Snow White would be born sometime later. Her hair dark as ebony, lips as red as blood, and skin the bitter taste of snow.

In Black Castle, most things were dead in spring and crippled by autumn. The skies churned with a hate so deep. Rain poured with no end. Hildegarde watched from her room, her belly swollen and bloated with a babe. The king was to be buried today, and she was to cry.

"Your grace, you need a knight," his words were lazy, expecting. Snow piled on the ground and melted upon the glass. The hearth pumped fire and warmth, and her body was sprawled along the daybed, her arms wrapped around her stomach. "Let me guess, a knight such as yourself?" Her eyes lifted from his lips, pomegranate and juicy, up to his eyes, bland and blue. "I’d be honored, my queen." She laughed.