…What do you do to pass the hours? I prefer reading and conversation, though my sister would rather be out of doors and active. My favorite author is…
…Is the best place for dancing. The band is superb and the crowds never overwhelming…
…I dream sometimes that I am frozen, paralyzed, lying in a block of ice while the world peers in at me like I’m a strange piece of art. I’ve had the dream for years…
…A tiny restaurant on 52nd Street. The chef has a signature dessert made with apples and brandy, so delicious you would almost be content to die after sampling it…
…I know my father meant well when he sent me away to school, but I cannot help but feel that he has handicapped me. I am so unused to life in such a big city-so out of touch with the average person on the street. How am I to be prudent and understanding without such common knowledge? It’s as if I’ve been kept inside a tower all of my life, and now that I have been let out I am almost blinded by the world outside…
…I would like to be your guide. I could show you places that your board of directors would never understand, that are just as valid and real as your glittering high rises. I have lived on these streets my entire life; could walk them in my sleep and never miss a turning. Where we would go, you would not have to shade your eyes…
…What do you do? What is your job? What could you possibly have done to make society so disapproving of you? Are you just a demon come to lead me astray, to prey upon someone hurt and unsure in the wake of her father’s death?
…I dared to rise above my humble beginnings. I dared to seek-and obtain-power and wealth. I refused to let my circumstances dictate who I was to be, the life I was to lead. I am ambitious where there should be only meek servitude. I meet eyes without hesitation. I know how to use a weapon in defense of what is mine and will never lie calmly back when a threat marches into my home. I fight, I take, I love regardless of propriety and in accordance to my needs and desires. In sum, I live life on my own terms and no one else’s. I know what it is to be truly free. And I will not tell you that I am an angel. It is true that I have something of a devil in me, and hardly noble intentions. But you captivate me. Intrigue me. And I pity you as well…
…I don’t want pity…
…Forgive me. I could have phrased that better. More, I can see how the life you are currently living could become a cage. A shackling collar. And I would fit a key to those locks now, before your spirit is truly broken...
…I love my work. My father’s empire. It is no cage…
…It is also the only life you have ever known-and does the caged bird understand its captivity if it has never flown in an open sky? I know how lonely it can be at the top. Paranoia becomes a constant companion, fear a bedmate. With everyone watching the smallest mistake feels monstrous. So much rests on your shoulders-not only your legacy, your livelihood, but the lives of hundreds, even thousands, of strangers and friends. A heavy burden to bear, without enough support...
…I have support. My sister is my touchstone. Her love gives me strength. And the Seven have learned to treat me with the respect I am due; they no longer argue with me, or talk down to me as if I were a child. I have proven myself to be a thinking, mature adult, fully capable of making hard choices for the good of the business. I have friends at my back...
…I am glad to hear it. You deserve to be listened to, trusted, respected. But are you happy, too? Do you find satisfaction in your work? Contentment in your days? You live in a gilded palace, with everything money can buy-but is that enough?
…I confess that I do sometimes long for something sharper. Excitement. Adventure. My world is almost too ordered and perfect. Every day planned to the last minute. I tire of being chaperoned and nursemaided from place to place. Always under a helpful-but invasive-eye. They say it is for my safety, and I understand that. I know that my father’s refusal to keep a regular bodyguard is what brought about his death. And I do not want to follow so closely in his footsteps. But…
…Don’t feel guilty for wanting more-for wanting different from what you have. You are a smart, passionate woman. Beautiful. Young. These are the days when you should be discovering yourself as you discover the world. Learning what it is you truly desire and need in life. It is not a sin…
…You speak of sin so lightly. But then the poetry you sent me-if ever there was a sinful book…
…There is no need to be coy, especially not with me. I know that you enjoyed the poetry. I wager you’ve read it cover to cover, and more than once by now. Studied the pictures. Let the words seep into your dreams until you woke in the darkness, disappointed to find yourself alone, sweat on your skin and on the sheets…
…You shouldn’t write to me in such a way. If anyone were to read these…
…If you truly wished me to stop, you would not reply again. I know my messenger is trustworthy, and that the letters are given directly to your hand. Only your eyes see my words-and my words are meant only for you. Do you wear my locket? Often?
…I think you are a libertine. That there are a dozen women-all wealthy, no doubt-that you write to in this fashion. You seduce us to make off with our money. Confess…
…I won’t deny that your wealth is appealing. If you wished to, you could truly rule this city as a queen. But I have wealth enough of my own-a kingdom of my own. And if I must, I will be content with it. No, Snow White, I write to you because I desire you. Not simply what you represent, but what you are. A beautiful woman sharp enough to understand what the world expects and demands from her-and with fire enough to challenge it, and strength enough to shape it to fit her demands. Do you remember what I said about loneliness at the top? That was true: I am lonely. In you, I see the potential for a partner. An equal helpmeet. Someone I could share a life with. I have always believed in heeding my desires…
…You make it sound as if you are proposing marriage. Which is ludicrous-I do not know your face, your voice. You are a stranger to me…
…I am merely offering a partnership. Companionship. And I am hardly a full stranger, after all this time. In many ways, you know me better now than most of the people I spend every day with…
…Now who is being coy? Be straightforward with me. Don’t use vague words like ‘companionship’. You call me beautiful and send me scandalous poetry: you merely want sex…
…Not merely. Hardly merely. But yes. The book was a promise. A preview of future attractions…
…And what would make you believe that I would be available for such an ‘arrangement’? I am not…
…I do not know-no, of course not-but I suspect you are not as ignorant as the rumors say. You went to a school, not a convent. And even a virgin knows how lust can scorch. You are an educated woman: do you truly believe sex is a depraved act? No. I know you don’t believe that. What harm is there in pleasure, and a means of escaping the pressures of the world; of simply being with another? This is not (just) about sex; this is about confidence. I have confided in you, Snow. Far more than I have with anyone else. Because I know that you understand the value of silence, and how precious privacy can be in this society of prying eyes. I have been fiercely independent for most of my life-but at the cost of personal connections. And you, who have so many ties, have hardly any freedom. Neither life is a full one. Together, perhaps, we could…
…I want to meet. Face-to-face. No more hiding, no more games. I want full honesty. To see your eyes when you speak, so I know if you are being truthful…
…Come to this address tomorrow night. 7 PM. Room 308. Tell your sister and anyone else who asks that you have arranged a meeting with the owner of a small company you are interested in buying out, and that you wish to handle this deal personally. Tell your driver to park on the street and stay with the car-that you will only be an hour or so…
DERRINGER ON HER THIGH, HEART IN HER THROAT.
It was a typical office building in a part of town that wasn’t obviously grand but hardly shabby, either. Square, blocky, and built of brown brick and heavy gray cinderblocks, there was a doorman in a long black coat edged in red to bow her into the building. She stepped quickly across the yellow tiled floor, her heels clacking loud as gunshots and her skin goosebumping in the cool air, trying to maintain a calm, collected mask and a steady pace.
Behind that mask she was almost screaming. She was doing a stupid, dangerous thing. She should turn straight around and march back out through the door, duck into her car, and tell the driver to take her straight back home. This admirer could be a lunatic-she knew they were licentious, shameless.
But her curiosity had been roused to a fever pitch. There would be no silencing it now; she could only hope to tame it with this meeting. Her driver had been told to wait exactly forty-five minutes-any longer, and he was to come up after her. A lot could happen in forty-five minutes, of course. But then she also had her insurance policy: a loaded derringer at her garter belt. She knew how to use it; her father had insisted. By the time she was twelve she knew how to shoot a gun. How to clean it, reload it. Her instructor had been impressed with her exacting eye for the targets.
As the elevator made a slow ascent to the third floor, she dug her red nails into the meat of her palm and clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. And realized that it wasn’t just fear that had her stiffening until she was nearly vibrating with tension-it was excitement, too. Anticipation. She hadn’t felt this eager, this alive in months. This felt like a new beginning, a new opportunity. The elevator doors slid open and she started down the hall, her eyes immediately drawn to the brass 308 affixed to the door at the end. Something in her bones whispered that this was a turning point. When she opened that door, nothing would ever be quite the same again…
Her fingers tightened around the cold doorknob. She twisted sharply and pushed before she could have a chance to second guess.
Snow stood in the doorway, framed in silhouette, and stared at the figure sitting at ease at the end of a long conference table. Her legs were crossed, one shapely knee over the other, and she sat with her arms draped over the arms of the chair, red-nailed fingers dangling. A single lamp behind the chair was lit-the only other illumination came from the streetlamps outside, glowing in the window and fractured into narrow lines by the half-drawn slatted shades.
“You,” Snow said softly. “The funeral.”
“Yes. I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a disappointment.”
“…Your name is Regine.”
The dark glossy lips curved into a pleased smile, parting to flash pearl-white teeth. “You remembered.”
“I… I don’t think I understand.”
Regine stood, slowly unfolding and straightening, pausing to brush out the creases in her red skirt. Her thick black hair fell in loose curls over her bare shoulders, framing the glittering diamond necklace and her smooth, angular face. She started forward at a leisurely, even pace, bridging the distance between them. “Everything I wrote to you was true. Everything still stands as I said. I will answer whatever questions you have to put to me tonight-and then it will be up to you to decide.”
“Decide?”
“Whether we ever speak to one another again, be it through pens or in the flesh.” Regina stopped just shy of arm’s reach, the rich scent of her perfume curling around them.
Standing with her back to the open hall made her feel too exposed; so Snow gently pushed the door shut behind her, leaning back to press her shoulderblades against the wood. So braced, she took a deep breath and tried to marshal her thoughts.
“Who exactly are you?”
“A queen in my own right. But my kingdom is not so grand as yours, built as it is on bones and blood and bullets. I rule the shadows, the midnight docks, the smoky bars and street corners. Men with scars and hungry muscles. Women with razors in their hair and someone else’s money in their purses. The Underworld, some call it. The land of crime and vice and violence. The only land I’ve ever truly known. And I love it and hate it equally, as a mother loves and hates a mad child that bites. Does this frighten you?”
Her eyes glittered as brilliantly as the diamonds on her neck and the glossy lipstick on her full mouth. Looking at her made her shiver, yes, but it was not entirely unpleasant. Some unusual truths were coming to light in this half-lit office, leaving her confused but not disbelieving… “I knew you wouldn’t be a respectable businessman.”
“Or businesswoman,” Regine said with an uneven smile. “I know I cannot be what you expected-”
“I don’t know what I expected,” Snow said, teeth dimpling her lip. “I, I suppose I had pictured a dark suit. Gloved hands. A wolf’s smile.”
“That poem is my favorite, as well.” Regine leaned closer. “You want to see a world beyond the one you’ve always known-I can show it to you. At my side, no one would dare harm you. You could walk wherever your feet would carry you, secure. Confident. Without question or constant guarding. I have that power, and I could give it to you.”
“You ask me to step willingly into the lion’s den. Into pits of vice and depravity.”
“There is beauty even in the night, Snow. And how can you appreciate the light without the darkness? Maturity is seeing all, understanding all-and then making your choices. To limit or deny would keep you stunted. Childlike. And we both know you are no child.”
It was difficult to breathe evenly. The scent of Regine, the aura she carried, was like a drug. Enticing, intoxicating. The fabric of Snow’s dress felt too rough, too tight, against skin that had become hyper aware, and she was possessed of a wild urge to rip it all away, cast it off. The poetry, the letters, had started a strange chemical reaction within her that was only intensifying in the presence of their source. Snow tried to meet Regine’s eyes steadily, without fear, to prove her strength to herself as much as to her. But in those amber eyes was a promise that made her shiver, an offer she knew she should never consider but had already half agreed to.
“Why me?” she whispered.
“Because I see potential. I see a woman who could become something impossible. This has been a man’s world since the beginning-when it should be ours. We are the ones with the true power, Snow. The power of life and of death. And it all lies before you, just within grasp. You only have to reach out and take it. I want to help you become what you should be. Not just a queen-but a king. Take that title from the inferior gender. Reclaim it for yourself. Your empire and my power. Together we could become an undeniable force of change. We could reshape this city, this world, into something better. Not just for us, but for all women.”
Her hand rose, red gleaming nails brushing against Snow’s neck, hooking the fine silver chain. She drew up the locket until it dangled pendulum-like between them.
“And because you have not left my mind since I first saw you. You have bewitched me, Snow White. In every way. Do you fault me for following my heart, for wanting to lay claim to yours?”
She watched the ripple across Snow’s pale throat as she swallowed, the telltale quiver of her shoulders, the uneven rise and fall of her rounded chest, modestly covered in green satin, as she sucked in a hasty breath. Sweet enough she could almost taste her, smooth as warm marble that begged to be touched. Perhaps not entirely innocent-not with that knowing spark in her blue-gray eyes-but still curious and open. The things she could teach her…
This could be nothing but a devil’s bargain. Would no doubt lead to bloodshed and tears and betrayal. Her father would have locked her away in a windowless room rather than let her accept such an arrangement. A woman with the world of high society laid before her like a banquet would be mad to take this dark witch’s hand. This was a spell being woven like the ropes of a trap, like the threads of a noose. When she leaped in blind faith, her neck would snap.
But she had never felt this sort of excitement, a greater high than any drug could have given her. Electricity crackled in her veins, made every second sharper and clearer and more real. And she wanted to be alive, God damn it. She wanted the rush and buzz that came with flying unfettered, wanted to taste the spice of the forbidden. Wanted to know if Regine’s touch could make her burn the way her words did…
“You have all the keys,” Snow White whispered. “Free me from the cages.”
Regine’s lips brushed hers with a feather’s lightness, the soft touch more potent than the fiercest of kisses. She parted before her, dizzy and flushed, as tongue slid over tongue and the edge of teeth tugged her bottom lip. A tilting chin for a more perfect pressure. Aligning the angles of jaw and cheek. Pale skin brushing dusky. Curl tangling with curl. All else faded away, becoming indistinct white noise. The short hitching of breath was loud in her ears.
Then came the rustling of fabric. Through the haze she felt Regine’s hands clench around her skirt, balling fistfuls of the material and drawing it up with languid slowness. Her hand closed around her wrist, halting her.
“I would unlock every door,” Regine murmured against her mouth, voice thick and sweet. “No need for fear, my lady.”
Another moment’s hesitation and Snow nodded, the smallest of movements, before catching her lips again, more forceful than before. Need was blazing fully, demanding and insisting in a voice that could not be smothered. She knew now that the line of no return had been crossed the second she stepped over the threshold of this office. Benediction or malediction: she no longer cared what the judgment would be.
Her back was flush against the door as Regine’s fingers slipped past her silk chemise. A soft, strangled sound escaped her as they slid between her legs, between the folds and into the slickness at the crux. Snow gripped the dark woman’s shoulders for support as she began to rub and glide, varying from the softest touch to the firmest pressure, always purposefully and with consummate skill. She didn’t know it could feel like this, how mere touching could turn the pit beneath her stomach hard and hot. The clumsy fumblings before with hasty men had never been this delicious. Abandoned to the sensation, she was deaf to the sounds she made, the frantic whimpers and stifled gasps.
Regine’s fingertips lingered over the small nub, pinching and rolling until Snow was panting, hips shaking with uncontrolled spasms. Her smile was triumphant as she kissed her, swallowing each gasp and moan like the purest ambrosia. Regine could sense it-she was almost at the peak, inches away from falling utterly, losing the last shred of her control. She rubbed gently, then slid fast and firm, reveling in the breathless cry and the shiver the coursed through Snow as the wave overtook her.
She had almost recovered her senses when a sharp knock at the door made her heart stutter to a sharp stop. “Miss White? It’s been forty-five minutes. Are you done with your business?”
Regine’s eyes were bright and smiling, more demonic than angelic. Snow’s hands were tight around her shoulders, her nails pressing dark dimples in the brown skin. Her legs shook and she knew that she would not be able to stand firmly-not yet-and did not loosen her hold. “I’ll be out shortly. Please give me a few more minutes.”
When the shaking had eased, Regine helped her straighten her skirt. Pulled out a white silk kerchief and wiped away the smears of lipstick on face and neck. Brushed hair back into a semblance of propriety with her deft fingers.
“When do I see you again?” Snow whispered, unwilling to step away and shatter this hypnotic spell she had woven.
“I will send you word. The usual way. Tomorrow, or the day after.”
“I look forward to it,” she said, hand closing around the doorknob.
A SISTER’S SUSPICIONS.
“Why must you go so often, yet I can not follow?” Rose demanded.
“I must learn how to stand on my own feet,” Snow said patiently, drawing the brush through her dark curls. “The world of business will not allow for signs of weakness. Now that father has been properly mourned, the grace period is over. They expect to see a leader at these meetings-not a girl in need of protection.”
“I do not like this. You have changed these last weeks.”
“Rose, we hardly knew one another before I left for school. Perhaps it is simply that you are seeing the full me now.”
“No. You are different. Harder. And I think you are keeping secrets from me.”
“Everyone has their secrets.”
“I keep nothing from you.”
Snow set the brush on the vanity, turning in her chair to meet her sister’s implacable gaze. No small feat: staring into those wide eyes. Snow knew what people said about her sister. That she was mad, unhinged, and violent. And she knew it was all true. It was as if a few tiny threads had knotted in the brain behind that cherubic face, stunting her in some ways and sharpening her in others. She was clever, and she could be sweet and kind. But some vital piece was missing at her core. Rose Red did not understand remorse. Or guilt. Or mercy. She could become, in the mere blink of a glassy eye, a wind-up soldier ready to stab with the knife or pull the trigger of a gun.
This was not her fault. This was no one’s doing, unless you counted or believed in God. Rose had been born incomplete; sadly fitting, in society’s eyes, for a bastard only half-acknowledged. And while some would have feared or hated Rose Red for everything she was and everything she represented-chiefly, a father’s scandalous indiscretions-and would have locked her away in a padded room, Snow pitied and loved her.
Regine had called it her one flaw, the last night they had spent together. She had said it with a laugh, with a smile bright in her eyes, so that Snow knew it was nothing more than a needling tease. “That heart of yours is too big, too soft, and too open by half,” she had said with an audible degree of fondness, pressing closer for another kiss. “And your nature is far too generous and sympathetic. Best build a sheltering wall around your heart now, before the world sets to work pricking it with pins and arrows.”
“I… Will explain everything when I can,” Snow said finally. “When the time is right. Just… Please don’t push me too hard right now, Rosie.”
“I only want you safe,” Rose said quietly. “You are all I have. Father made me promise to protect you.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.” She slipped on her heels and stood. “When I get back, we’ll have dinner. Whatever you’d like.”
Rose Red stood at the window and watched the black car pull away, her folded switchblade pressed to her lips. Like guilt, patience was something she had never fully understood. But in the tangled threads of her mind, there was one that stretched to her heart. That clearest path had been reserved for a singular love, dedicated wholly to Snow White. So she would listen and wait.
For now.
THE RESHAPING OF THE THRONE.
It began in small, but steady increments.
The selling of minor branch companies, the acquisition of others. Employees were let go and others hired. Promotions. Sudden retirements. Restructuring that started at the fringes and worked further inwards.
A curious trend was noticed by the more observant journalists and stockbrokers. Many of the new hires, new promotions, within the King’s old empire were women. Advertising campaigns were rewritten and launched to be far more inclusive and broader in their appeal. Many of the newly purchased businesses catered to a predominantly female demographic.
The early critics who railed against these changes were silenced when the first figures were tallied. The King empire was stronger than before, with sky-high revenues and plans to expand and diversify even further. One journalist quipped that it was only a matter of months before everything in the city-hell, the state-came with the King stamp across the packaging, before everyone who walked the streets picked up King paychecks.
All the while, her smile never faded. It was like seeing a fantasy come to life, unfolding like a smooth brocade of silk. This was the world, the wealth, the power she had always dreamed of touching-finally stretched before her.
And though she had never entertained the possibility of sharing a crown, of ruling as equals, every day that passed made that idea unavoidable. It had begun as a challenge and a way to satisfy a desire, a means to an end. But now that she had her prize, she found herself unwilling to abandon it. No, not it. Her.
That was the only source of unease in the otherwise perfect dream. She had not factored in a consort. Not-love. Yes. Inextricably twined with lust, but there and deepening. Just as Snow had been unable to resist her charm and magnetic words, so she found herself captured by the daylight queen’s sweet kindness. Snow was a true idealist, a woman who wanted to see the best in all things and do good for the people of her world. Regine had never tasted that sort of optimism before, born in the gutter and baptized in blood since her earliest memories. She was too versed in betrayal. But with Snow… Yes, even she could believe in the possibilities of redemption and innate goodness.
The unease in this came from two corners. The first, that she now had something (someone) to lose. Regine had never tied herself to anyone, not since her family sank into untimely graves. Loving was to be vulnerable, to have a weak spot, and Regine had always been wary of a well-placed blow. And the second: that her past choices could destroy not only her happiness, but Snow’s. If her most recent secret should come to light…
But no. She would not think of it. Thinking too long on such matters might tempt fate. Instead, she would live fully in the moment. Enjoy the public successes that mirrored her private endeavors. And return to her waiting, eager lover for another kiss.
There had been other seductions. Men when it necessitated, women she preferred. Every degree of skill and shade of passion. But rarely had there been pleasure tinged with delight, victory softened by fondness. They snatched minutes and hours where they could, always on guard against discovery but never too cautious to resist a tryst. Regine found she could not get enough of her latest conquest. Snow was a willing pupil and she had never enjoyed the lessons this much before.
And sometimes, as they lay relaxed, sated, and lazy, Snow would sigh and tuck her chin against her shoulder. A fierce rush of protective warmth would fill Regine’s chest and she would wrap her arms tightly around her, half-wishing they could stay in that moment forever.
But then the clock’s ticking would become louder and their interlude would end, the one to return to her shining white tower while the other threaded her way back to smoky neon streets.
Soon, though. Soon one would step fully into the light-or the shadow. And there would be an accounting.
POISON AND HONEY.
She followed her unseen.
For her, the shadows would always be like a second skin, soothing on her eyes when they had once blinded her sister. Snow had been born in the light, but Rose had known the dark since childhood. Welcomed it like an old friend. It knew, after all, how to hide a multitude of sins.
Rose had never been to this street, but she still knew it. From her father’s descriptions, overheard through a crack in the door. From the pictures that were often splashed across the front page of the papers, beneath headlines screaming of murder, sex, and stolen money. She watched her lovely sister, bare ankles flashing in the streetlights, slip into a bar framed by red smoke.
And stepped out of the shadows in pursuit.
A man inside the door tried to stop her, a question on his lips, but when he saw her face fully in the light he promptly stepped back, hands raised in submission and lips pressed tight into silence. She knew she had a reputation, in a dispassionate and detached fashion. They called her Mad Rosie Red in some corners of the city. Stories of her switchblade had become mythic, the sort of tales to frighten young children into good behavior. This did not bother her. It did not please her. She accepted it coldly and blankly, and thought little of it.
She wove through the crowd, past the lecherous hands and the simpering women, the drunks and the prostitutes, the gamblers and the thugs. All that mattered was Snow; and like a moon caught in the greater sun’s orbit, she circled tirelessly.
“…should tell her…”
The voice rang out like a clarion bell, drawing her towards a secluded table in the far corner, half hidden by large potted plants and a tall pillar.
“…truly wise?” This was a voice she did not know.
“She’s my sister,” Snow said, voice low and earnest. “And I love her. I hate keeping secrets from her. She trusts me, and has my best interests at heart. If I can show her what you mean to me, how important you are, perhaps-”
The first thing she saw as she drew back the leaves was two pairs of hands on the table, fingers interlaced. One the palest white, the other a dusky brown, both tipped in gleaming red nails and circled by rings of gold and silver. Then she stepped closer and saw Snow’s face, sincere and pleading. And then-
The hiss that escaped her was almost a snarl, the world flashing into stark blacks and whites, with only this woman-at the center-in pure blood red. She lunged forward, knife already in hand, and made to slash out at a throat level.
“Rose!” Snow screamed, grabbing at her arm with a speed born of terrified desperation, fingers digging into her wrist. She wrenched at the arm, the cords of muscle along her own standing out in stark lines as she bent it in a punishing, painful curve, her enraged sister thrashing and squirming and spitting like a feral cat. “No, Rose! Please! Listen!”
“Evil!” Rose shrieked. “Evil! Evil!”
A man in a pinstriped suit rushed forward, only to stop short as Regine stood, hand lifted. “Clear the room. Get everyone out. We’re closed to the public for the rest of the evening.”
Snow twisted Rose’s wrist-the switchblade dropped from nerveless fingers to clatter to the floor. Before she could pull free and stoop to reclaim it, Regine had snatched it up and stepped back, her typically placid face now rigid, the lines of her jaw clenched and hard.
“If you do not stop struggling,” Regine said. “You will hurt your sister. I know that the last thing you would want to do is harm Snow. Please stop.”
Rose subsided, chest heaving and bulging eyes skittering between them. “Evil,” she hissed, disheveled hair framing her round face like a halo of fire. “Murderess.”
“Listen to me,” Snow pleaded. “Please, Rose. I love her.”
She stiffened, ruby lips pulling back in a disgusted grimace. “Love? Her? As corrupt as a windfall apple!” she spat venomously. “As dangerous as the serpent that beguiled Eve! She speaks so sweetly you think her words honey-but they are poison, Snow! Slow, lingering poison that will kill you by inches!”
“No, no, that isn’t true,” her fairer sister argued. “She’s helped me with so much-taught me so much. The changes I’ve made with the company, all of the good we’ve been doing! We’re stronger than we’ve ever been, more profitable and more helpful. And she makes me happy, Rose. I feel… More than what I was before. More confident, more powerful, more needed. She makes me happy.”
“She made Father happy, too. For a while.”
Her well-aimed bolt struck home. Snow White visibly flinched, face blanching. She turned her head to look at Regine, standing still as death and just as silent. “…What does she mean?”
“She seduced him, just as she has seduced you,” Rose said mercilessly in a voice both brittle and icy. “He thought it a marvelous secret-but I ferreted it out, before the end. More than that: I know he was with her, the night he died. He went so eagerly to his executioner’s bed. He did not see the scorpion between the sheets, the razor tripwire in the doorway, the bottle of poison she poured into his ear as easily as she’d slipped her words in days before. She made him love her and then she made a corpse of him.”
“Regine?” Her whisper was the beating of a caged bird’s wings, the tearing of a delicate bridal gown, the loss of innocence.
And Regine, to her steely credit, did not falter or withdraw. She met the mourning eyes steadily, face softening in the slightest of degrees. “Yes. I seduced your father. I offered him a partnership-and he laughed. In his eyes I was only a bedwarmer, never a businesswoman. He cared nothing about the brain in my head. His sole concern was what was between my legs. And when he dismissed my ambitions, called them nothing but the ‘foolish fancies of a woman’, I vowed that I would have his kingdom no matter the cost.”
“You murdered him.”
“Yes. I own it. When I became less than human in his eyes, I returned the favor. I will not suffer to be degraded or dismissed. I am any man’s equal. I won’t show mercy to those who question it.”
The naked pain on Snow White’s face tore at her like hooked whips. Each second was another lash, another invisible welt that throbbed all the worse for its insubstantiality. As the turbulent seas of her eyes shimmered with tears, Regine held out her hand, Rose Red’s switchblade resting across her flat palm.
“I have never lied to you, Snow,” Regine said quietly. “Never. It was truth when I told you I had found my equal: someone I could stand beside until death. In my dreams for a future empire, we sat together as full queens, enthroned in both shadows and light. I would sacrifice much to make you happy. To see you as a great leader well-respected and well-loved. So here: have your revenge, your justice, if you need it. Do right by the man who sired you.”
They stood, frozen statuesque, as the hands of the clock ticked onwards with an inexorable weight. Regine did not waver, determined to be firm to the last. Snow’s tears spilled down her porcelain cheeks. And Rose’s face sharpened in a vulpine hunger, sensing the impending bloodshed.
Snow studied her lover’s face, battered by revelation and adrift in heartache. She knew, without a shred of doubt, that Regine had been a vital catalyst in her life. Choosing her, accepting her deal, had been transformative. She was no longer her father’s daughter, but her own woman. The last shred of her girlhood had melted away in that office so many weeks ago-what felt like a lifetime ago. And in the girl’s place stood someone who had seen the world with truly opened eyes, who finally understood that there was no such thing as black and pure white. Everything was shades of gray. Violence could share space with mercy, evil was sometimes a mask worn by goodness, love could live with hate, and lust could lead the way to truth. People were paradoxes: as multifaceted and beautiful as gemstones, as terrible as smoking guns. It was all about angles and perspectives.
And she knew, with a clarity that shook the breath in her chest, that to destroy Regine would be to destroy a piece of her soul. And half of her heart. She had tied herself to this dark queen with the very fibers of her being. Looking into her amber eyes, deceptively stern with the strength of her convictions, she still saw the woman beneath the mystique, the mask, the murder. A woman she could not stop loving, no matter what her choices had been in the past. Society would say she owed her father a vengeance-that Regine’s sins must be punished in full. But that same society would see her reduced to a trophy wife, an untouchable ideal on a plinth, a figurehead in image but not deed. How could such a force hold all the power? How could that society be the only truth?
“Kill her, Snow,” Rose urged. “For justice. A true queen is decisive.”
“A true queen also knows when to be merciful,” Snow said, stepping forward. She took the knife from Regine’s unresisting hand and threw it away, pressing her cheek to the emptied palm. “When to listen to her own heart.”
And for a single moment, Regine’s ever-present control shattered, her shock writ plain across her beautiful face. She had expected, accepted, death. How could there be any other end, with the fullness of her machinations exposed? She stared at Snow White and finally saw, plainly and brilliantly, the true breadth and scope of her goodness. Yes, she was as pure as her name suggested. That heart Regine had coveted, sought, now held freely given, was uncorrupted and would remain so, untouched by the meaner world it flew through. Untarnished even by her.
“I forgive you,” Snow said with fervent, moving sincerity. “I love you. And I know that you feel the same, whatever choices you made before.”
“I,” she swallowed, the unfamiliar sting of tears clouding her eyes. “I will never deserve you.”
“You will have to try.”
Rose Red stood in paralyzed disbelief, unwilling to believe her own eyes. How could the beloved sister be so bewitched? How had this devil maimed her into such delusion and self-destruction? She was literally sickened by this perversion of the holiest thing in her life. The loss of her Father had been insignificant in the face of this betrayal. Better death than this downfall. Better to bury Snow White in the impartial earth than see her choose this demon over her own blood and goodness.
She turned like one in a dream, eyes falling on the switchblade as if directed there by God himself. She stepped calmly, serenely towards it. Knelt gracefully and picked it up with elegantly thin, nimble fingers. Slid the gleaming blade from the silver handle and stood.
The scream that tore from her throat was one of pure agony and unbridled fury. She lunged forward, blade held high and glittering-
The pop of the gun was almost gentle. Hardly dramatic. Derringers, with their smaller caliber bullets, were favored for just such a reason. The faint, snaking wisp of smoke hung undisturbed in the still air, acrid enough to burn eyes already wet with tears. Through the thin sheen of smoke, Rose’s glassy eyes locked with hers. There was a moment-a sliver of a second-when the anger and outrage in those wild eyes faded to a melancholy longing and sorrowful apology. And then, so smoothly it was as if watching a distant image in slow motion, the maddened eyes rolled up into chalky whites and she fell, legs folding as the switchblade slipped from dead fingers to clatter once more to the floor.
“Snow,” Regine murmured, hand closing gently around the clenched, shaking fingers that grasped the gun. “Snow, look at me.”
She did so, her breath shallow and labored.
“It was necessary,” she said, sympathy in her voice, stamped across her face. “She was sick, in a way that nothing could cure.”
Snow nodded numbly. “…She was my sister. And I loved her.”
“And now she’s at peace. You made a choice-I doubt anyone would say it was the wrong one.”
“Regine. You’re all I have left.”
“No. No, that’s not true.” At the questioning spark she smiled, cupping the earnest face with her hands. “You have yourself.”
“Yes. But ruling alone would be very empty.”
SOMEDAY WE WILL SEE A WOMAN KING.
The funeral was sparsely attended. And it ate at Snow, that her father’s had been the center of a media frenzy, overwhelmed by attendees, while her sister’s was ignored and ignominious. The rain that drizzled and soaked through the black lace of her dress was warm-and still she shivered.
“She could not help what she was,” Snow said. “Mad. A woman. A bastard child. Chance and sin and society conspired against her.”
“You gave her love and kindness when others turned away. Understanding. And a quick end. A mind like hers, the proclivities she had-she could have ended far worse,” said Regine. No pity in her voice. She stated facts gently, but would stoop no further.
Snow looked out over the graveyard, where at last everyone was equal and genderless, rendered into square gray stones and marble plinths. She straightened, stiffened, her shoulders settling into a regal bearing. The last traces of indecision faded away in the wind, replaced by the strength of full acceptance. “This world is rotten. For all its beauty and goodness, there is still a festering pit beneath the glossy skin. I can’t ignore it any longer; turn a blind eye to it. I will not suffer to live in a world that warps and maims, that drives us to extremes in pursuit of dignity and love and respect. The dark choices you made before-all done in the name of survival and the pursuit of ambitions denied to you because of your sex. You made yourself a weapon because it was the only option the world gave you. And my father would have made me a doll: unthreatening and malleable. Neither way is right.”
“What will you do?”
“Tear down the columns. Crumble it all to dust and ash and rubble. And build everything anew. Make a world-by force if I must-where female does not equal less than. Where male does not automatically take precedence. We have fought battles our great-grandmothers fought. This repetition cannot be allowed to continue. This will be the line drawn. This will be the beginning and the end.”
Regine’s hand slipped into hers, fingers intertwining firmly. “Then let us start.”
LONG LIVE THE QUEENS.