When you were small, your mother gave you Trembling as she screamed. She’d scream and scream. The weight of her would thrash. She hated you to touch. But lay her on a blanket, and don’t look, and lie beside her. And suddenly she’d halt and look and move. Lift her little head away from you or close.

  When your father stands up, you do not need to turn to see his face. Later in the dark, Brown calls the snake-man handsome. Trembling’s humming softly. ‘He is, all right,’ you say to Brown. ‘He is.’ But your fingers worry a hole into the knitted blanket, ravelling the strands around, around, until your index finger’s swollen purple. Until you hardly feel the thing at all.

  Your father takes you riding the next morning. He wants to talk to you. It’s you the snake-man wants. You swallow, nod. You knew you would be first. You came out first. It is the way of things. The trees are wild. They grow up straight but all their branches tangle in together. There is no way you can be by yourself. Maybe someone more like Trembling. She’d like to be alone. She couldn’t, though. She’d need a lot of help.

  He calls to take you walking in the evening. You listen to the hiss beneath his words. You do not like him, but the look of him is something else. The boldness of his legs, his face, his eyes. There’s something in him more than worth the hating. At night you turn him over in your mind, smooth him like a cold stone in your pocket, round and round to understand the shape.

  You marry someone, then you get a baby and you’re safe. You can’t have safety, see, without a baby. That’s the thing that makes it worth his while. There are other things you can give too. Soft bread and a clean house. Gentle voice, big smile. You wash your body twice that day. Once before, once after. To get the stink of past and future off. He takes your hand and smiles at you. You look at him. You know just what he wants. To bite into your skin, and leave a mark. An apple in reverse. Fair skin around, then brightest red inside and very shiny. You shake your head. You’re not the thing he wants, he’s moved his gaze. To the softest, gentlest thing there is. ‘She likes to be alone,’ you say. He makes a sound that’s almost like he’s listening, but he’s not. You think of the long road of your life with something cruel like that. With something hard.

  He’s over beside Trembling in the soft green grass. There’s mud all up her dress. He makes her laugh. She doesn’t look at eyes, you think. She doesn’t see. You aren’t always kind to her. You mock her and give out about her ways. But seeing him, deep pockets and big hands all poised to strike, a thing that’s almost love grows in your gut. You close your eyes. You’ll try to take him from her. But when they open both of them are gone. She comes home quiet. Hides inside a little corner by the hearth. Her shoes are gone. She has twigs in her hair. She starts when you come close and so you hum. You hum the way she hums, the same low tune. She lets you push your warm flesh to her cold flesh. Shoulder to shoulder, walking dress to shift. You look at her face. She doesn’t know the danger of a man. And nor do you, for all you know it’s there.

  The next day, it is Trembling who rides with your father. He sends her back in a fine dress. She holds her hand open to you. Inside it is a little honey-finger. Crushed around a tiny honey-bird. You peel the two apart and put them on a white plate in the kitchen. Wash down the horse, and hear its breathing slow. ‘Did you go fast today?’ you ask of Trembling. And Brown is nowhere to be seen at all.

  Later in the night, Brown clambers in beside you. ‘Why did he not pick me?’ she asks. Her face. You love her more than any other person. You think of him uncoiling, rising up. You are the oldest one. And you should have the sleek green back of him. The long legs and strong arms. Trembling cannot help being the loveliest. Being the way she is. And Brown is just as beautiful, if people took the time to look and see. You do not ask her if she even wants him. That is not at all what it’s about.

  It’s not about being sensible, or strong. It’s not about being kind. It’s not about the soft touch and the kind heart. Beauty and a womb. That’s all you are. That’s all an adder needs. You do not ask your sister if she loves him. You haven’t even asked it of yourself. You stroke Brown’s back. You think of both of you as old, old women in this very bed. Dried up together, waiting for a life. And he will hurt her. But you want that hurt.

  Trembling smiling less when she comes home now. Father slaps her hands with the flat of his knife when she wisps them through the air. You can tell that things are very loud or very bright or very something for her when she does that. It is a thing she needs to make her safe. He likes her voiceless, and with quiet hands. She hums less to herself. Two eyes. Closed mouth. You see her less, and when you do she’s lovelier than ever. Hair coiled artfully and hung with jewels. Soft red dress. The honey-bird and honey-finger rotting. She loves treats but she won’t touch those two. In the centre of the smooth oak table, they collect a certain horrid sheen. One morning they are speckled with dark ants. Things will come to nourish on their sweetness. It won’t be you. It won’t ever be you.

  You are picking flowers by the lake when you encounter him. Nothing special. Dog-violet and sea-kale. Rough clover. You’ll bring them home and offer them to Brown and then to Trembling. You’ll bake them bread. There are things you can do. He looks you up and down and you feel something in your marrow. You pull yourself up high, and tilt your head. You smile at him. You see that in his eyes he doesn’t like it. His arms snatch your elbow, clasp your waist. And you can feel the cold slap of his sword against your leg. Men have weapons. Men have many things. And women learn.

  You kiss him on the cheek. You ask him questions about himself. The places that he’s been. The ones he’s from. ‘We’ll miss her now,’ you say. ‘When she goes with you.’ The flat palm of his hand against your neck. An adder’s kiss. He takes it and you let him. You do not cage his tongue with little teeth.

  When you were small, you had a wet-nurse. Like a mother, paid to give you food. She left when Trembling was weaned. Your father blamed her. Something in the milk that curdled Trembling. It can’t have come from him, or from the queen. Look at Fair, he’d say. And look at Brown. The nurse could say that too. Only she didn’t. No-one would have heard. She told you a story once, on a crisp lap. About a man who went inside the belly of a whale. And lived there for a while and then got out. You thought it sounded nice. A calm, warm place. The water outside rippling and lashing. You’d find yourself inside the fleshy dark.

  You pull him to you and he is surprised. You move in close. His fingers twist your hair and pull a little. You do not mind. You think of Trembling, wincing as you brush. She hates to be touched lightly or at all sometimes. She jumps and she might scratch. And if she scratched at him, what of it then? The water ripples, eddies. Little pulls. The current holds you close inside the river. The weir is vicious and the flowers bright. They say that monsters can take many shapes. And one of them resides inside the river. It’s why it foams as though it were a-boil. A thing with eyes and hands that grasps at men and pulls them down and keeps them. It must be that. It can’t be lack of strength.

  His mouth is still on yours and he is moving his hands across the front of you. Searching for the laces on your dress. The hooks and eyes. The little things you close to keep you modest. When you meet a man, don’t meet his eyes. Look down, look down, look down. When you meet a man, you do not see him. You know he is a man and that is all. His fingers on your stomach. His sword belt in the long grass. When adders see their prey, their gaze is fixed. You do not meet his eyes. It doesn’t matter. You are a collection of your parts. Fair is beauty. Beauty and a womb. And so is Brown. And Trembling? Less and more and still exactly that.

  You think, during and afterwards, of how easily your hands could find his back. Could push him in. Underneath the deep. It moves so wildly, foaming like a cauldron. You are not a witch. You’re just a girl. Beauty and a womb. You gather up the flowers. Hold them to your face and breathe them in. You trail your fingers roughly through the water. Brown adrift and lonely in the bed. Trembling sitting flapping in the corner, face too beautiful for mortal eyes. Your ruined body is awake entirely.

  You are one of three.

  Your name is Fair.

  Ash Pale

  When you were little, you were really pretty. People always said you looked like Her. The queen, they meant. Your father called you princess. And that is what you were. He was a king. But everyone has kingdoms where you’re from. And it is heavy being white as snow, with rose-red cheeks and hair so dark that combs of ebony get eaten up and fade to naught inside.

  You grew up.

  Your father remarried. And she was fine and eager, smooth and bland. Closer to your age than his, but that’s not a surprise. He’s old as trees. As forests. Planets. Worlds.

  A cloak. A crown. Will do that to a man.

  She was a servant. And that’s not important. But it is. The insolence of that for her. The grasp. The thirst. And you had royal blood coursing through your veins on both your sides. You’d always known that staff were not for friendship. Keep your distance. Be a lady. Mind. And then the plump sphere of her little belly. Smug beneath the ermine of her robes. And she was just a vessel. Not a person. Common blood. An adversary’s house.

  The girl was all the colours of the rainbow. You were four. White. Red. Blue. Black. Those were your ones. She had red and white and pink and purple. Brown and yellow. Green and grey and blue. Most of yours and many of her own. She looked so healthy. Full of sons. Swollen and important little princes.

  And you thought to yourself.

  Not here.

  When you were small, your mother gave you presents. Things to eat She’d made from certain herbs. She had a picture of you in Her head, see. When She was fat with you inside Her room, She’d look out of the tower and She’d think. These are the colours that my child will be. The shapes she’ll take. And She was always right. You had Her eyes. The shards of winter sky. Of shining ice. She came from other kingdoms, secret places. Beyond the forest, where the women learn of certain tricks. Practices forbidden to their men. Forbidden here to anyone at all.

  She held you underneath the water once. Until you almost drowned. You opened wide your eyes. Your pretty rose-red mouth. When you emerged, She asked you if you’d seen and you said, ‘Yes.’ You haltingly said, ‘Yes.’ Because you had. And then She held you close.

  Your mother loved you. Sometimes taught you lessons.

  You blink at the soft warmth of the new wife, muddled with your father like a potion. You lance a boil is what your mother taught you. But she is not a boil. She’s something else, more sinister. A tumour. A heavy thing, that’s growing fat with threat. And she could whelp again, if it’s a daughter. His eyes are up and down her little body. Like it was a painting or a jewel. A thing of value. But she’s just a woman. You are more than that.

  Have been since you were born.

  Your mother died upon an equinox. It was Her time. They choose their own times, women in that kingdom. They sicken and they perish at their will. And She was so much older than your father. She loved you but She wanted it to stop. She asked you if you’d sit with Her. Reciting all the secrets that She’d told you. Over in Her ear, again, again. You held Her hand through longest night till dawn. And when the morning creaked through, She was cold.

  They put Her in a box they filled with flowers. To counteract the smell. He said goodbye and kissed Her on the mouth. So did you, and you could feel the stale tang of his breath on Her dead lips. You watched the servants set the box aflame. How things are done. You know how things are done. Your mother told you.

  You were really pretty as a child. But as a woman, you are something else. You’ve never felt desire for a man. For power, yes, but never for a man. You look in mirrors and you fall in love. Your face. Your face. Your mother built that face with prayer and chanting as the birth-pain took Her. She gave you every weapon that She could. And you love it. Your lips a cupid’s bow. Your eyes so wide it looks like you’re surprised. You never are.

  You’re eating dinner bite by little bite, so delicate. You do not eat like birds to please their eyes. It’s just your way. You like to chew deliberately. Conscious of the life that you consume. Cows have hearts and sheep, you know, like people. Parts of them. Their eyes. Their livers. Lungs. They all have uses. Every part of someone can be used. The world is full of tools, to be discovered. His eyes on hers. You see his eyes on hers and tilt your head. Your voice rings out, so clear, a little bell. Silver fork on glass. A broken chime.

  ‘Father?’ you say, and then again, ‘Your Majesty?’ He doesn’t move his head. Not right away. This has to stop. He’s not too old to learn.

  There is a sort of craft that you know well. Where you can gather things and you can build them. Little shapes you forge at different times. Elemental magicks. Earth and fire, clay-pot blood-sweat shapes. Air and water, tears and bits of hair. And other pieces too. Wood and glass and sand and dust and ash. You do not have to grow them in your womb. They are your servant-children, not your kin.

  For you, from you, never ever of you.

  Your mother’s icy breath. Her dying face.

  You give them pieces of you in their bodies. Little chunks. A hank of raven hair. A scarlet drop from what you shed each month. A flake of skin. Your colours. You have given them your colours. That comes first.

  And then you give them breath, you give them purpose. Nothing about this witchery is easy. You need to venture further than you have. The things your mother taught you take much work. You have to do it all with your two hands. With pieces of your body, other bodies. Sewing. Warping. Shaping.

  It takes work, the hatred that you wield.

  When there are seven, you will have enough. When there are seven shapes with life inside.

  It takes some months, she’s almost fit to pop when you are ready. You wondered if you wouldn’t have the time. If you would have another job to do. A little job. You wouldn’t want to do that. To force the life out of a royal thing. Once it has left the belly, the canal, then it becomes as royalty. She does too, the thing your father likes. It would be treason then. It would be murder. It wouldn’t stop you, but it gives you pause. You close your ice-blue eyes and think about your seven little forms. The different sizes, aspects. You’ve crafted them. And one by one, they’ll wake. When they are needed. When they hear your elemental call.

  You sit on flagstones, in the little chapel in the centre of the forest. The ancient one. The one from Gods Before where noone goes. This place was Hers. A woodland refuge. You mind it well. You clean. You sweep the floor. You sing the blood-songs, offer things on altars. Keep the fires lit and bide your time.

  Your voice is sweet, but there is strength within it. You chant the words She taught you loud and long. On Her dying breath, how She exclaimed. Her voice went ‘Ahh!’ right up and out towards the sky beyond you. You wondered why She did that at the end. What things She saw. What wonders and what terrors. And She was every bit as good as them. Here in your forest home, you grow like Her. You learn about yourself. The place you have. The place that you would take. The shape. The weight.

  You’ve read sometimes of mothers who appear once they have passed. Who care too deeply for their young to leave. You close your eyes. You think about the castle. And it has been so long. Since you got lost. You had to plan things walking in the forest. You had to craft a plan and bide your time.

  Women aren’t allowed to do this here. To wield the power and to say the words. He’d burn you up, he’d burn you up, your father. Tears would stain his cheeks but he is just. He does the things he has to, like a king. Your mother too. Although She wouldn’t cry. She’d know that fire wouldn’t be the end. Not for a thing like you. It would take more.

  The seven figures lay across the altar. You voiced the things you wanted as you prayed. Sometimes it is important just to ask. To frame the thing in words: Her baby dead. And all her other babies. Their lives to meat. Her hopes to ash. She needs to know her place.

  You put your fingers halting on the first. You stick a digit in him and he breathes. He doesn’t have a face, just little holes for eyes and letting air in. There is no mouth. He doesn’t need to speak. You know his thoughts. As any mother would. You slick his face with water and you push him. Out into the world. You wish him well.

  The king is looking for his errant daughter. You hear that in the whispers of the leaves. How long it took his lustful eyes to notice. She has blinded him to who he is. The season’s passed, the layer of snow is melting. Your skin is white as snow and red as blood. Your eyes are blue as ice. Your hair is black.

  Your stepmother is found inside her bath. Full up with dirty water, red as blood. Her face is blank. Her face is white as snow. The child that poured from her is black as coal, a little lump of charred and wizened flesh. An empty leather purse. She lives of course. She needs to live to learn.

  When you return, stronger, from the woods, you wear an anguished face, a cape of black, black as your hair. As charcoal. Ravens. Night. Your little sister.

  You’re welcomed back as though you were the queen and not the princess. As it should be. All as it should be.

  Your small thing comes to you as soon as you’re alone. You stroke his face and pick him all apart. Little piece by piece. He’s clay and fire, you crumble him from balconies for days until he’s traceless. Flowers thrive and die where he has spread. You’ve murdered your first baby. It felt fine.

  Each time that you create a little fellow, there’s a sort of gift you have to give. A little bit of life. A fingernail. A toe. A smile, a tear. The second one you kiss. He starts awake. This one is made of water and he slides inside the mirror in your room. You tell him to wait there. And in his eyes you watch yourself, your face. There isn’t any hardness to your features. You look so soft, a little princess doll. You’d wondered when you thought about it first. If being cruel would give unwanted wrinkles. Would carve a furrow right between the eyes. You needn’t have been worried. Know that now.

 

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