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PRINCELESS by Cam Jace Storykiller



Copyright©by Cameron Jace 2012


as told by the Queen of Sorrow, wrongfully known as the Evil Queen or the Snow White Queen

Dear Wilhelm Carl Grimm,

She is not the giddy, naïve, and helpless princess she pretends to be. Please don’t let her fool you with her innocence if you see her singing to the birds in the forest. Resist her charm from bringing joyful tears to your eyes, and shield yourself from her devious beauty before she deceives you into wanting to kiss her awake. It'll be a kiss of death—your death. That’s how she fooled the Huntsman, Prince Charming, and me, her birth mother.

I still remember the original script of the fairy tale, the one you wrote in 1812. It clearly stated that she was my own flesh and blood daughter. I don’t have the slightest idea why you altered it fifty years later.

What was the point of turning me into an evil, narcissistic, and heartless stepmother, blinded by jealousy and envy of the young princess?

For years, I have wanted to tell you the truth about her, but you were impossible to reach.

I am glad I found your brother, Jacob. He told me that you wanted to tone down my daughter’s stories so children could sleep better at night, instead of having nightmares about the Queen who sought to eat her daughter’s heart and liver.

Shame on you, Wilhelm.

You, of all authors, knew why I wanted to kill her. My actions were justified. I was trying to save my kingdom from her wrath, before everything we loved came to a brutal end. The same way you had to rewrite the true fairy tales after cursing us, so the War of Sorrows would end forever after.

Night after night, and year after year, parents have fed their children with your fabricated bedtime stories. Your happily ever after lies, Wilhelm.

I wondered why you didn’t burn the original scripts instead of rewriting them. You must have figured out that, sooner or later, someone would dig up the truth and expose you. Altering the stories must have seemed like a smarter solution for; you let children believe that vampire bites were resurrecting kisses, and that glass coffins were made for sleeping beauties that were waiting for a prince to come and kiss them awake.

A wise man once said that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he was someone else.

You tricked all of us. You tricked the world and turned us into pastiches of the Immortals that we really are. And you made it harder for us to persuade the world otherwise.

If there was any good in what you did, then it was the fact that you concealed our real names, or we would have ended up like Rumpelstiltskin, tortured by those who knew his True Name.

Sometimes, I feel the whole world conspired with you against me. Seriously, why has no one ever questioned why I was called the Evil Queen, or why I was never given a real name in the books?

Why did you make me seem so superficial to the world, so stereotypical and mundane? Why was I treated as if I were the “monster of the week”?

We both know the real story, Wilhelm. We both know the truth about fairy tales.

You know what I think?

I think that the world wanted to hate me based on assumptions they made by reading your lies.

If I tell those who detest me about the true nature of their little princess, would I be half as interesting to them as she is?

I know that deep inside they adore me, but are afraid to admit it. They like the way I talk, walk, and dress, and even the way I hunt my prey. After all, they are mortal and weak, fascinating by those who outlive the obstacles of life for eternity.

They are just afraid to admit how much they love me. The truth is, Wilhelm, I am the Snow White Queen, and I don’t need anyone’s pity, love, or adoration.

I am loved by the greatest and most majestic heart in the world:


It’s been more than two hundred years since your fabricated tales, Wilhelm, and it’s time we all wake up from the curse and correct the wrongs. I know most of the fairy tale characters don’t remember who they really are, but we will find and remind each other one by one.

This time, I will win the War of the Sorrows for good.

I will bring down the superficial world that praises fairy tales as happily ever afters. And I have to do it before she wakes up again from her Sleeping Death. God only knows what would become of us then.

Do you have any idea how many times I tried to kill her?

Do you have any idea?

I tried witchcraft, charms, demons, bloodsuckers, plagues, poison, Black Death, and practiced every sinful dark art ever known to Immortals. I sank to my knees, begging the oceans to drown her, pleading for the volcanoes to burn her, but it was all in vain.

I went as far as to bury her in the Dreamworld, six dreams under, where no Immortal has ever survived.

But she survived, and only the devils know how.

She is empowered by the love of the children who adore her. Every time children dream about her, she feeds on their dreams. Such powers are greater than life and death.

And after all of this, you still refuse to tell me about the Lost Seven. Remember them, Wilhelm? The ones you rewrote into seven dwarves?

Like silverfish, they are hiding somewhere in the dusty pages of every fairy tale that has ever been written, eating and nibbling at words until they resurface again.

The Lost Seven, Wilhelm; the seven real-life fairy characters. Who are they? I need to know who they are, Wilhelm, so I can kill Snow White. They hold her secret to immortality.

Honesty has never been my fairest charm; I admit I am no angel. It would be foolish to pretend that I am. I have danced with mischievous fairies tantalizingly close to the dark side of Neverland. I have ushered young butterflies to the deceiving light of hell’s fire. I have slaughtered, tortured, burned, suffocated, poisoned, ripped out hearts, sat on my glass throne and watched young, beautiful girls sprawled dead on the floor of my castle. I sinned vigorously as I bit on Blood Apples topped with chocolate syrup and fresh milk.

But you know what? I am not even half the beautiful evil that she is made of.

Since you kept the Lost Seven’s identities from me, you left me no choice but to show you what my majesty can do.

That’s why I am writing to you …

I found your brother Jacob today, hiding in the cottage in the forest where she used to live with the Lost Seven. It’s as if he’s been addicted to the scent of her death on the bed sheets.

When he refused to tell me about the Lost Seven, I poisoned him and ended his life, the way a Grim Reaper does.

If you try to keep their identities from me, I will kill each and every one of the Grimms. I will be your Grimm Reaper.

As I sat on his bed, watching him die, I told him a bedtime story—deadtime story, to be precise. I told him about her.

That’s why I am writing you this letter, to tell you what I already told your brother.

So dear Wilhelm, let me bleed on these pages with my quill pen, which is made of feathers as black as crows, writing on paper as white as doves, and ink that is as red as your brother’s blood …

It was the last decade of the eighteenth century when I realized what she really was, fifteen years prior to killing her.

I was looking outside my royal chamber’s window in my castle. The winter had already arrived, and snow covered the land with aprons of shining ice. It was one of those twilit winters, known by the locals for bad omens and superstitions. I didn’t believe in such things, but when the snow buried the purple poppy fields underneath a shroud of a thick layer of white, I had my doubts.

The peasants believed the curves of the land resembled the body of a gigantic girl, buried underneath. They claimed she was a demon princess who fed on the light of day and left us blinded in the dark, that she drank the rain falling from the skies before it reached the earth, so she’d quench her thirst and starve our land.

I couldn’t stand their ignorance when they claimed the princess buried in the snow was an incarnation of my daughter. I detested those low-life peasants, spreading their superstition in the Kingdom of Sorrow. As the Queen, I was left to rule alone while the King was away, leading his timeless war against real demons lurking at our kingdom’s borders. It wasn’t the right time to correct and educate the filthy peasants. Part of me was rather satisfied when I watched them starve to death, unable to seed the earth. They deserved it.

But it wasn’t just them who starved. Our animals disappeared in a countdown to extinction. All except the crows. Those damn crows, pecking at each other out of hunger. I watched them spiral down from the bruise-colored sky, blood spattering all over the snow like red rain, staining my kingdom with black, white, and red shades. Those three wicked colors I hated the most.

Watching the snow from my bed that day, I accidentally pricked my thumb while Snow White lay nestled in my arms. I don’t know how I hurt myself, other than being distracted by her beauty and deceivingly innocent face. Those lovely doe eyes of hers were gleaming over her chubby cheeks, curving like ocean waves whenever she smiled at me.

Sometimes, I listened to her as she hummed melodies filled with words that did not make sense. It was a song, orchestrated in her fragile mind. Its effect was so enchanting that I found myself wiggling my toe to its rhythm. It was beautiful. In my mind’s eye, I could imagine a singer’s voice seducing wooden instruments to bend and dance with mirth and ecstasy, as if wood that was once dead was now alive.

I never knew where she got her beautiful gold-tinted eyes. Neither the King nor I had them, but my husband’s father had them. The fact that she had his eyes, those of a man whom we never mentioned, bothered me. He had hunted us for years after we’d escaped him, crossing oceans and continents, cursing us for creating our own kingdom in faraway realms that he had no access to. His doe eyes were far from beautiful, for they were blackened with sorrow.

Snow White wrapped her small, almost boneless hands, finger by finger, around my pricked thumb. She did it so gently that her touch took my breath away. I almost cried tears of joy. As hard as she tried to press on my thumb, her skin felt like silk on my flesh, and I wished that she’d never let go of me. It was true that I was her mother, and she needed to hold on to me, but little did she know that I needed her more than she needed me.

I laughed as her face knotted in evil, childish curves, staring at that stubborn thumb of mine, unable to pull it closer. In her frustration, she reminded me of cats chasing balls of thread on the castle’s floor.

Since I would have granted her any wish in exchange for one of her fabulous smiles, I didn’t mind lending her my thumb, which seemed to be of importance to her more than the milk in my breasts.

I wondered why.

I noticed a drop of blood on top of my thumb where I had pricked it. When I tried pulling it away, her hands seemed stronger suddenly, but not strong enough to pull my thumb against my will. It was the unusual increase in her strength and determination in her eyes. I thought I saw her veins surfacing momentarily on her almost-boneless neck.

However, it wasn’t alarming enough. Mothers are blinded by their love for their daughters. I was enchanted by her, thinking that if I died nurturing her, I would barely have noticed my own death. Only after my responsibility toward her was fulfilled would I allow death to take hold of me.

When she was born I hadn’t been gifted with immortality yet. I was wrongfully labeled the Evil Queen, remember? I was always the last one to be considered.

I gave in and loosened my thumb for Snow White to pull it closer to her …

At first, she pulled my thumb to her chest, staring at it. Her eyes had a sudden golden tinge to them. Then it disappeared like a falling star.

“Are you all right, Shew?” I asked, as I preferred to call her by that name. I didn’t expect an answer, since she hadn’t learned to talk. But something told me that she understood my words, and I was expecting her to nod or blink.

But she didn’t.

She pulled my thumb up with both of her tiny hands and sucked on it, which I found mesmerizing and cute, like when she was sucking on her own thumb while asleep. Her sucking was ticklish. After all, her teeth hadn’t grown yet.

My husband had warned me many times that she should not suck on her thumb. He considered it a bad habit that was inappropriate for princesses.

As she continued with my thumb in her mouth, the golden tinge loomed back into her eyes. This time, it stayed.

Suddenly, I remembered the drop of blood and tried to pull it away. Again, it wasn’t that she was stronger than me. In fact, her weakness was her greatest power. I found it strange that she insisted on lodging a bloody thumb in her mouth.

Before I considered believing in the bad omen the peasants talked about, the most beautiful smile landed on her face, the way fluttering stars shine in the midnight skies.

Curving cheeks, dancing eyebrows, and a single wiggling nose accompanied Snow White’s symphonic smile.

Finally, she let go of my thumb. I patted her, hugged her, and told her a bedtime story. It was about a beautiful girl who had been cursed by a witch to sleep forever until a charming prince came and kissed her awake, and how they lived happily ever after. Snow White loved to fall asleep to this story. As I wondered if she ever dreamed about a prince, lightning suddenly struck outside, illuminating trees into crystal candelabra.

If I were to believe in the peasants’ superstitions, I would have claimed that Snow White’s sleep brought light to the snowy night, and that the giant demon girl covered with snow was an incarnation of my little girl.

As she went to sleep, I wiped a drop of blood off her red lips, not knowing what the coming days had in store for my kingdom and I.

I tried not to prick my thumb again in front of her after that. I was alert enough to keep her away from the sight of blood. I did prick my thumb a lot in my years, but not for her—and that is another story for another occasion. Sometimes, she still stared dreamily at my thumb, like a girl standing next to her mother in the kitchen, tiptoeing to see if her favorite apple pie was finished, so she could start eating it. The eagerness was inescapable.

Seven years later, my concerns were confirmed, and I knew that there was no turning back …

It was a festive day. My husband and I welcomed the King and Queen of a neighboring kingdom. Part of it was celebration, and another part was joining forces in confronting the demons trying to breach our borders and threaten our safety.

We were used to fighting demons in our time, but these demons were darker, like nothing we had ever seen before. They were spreading a curse, causing the infected to lust for human blood. We were told the infection had wiped out Europe, and it came to finish us as well.

My husband and I paid in blood and tears for a new life in the Kingdom of Sorrow. There was no way that we would give up on our lands. If you only knew the sacrifices I made to save my family and to bring Snow White into this world, you would have sympathized with me.

But who am I to complain? In your eyes, I am just an evil queen who wants to murder her daughter, jealous of her young beauty. I have to admit that beauty does have a lot to do with this story, in an ugly way.

After dinner with the neighbors, I couldn’t take my eyes off their nine-year-old Prince. The boy was such a beauty. He shook my hand with such nobility, and talked only when he was permitted. He seemed bored in the presence of the elders. His beautiful eyes were scanning the castle for the Princess.

I summoned my daughter and introduced her to the Prince, wishing Cupid would strike them with his arrow and bind their hearts.

Snow White came down the stairs, her black hair waving behind her, her skin looking paler than usual. She wasn’t fond of the sun, hiding behind the castle’s thick curtains and Corinthian columns. Daylight was her worst enemy, and candles became her main source of light.

Still, she stood looking fabulous like a princess should, licking her blood-red lips the moment she laid her eyes on the beautiful Prince. It was appetite at first sight.

When their eyes met, the elders murmured about how beautiful the couple looked together. The sun splayed through the curtains, pronouncing them stars of the gathering. Strangely enough, Snow White didn’t mind the sunlight in the Prince’s presence.

They danced and played together. The Prince started chasing her across the castle. Still, Snow White was smarter than him, hiding in the right places, and manipulating him into searching in the wrong directions. When he finally caught her, she distracted him with her doe-eyed smile, and managed to run away again.

My eyes followed them in the castle. I was worried when I learned that the Prince had a restless appetite for girls. However young our neighbors were, their men had a reputation of being womanizers. Their charms were irresistible to most girls and women.

Little did they know that Snow White had an uncanny appetite for beautiful boys at such a young age.

My worries came true when I caught the Prince seducing Snow White gently into a dark corner. God only knows what that beautiful, mischievous nine-year-old had in mind.

As I parted them, my husband ordered one of his favorite huntsmen, a young boy who was about Snow White’s age, to take care of her. The King trained young peasant boys to become huntsmen. Even though I opposed his decision many times, he assured me that this boy was unique in ways I would later understand. The huntsman boy was not a peasant, but from some faraway civilization that used to battle with the demons lurking outside our borders.

As the crowd hailed outside, we walked out to the balcony, greeting them.

That was when we heard a most awful scream behind us.

I turned back, my heart racing, praying that it wasn’t what I feared. Sadly, it was, and I was, too late.

I watched the young Prince sink to his knees on the floor, his hands glued to his sides. He looked at us for a moment, before he collapsed completely on the floor. He was shuddering helplessly, as if possessed by demonic spirits, looking like a fish flopping out of water. His eyes turned all white, and he cringed and screamed in pain.

Then I understood what was going on. I saw two bite marks on his neck, and red blood trickling down onto the white marble floor.

I looked for the huntsman boy, but he was gone.

Tilting my head, I saw my daughter standing in the middle of the castle’s hall, with blood dripping from her lips onto her dress. She still looked as innocent as white doves, as if she had only overdosed on cherry-flavored ice cream.

Running toward the Prince, Snow White seemed astonished by his fainting. It looked like she was wondering why her bite had hurt him. She did not realize her bite was sinister in nature, and not like the kisses normal people exchanged.

She looked at me with her fangs drawn out, asking me to wash the blood off her, just like any spoiled princess who spilled tea on her dress. I froze in my place, puzzled with what to do. She pleaded as if she was the victim, not the predator.

The neighbor’s Queen started screaming hysterically when she saw Snow White’s fangs. She called my daughter a demon, and flashed a cross at her. Snow White was not affected in any way. Then the Queen threw everything she could at her. My husband had to interfere, using his magical powers to hypnotize the neighbor’s King and Queen. As a master of the dark arts, his ability to erase their memories would prove to be very valuable later.

“Take her away from here,” he growled at me, pulling the Prince into a private chamber. “I know how to save him.” He locked himself alone with the boy in the room, not wanting us to know how he would do it.

“What happened to him?” Snow White asked.

I pursed my lips shut, preventing myself from screaming at her, and pulled her up the stairs. I had to rinse the blood off her face and change her dress. She licked the Prince’s blood on her hand, the way children lick their dinner plates clean.

“You can’t do that!” I yelled.

I wasn’t surprised. I knew what she was a long time ago. I just didn’t want to admit it. Still, my love for her stopped me from raising her properly. I sounded as if I was teaching her dining etiquette, only mad because she dropped a plate or a spoon while eating.

“Can’t do what?” She sounded confused.

“You can’t just bite anyone you want to.” I gritted my teeth.

“But he’s so yummy, Mother,” she said. “So yummy. Didn’t you see how cute he is?”

I rolled my eyes and held back a smile. That must have been the demonic part in me, wanting to salute her and raise a glass of champagne for biting a cute prince. A prince she thought was yummy. Don’t all mischievous girls like to do that from time to time?

I struggled, commanding reason to win over, and managed to knot my face, playing angry with her. “That’s no excuse to do that, Shew.”

“Why?” she whined. Don’t you hate when children ask you why, and you don’t have a persuasive answer?

“You just can’t. Girls should be obedient and follow the rules … without asking why.”

“But I want more,” she said, and stamped her feet stubbornly. That tinge of gold gleamed in her eyes again. She didn’t understand the darkness she possessed inside her. It was spontaneous and natural to her. She reminded me of myself when I was young and wild, doing whatever I wanted to, only because some inner childish voice told me to.

What was I to do with her? If she were just a monster possessed by evil spirits, I might have brought myself to kill her—maybe let one of my husband’s older huntsmen do it.

But she wasn’t that kind of demon or dark entity. She was a beautiful monster—the hardest to kill, yet the hardest to outlive.

How long would she stay that way? How long before the beautiful cocoon that wrapped around her would split open, and give in to the darkness inside?

“More. More. More,” she repeated.

“Stop it!” Finally, I lost control and screamed at her.

That was when the light in her face dimmed …

She jerked her head down, looking at the floor beneath her feet. I could feel her body heating up in my hands. I thought I heard a growl from somewhere inside of her, but I wasn’t sure. I kept watching her forehead wrinkling behind strands of black hair, the color of her skin dying slowly into the palest white. Letting go of her hands, I swallowed my shriek, not wanting her to sense my fear. I didn’t want to lose control and sovereignty over her. I was her mother, the Queen of Sorrow. No demon, not even my daughter, stands in my way.

It was a legendary incident for me, and for her. Instantly, I realized that we had become rivals, and only one of us was destined to win.

“I know what this is all about,” she sighed in that awful, colorless tone.

I feared that when she raised her head, I would see those golden, scary eyes of hers again. Would they be infected with sorrow, like her grandfather’s?

I was somewhat nervous, suddenly feeling so alone with her; maybe I should have stayed closer to the crowd.

What would become of her now? What would become of me? I doubted that she would only want to suck the blood from my thumb next time.

“Did you hear me, Mother?” she repeated.

“I did, darling,” I said reluctantly. “Wh-wh-what is it about?”

Eventually, she raised her head …

“I don’t think the Prince likes me,” she said, her blue eyes filled with unborn tears.

I didn’t see any fangs or golden pupils in her eyes. She was just a seven-year-old girl with blood dripping from her lips, experiencing rejection for the first time in her short life. I was too confused to explain to her that the Prince, almost dying from her bite, wasn’t rejecting her. I wanted to teach her that she couldn’t bite some yummy boy and expect him to giggle and jump rope for her.

“It’s not that he didn’t like you,” I said, hugging her, letting her smear my royal black dress with blood. “It’s—”

“What, then?” She sobbed. Her skin was cold as ice.

“It’s just that you don’t bite someone you like so soon. Things don’t happen that way, Shew. You need to spend a lot of time together first. Get to know each other, and make sure that he wants you to bite him.”

“Really?” She gazed happily into my eyes. “Can I try again, then? I promise I’ll let him spend all the time he wants with me first.”

That night, I washed her and tucked her in bed, reciting the story about the Prince kissing Sleeping Beauty back to life. As she closed her eyes, I wondered whether Sleeping Beauty bit the Prince after he kissed her. Maybe the Prince’s kiss wasn’t a kiss. Was it a bite?

In the following years, we managed to keep her away from other children while my husband sent for doctors from all over the world. They sailed from Germany, Transylvania, and Italy, crossing the oceans to solve the mystery and cure her disease. None of them proposed a solution, not even the famous Dutch doctor Frederich Van Helsing. And, of course, she bit a couple of the yummy ones.

By the end of the eighteenth century, Snow White’s curse seemed to have spread everywhere. People were turning into what the locals called vampires, which they hunted and killed. The lowlife peasants killed any vampire. It didn’t matter if it was a child or an old woman. They ripped out their hearts, after staking them and pulling out their livers. It was said that the heart and the liver were the center of the disease. Historians would later describe this era as “The Vampire Craze,” a historical event the Brothers Grimm failed to forge—it always bothered me that no one noticed that the Brothers Grimm wrote the fairy tale almost in the middle of the notorious Vampire Craze.

A gypsy healer told us that my daughter would heal when her soul weighed exactly twenty-one grams—the weight malevolent spirits could not bear, and were forced to leave the body. It turned out that the weight of the soul was measured in mysterious ways that I didn’t know of. The soul’s weight was part of the heart’s weight, and could only be measured by weighing the heart with some ancient instrument that I had never heard of. No heart could be cured before it grew big enough to hold a soul that weighed twenty-one grams inside.

We were waiting for Snow White’s sixteenth birthday so we could heal her heart. But then, things went terribly wrong.

I remember one night when she was eight. She came to my room while my husband was out in the battlefields.

“Shew?” I said, eyes sleepy.

She didn’t reply, approaching me in the dark as if sleepwalking. She stopped by my bed, as her face shimmered in the candlelight. I saw that tinge of gold in her eyes again, like fireflies in the dark.

She didn’t talk. She pulled my hand from under the sheets and sucked on my thumb, after pricking it with the edge of her fangs. She smiled at me after sucking a couple of drops, her cheeks curving happily, looking more beautiful than she ever did before. I let her sleep in my bed, reminding myself that she was a beautiful monster.

She didn’t want to hurt me—not yet. She loved me as much as I loved her.

“Mother?” she said, as she tucked herself under the sheets and hugged me. To tell you the truth, she didn’t say Mother. She called me by my real name, which I prefer to keep to myself for now. I don’t think you are ready to know who I really am. “Do you remember the day I was born?” she asked.

I wondered why she brought it up. It was a very strange day. I remember it clearly, like looking into a pure crystal ball, but remembering the past instead of telling the future.

“Do you?” I said, running my hand through her hair.

“No. But I have these dreams where I am someone really important in this world, like my father—a fearless warrior. In the dream, I have to choose between saving the world”—she stopped for a breath, closing her eyes— “or destroying it.”

Then she went to sleep.


By the time I finished my story, Jacob was dead.

“That’s enough of a deadtime story,” I whispered to him. I placed two mirror coins onto his eyes, to block them from looking back into our world from the afterlife. “Still you’d wonder about me, right?” I asked the dead man. “If I was so tender, and she was such a monster, how did I end this way?” I let out a painful laugh. “Well, that’s a long story, Jacob.”

I made sure I placed the mirror coins on his eyes so everyone knew I was here when Jacob died. This was my trademark. The mirror coins were exclusively mine. I conjured them from the shards of a shattered mirror that had witnessed death. A mirror that witnessed death was as dear to me as a poisoned apple that steals breath.

Turning around to leave the cottage, I stopped for a moment. I saw something. There were seven items on a round table beside the door: a fork, a plate, a cup, breadcrumbs, a chair, a knife, and some magical beans.

Each item belonged to one of the Lost Seven.

“Ha! So you did know who they were, Jacob,” I sighed, fiddling with the items. “I swear, I will find them and make them remember. And when I do,” I said as I opened a small box with a dead heart inside, “this heart’s soul will weigh exactly twenty-one grams. And this heart will be mine.” I closed the box and tucked it in my pocket.

I pursed my heart-shaped lips and killed the candlelight with the cherry scent of my breath. As the darkness came down slowly upon the room, I pulled out my hand mirror and gazed at my beauty. I looked at myself in the dark because this was the only way I could see my beauty. But soon, when I find the Lost Seven and kill her, I will change this and be able to see my reflection in daylight once again.

“Mirror, mirror in my hand,” I hissed in the dark, “who is fairest in the Dreamland?” I said as the mirror started reflecting my beautiful face, glinting with pearls. I smiled in the dark, not expecting an answer. The mirror rippled like water. The glittering was enough of an answer to me.

Looking closer, I noticed that my skin was a little paler underneath the eyes, just a little. “All right,” I mumbled. “It’s time for a mix of blood, milk, and dark chocolate to fix that.”

But I had one other important question for my copper mirror. “Mirror, mirror of hell and heaven,” I hissed again, “who else knows about the Lost Seven?”

Even though the girl in the mirror scared me, I needed to hear an answer this time.

The girl in the mirror was a girl you might know of, Wilhelm, but tasting her name on one’s tongue was deadly ever after. I preferred not to call her by her true name. When the mirror began to ripple again, I preferred not to look at her scary face.

“The Lost Seven, they must die,” the girl in the mirror said in her squeaky voice. “One who could help you is a boy who can fly,” she explained, and then disappeared.

“Thank you, M—” I was about to utter her name. “Thank you.” I tucked the hand mirror in my pocket, pulled my chin up, and prepared to leave.

“Peter Pan,” I murmured. “How I hate to see you again.” I sighed. I had no choice but to look for him. He knew about the Lost Seven, and I needed every clue he could give me.

I opened the door of the cottage, heading out into the snowy night. A shriek curled my lips into a bitter smile, for what I saw I didn’t expect. Not tonight.

As I stepped outside, snow fell upon me, splashing onto my face and my cheeks, tasting of cherry, apples, and every other red fruit or vegetable. This snow wasn’t white. It was red snow, and I knew what it meant.

I knew it was a trick, her trick. Soon, the red falling snow would taste of blood.

end of the first diary

The next diary is Beauty Never Dies

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