The Snow Queen's Shadow

its way home eventually.”
    Talia shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You enjoyed this.”
    “Didn’t you?” Snow asked, giving her a sidelong glance. Talia had tugged her scarf down beneath her chin. Wisps of black hair framed a stern face, but amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. Snow grinned. “It reminds me of the time Queen Bea sent us out to find that frog who was impersonating a prince to harass young maidens.”
    “I still say you should have let me cook him,” said Talia. “Fresh frog legs, soaked in butter and sprinkled with nadif spice—”
    “I’ll take the cookies, thanks.” Snow made a face. “You keep your frog.”
    “Snow? Talia?” The urgency in Danielle’s tone caused Snow’s stomach to tighten.
    “What’s wrong?” Snow yanked the largest mirror from her choker, rubbing the glass clean with her sleeve. It was hard to make out much detail in the tiny glass, but Danielle looked like she was fighting tears.
    “It’s Beatrice.”

    Snow had foreseen this day a year and a half before, when a mermaid stabbed Queen Beatrice in the chest with a cursed blade. Snow had done everything she could, magically stitching the wound and using every potion and poultice she could think of to help the queen heal. Her efforts had given the queen an extra eighteen months of life, but even magic had limits, and death could only be denied for so long.
    “We’re here,” Snow whispered as they reached the palace, counting on her mirrors to send her voice to Danielle. “Is Bea—”
    “She’s still alive,” Danielle said.
    Snow allowed herself one moment of relief before turning to Talia. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
    Talia whirled, her eyes wide. Snow had seen Talia angry before, but rarely had that anger been directed at her. Not like this. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
    “No, it can’t.” Snow stepped away.
    “Beatrice is dying.” Talia’s rage slowly shifted to disbelief. “What could possibly be more important?”
    Snow shook her head. “Tell Beatrice . . .” Bea would have understood, but not Talia. No words could make this right with her, and the longer Snow stood here, the less time she would have.
    Talia grabbed Snow’s arm. “Beatrice took you in. She gave you a home after you fled Allesandria. She cared for you like her own daughter.”
    “You think I don’t know that?” And now it’s my turn to care for her. Snow twisted away. Anger she could take, but the pain and disappointment in Talia’s eyes were too much. Talia would understand soon. “I’m sorry.”
    Talia’s lips moved, as though she were searching for words. Instead, she turned her back and hurried down the hallway, the soles of her boots echoing on the tile floor.
    “Talia—” Snow started after her, but forced herself to stop. Years of spellcasting had given her practice at pushing her own emotions and turmoil aside when she needed. Growing up with a mother who punished her for the slightest transgression, whether real or perceived, had only strengthened her self-control.
    Most of the time, she simply chose not to use it.
    Word of Bea’s condition had obviously spread through the palace. Voices were muffled, the cheerful gossip of the servants replaced by somber whispers. Snow heard more than one woman weeping quietly behind closed doors.
    She made her way through the palace toward the royal bedchamber. Given Beatrice’s state, the room should be abandoned. Bea had been moved to a room on the ground floor after she became too weak to climb the steps, and King Theodore would be with his wife.
    Once Snow reached the bedroom, she shut the door behind her and checked to make sure she was alone. She stepped past the bed to the fireplace, where a few coals glowed within the ashes. Taking an iron poker, she jabbed a brick in the back of the fireplace, opening a hidden panel in the wall. She squeezed inside and yanked the panel shut behind her until it clicked into place.
    Sunlight shone from her choker as she made her way down a narrow stairway to the secret rooms hidden beneath the palace. Her light gleamed from weapons of every shape and size as she hurried through the armory toward her personal library and, most importantly, her magic mirror.
    Tall as Snow herself, made of flawless glass and framed in platinum, the mirror dominated the wall where it stood. As she strode into the room, the glass responded to her will, showing her Queen Beatrice.
    The library was a