Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/850813.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, F/M, F/F
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Cora/Evil_Queen_|_Regina_Mills, Daniel/Evil_Queen_|_Regina_Mills
  Additional Tags:
      Prequel, Parent/Child_Incest, Child_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-20 Words: 14898
****** The Reddest Rose ******
by chief_johnson
Summary
     Roses are red, violets are blue, a mother's love is always true...
     And when sixteen-year-old Regina Mills develops a crush on the stable
     boy, she learns just how far her mother will go to keep her love and
     devotion. Prequel to "The Prettiest Poison," but may be read as a
     stand-alone.
Notes
     I wrote this as a prequel of sorts for my Snow Queen fic "The
     Prettiest Poison," which takes place about four years after the
     events depicted here. However, this one mostly stands on its own and
     it's not necessary to read the other first (although, it would be
     super nice if you still did read it and left some feedback :). I've
     never written a prequel before, so hopefully there aren't too many
     inconsistencies here. Reviews would be much appreciated. And at this
     point, I'm pretty sure all my fics should just come with built-in
     trigger warnings, but in case you're new to my dark and twisty corner
     of the fandom, heads up: there's some graphic stuff going on in this
     story, kids, including incest, non-con, and abuse. Don't blame me, I
     was Cora'd.
She loves you . . . not.
The last petal fell from the stem, drifting in a lazy spiral to the stone path
at Cora's feet. She tracked its descent with an unwavering eye, as if she might
be able to reattach the entire corolla by sheer force of will, but it landed on
the gravel with a silence that made the blood rush in her ears—just like all
the rest. Scattered around the pointed toes of her white kid boots were petals
of an identical color from at least two dozen more roses. She had destroyed
half the bush in the past several minutes, standing there plucking petals one
by one between her thumb and index finger. In no uncertain terms, they each
gave her the same answer to a question that burned deep within her breast, in
that hollow space where her heart had once been: Does my daughter love me?
Cora's roses never lied. She had nursed them from infancy with the same
vigilance she had shown her baby girl, pruning and weeding out the undesirable
traits as they cropped up, fertilizing their soil with the most wholesome feeds
(a solid foundation was necessary above all else), and caressing each and every
bud with the tenderest hand. She murmured encouragement to them as she worked,
calling them sweeter names than any she had ever used on lovers now departed.
It seemed only natural when they began to speak back.
She didn't so much hear their voices as absorb them, the way dreams sometimes
took on the shape of external stimuli during sleep. But whether divining their
words or reading them in the patterns of castoff petals, she had come to trust
their counsel above all other. Especially when it pertained to Regina. Cora's
lovely young daughter, always so sweet and obedient as a child, was getting
more volatile and headstrong with each passing day. Desirable qualities in a
queen, perhaps, but not in a girl of sixteen who had yet to secure herself a
union with the proper man. It troubled Cora that her usual tactics—kisses and
cajoling when the girl was mildly reluctant, threats and use of force when she
was downright obstinate—no longer seemed as effective. She would employ any
means necessary to discourage bad behavior of course, but she preferred her
daughter's easy compliance. Even persuading the girl through magic had become
quite taxing in the last several months or so. Regina's spirit was growing
strong; luckily, Cora's was stronger.
Still, there had been a subtle shift in recent weeks which Cora couldn't quite
account for . . .
Her heart belongs to another.
A soft gasp parted Cora's lips, and she recoiled from the rosebush as if it had
threatened her bodily harm. She stood blinking at the foliage, its pale
blossoms swaying in the late evening breeze, diffuse silver moonlight giving
them a ghostly glow. It appeared to be alive and breathing, that bush. She
couldn't remember when it had gotten so large, so like a hulking beast that
crouched in the shadows and waited to pounce. If she were capable of fear, she
might have felt it then, in some primitive, instinctual way left over by
ancestors whose main defense against predators was flight. But Cora Mills never
fled from anything. And all beasts could be conquered, no matter their size.
Who is it? she thought, and when there was little more than a chuckling of
leaves, she stepped forward and spoke out in a harsh whisper:
"Who?"
Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl hooted its own similar inquiry, and the
roses tittered maliciously at the coincidence. Cora resisted the urge to thrust
her hands into their leafy shroud and begin tearing out fistfuls until the
centerpiece of her garden was a mangled heap on the ground. She could always
grow another, but perhaps the next bunch would be even less forthcoming; there
were orchids lining the pathway through the south arbor who still refused to
acknowledge her entrance. Such a superior lot, with their waspy faces and
boisterous markings. Eventually she would prevail, but right now her concern
was with the lavish white blooms before her. If she showed restraint, they
would tell her what she needed to hear: for all their supposed coyness, roses
were gossipy old biddies.
Sure enough, they rewarded her patience a moment later, conveying the answer on
a gust of wind that ruffled their greenery in a prideful display.
You will know in good time. And you will be his undoing.
His. Cora's fists clenched at her sides and the word echoed through her mind,
lengthening with every repetition, becoming a drawn out, serpentine hiss. She
might have known it would be a man. The boys had discovered Cora at an early
age, her well-developed frame—sturdy and agile from years of hauling grain
sacks twice her size and outrunning her father's drunken rages—attracting them
like flies to buttermilk. She had done everything in her power to prevent the
same from happening with Regina, whether it meant banning any type of physical
labor or sprinkling the girl's tea with suppressive powders to ensure her
figure remained delicate and childlike for as long as possible. It had worked
until around the fourteenth year, when Mother Nature intervened, bringing with
her the shapely curves and feminine charms which Regina now possessed. Cora
remembered vividly the day she had noticed the tiny buds, no bigger than crocus
bulbs, really, where her daughter's chest had once been flat, the slight flare
where hips were once narrow. Since then, she kept close watch on Regina's
progress, memorizing every contour of soft young flesh, its smooth texture and
dusting of golden down rivaling even the prettiest flora. Surely, Cora would be
able to see the evidence if anyone should try plucking this—her most precious
flower.
Wouldn't she?
Thoughts racing, she ticked off with each finger the short list of Regina's
male acquaintances. Most were family on her father's side; cousins whom she saw
once every few years or knew only in epistolary form, and uncles who were no
more interested in Regina than she in the dolls they sometimes still sent her
on birthdays. There were a couple of innocent courtships with childhood beaux,
which Cora had allowed—and typically orchestrated—because it gave the girl a
chance to practice flirting and domination of the opposite sex. Those
interactions were monitored closely, though, and cut short altogether if they
became too serious. None of the boys had been suitable marriage material anyway
(not a drop of royal blood in their veins), and they were all too frightened of
Cora to ever dare pursue her daughter further. She made certain of that.
Save for a few hired hands who didn't even count as legitimate options, the
only other man in Regina's life was Henry. This thought comforted Cora
somewhat. Not because she was misguided enough to believe fathers never looked
upon their daughters with desire; on the contrary, she knew it to be an
undeniable fact that they often did. But she also knew without a doubt that her
husband didn't have the stomach for such indecency. He could barely lay a
finger on Cora herself without quaking in his boots. And since their daughter's
birth, he treated the child as one might a religious idol: worshiped and
adored, but ultimately untouchable. Cora had seen to that as well. It wouldn't
do for such a silly, weak fool as Henry Mills to exert any influence over her
daughter. Many times she had used his cowardice against him, terrorizing him
with veiled threats of harming the girl if he interfered with Cora's plans for
her. Once, when Regina was still in diapers, Cora had given the bottom of one
tender little foot a savage pinch while it rested, as weightless as a newborn
chick, in the palm of her hand. Regina had awoken with an earsplitting shriek
that made even Cora's blood run cold. The magic it took to heal the strawberry
stain was rudimentary enough to deliver by kiss, and moments later, Regina had
latched back onto Cora's breast, suckling with a vengeance as her eyes rolled
drowsily inside their lids and milky spittle leaked from both corners of her
greedy mouth. Her screams were replaced by wet, cooing grunts by the time Henry
appeared in the nursery doorway, ashen-faced, winded, and thoroughly convinced
his child had been murdered.
Yes, if it were Henry who held sway over Regina, the remedy would be simple. A
bit of gentle persuasion here, a tweak followed by a mother's soothing caress
there. Cora knew her daughter better than anyone, and therefore knew just how
to win the girl's favor. But in the off chance that she was mistaken, that
Regina's whimsical heart really had gotten away from her, well . . .
There were other measures to be taken.
Cora slipped off a black silk glove and extended her hand, summoning the
discarded rose petals until they danced about her in the cool night air like a
cluster of moths around an open flame. One by one, she plucked only the finest
from the bunch—nary a furled tip or discoloration—and murmured a binding spell,
securing them in perfect formation to a lengthy stem with a single but very
large thorn.
She loves me,
she loves me,
she loves me.
By the time her chant ended, she had produced a fuller, more exquisite rose
than any she could hope to coax from the tedious earth. Almost.
Barely flinching, she pricked the pad of her index finger on the thorn, held it
inches above the flower, and squeezed with her thumb, enchanting each blood
droplet that fell (forever mine . . . mine. . . mine. . .). The entire
collection of petals blushed deep crimson and sealed itself with a satin
finish. Not a speck of white remained.
She cupped her hand under the blossom and, with a sly look at the bush she had
pilfered it from, bent to kiss its fragrant head. When its paler, less opulent
sisters quivered and held their tongues, Cora smiled to herself and strolled
away.
                                     xXxXx
"Blast!"
Regina slapped the charcoal stick into the gutter of her leather-bound art book
and sat back heavily in her chair, arms crossed. Suddenly paranoid, she cast a
glance over her shoulder to make sure no one stood behind her. Finding the room
empty, she faced her small writing desk once again and repeated the curse under
her breath.
She was supposed to be studying her history tome. But somewhere around the
third or fourth ogre war, she had ended up reading the same sentence over and
over for nearly five minutes without comprehending a word of it. To be fair,
she did try switching to Realms and Religions for a while instead, but if she
had to read about yet another virgin sacrifice today, she was going to offer
herself up as one just to be done with the whole rotten business. Her solemn
vow to resume Into the Woods: A History after ten minutes of sketching had been
sincere. Fifteen minutes, at most. Now, over an hour later, she still didn't
have a thesis for her report on child soldiers—specifically the girls—and she
had wasted three perfectly good sheets of parchment on a single still life.
After horses, flowers were normally her best subject. During holidays from
school, she sometimes spent entire afternoons in the garden, recreating her
mother's handiwork in oils and canvas. It earned her many a stern lecture from
Cora, who would not have a daughter that wiled her life away on such a useless
endeavor as art (though a few of her more successful pieces were still
prominently displayed in the sitting room of their estate). Calla lilies were
the most difficult, with their elegant outer robes and the naked little queen
who peeked from inside, forever on the verge of exposure; roses were relatively
easy in comparison, modest even, with voluminous petticoats to protect their
honor.
This rose was different.
It had been resting beside her head on the pillow this morning. Nothing out of
the ordinary there—she couldn't recall a day in sixteen years when her mother
hadn't kept fresh flowers in the house, although they were usually in a vase
and not tucked into bed with her unannounced like that intruder who had
ransacked the Bhaers' residence last winter and slept in all their beds. But
the moment she lifted it from repose, its stem poker-straight and
almost too green, she had instinctively known this was no average red rose. She
couldn't say why, exactly, other than its abnormal size and vivid hue.
Something in its structure eluded her—stirred her—and made it difficult to look
away. She thought the appropriate word might be sensual.
Sighing lightly, she leafed back through the overturned pages of her art book
and frowned at the smudged renderings, each more inadequate than the next.
Still unable to identify the problem, she continued perusing past several blank
pages until she reached the loose parchments hidden away between the last sheet
and the leather binding. Her heart gave a funny little kick. She should have
burned these drawings the moment they were completed, she knew that. Better
yet, she shouldn't have drawn them at all. But you try watching the new stable
hand pitch hay, his chestnut hair gleaming in the noonday sun and his chiseled
jaw set like stone, and see if you can resist the temptation. You just try it.
Daniel. It was the first word he had ever spoken to her. She called him "boy"
and told him to wipe the sweat from his brow so the sheen wouldn't blind her
(truthfully, she just wanted a better look at his hands; to commit all parts of
him to memory for later reference), and he had gone on thrusting his pitchfork,
lobbing tufts of hay over one shoulder, and said, "Daniel. My name is Daniel."
He ignored her when she repeated the order with his name affixed, but she was
almost certain he had begun hefting larger scoops and sending them aloft with
extra bravado. She sauntered over, tweaked a piece of straw from his hair, her
fingers grazing thick, damp locks, and informed him while walking away that
Rocinante liked extra hay in his stall. Afterwards, the scoundrel made a show
of dabbing his forehead generously with his sleeve and ducking into subservient
posture whenever she approached. And on the day she presented him a frilly
white handkerchief with the letter "R" embroidered in one corner, he threw his
head back and laughed to beat the devil—a big open sound that fascinated
Regina, who had never heard a man, or anyone else for that matter, laugh so
freely. Since then, he posed for her in whichever manner she pleased, and she
had become quite adept at capturing his shape with the nib of her ever-ready
charcoal. Or at least most of him.
"Why have you given me no face?" he asked, a bit perplexed, when she finally
allowed him to thumb through her burgeoning portfolio.
"And spoil my perfectly good sketches?" she replied. Her innocent smile
twitched at the corners as she watched realization dawn on handsome features.
He had rescued her from further explanation by nicking the charcoal from her
hand, as swift as a fox snaring lake trout, and sending her shrieking into the
nearest empty stall, where she found herself cornered while her nose was
blackened to soot. His lips were close enough to kiss when he lowered the
marker, their panting laughter a visible cloud that mingled in the air between
them. Gods, she had come so close. She could still smell his rugged scent, like
saddle leather and wheatgrass and pipe tobacco. The exhilarating, terrifying
moment had passed when she snatched back her charcoal, scrawled a dark line
down the middle of Daniel's face, and fled in a whirlwind of giggles and
crinoline.
Later that evening, long after feigning sleep for her mother's nightly bed
check, she did indeed feed most of her artwork to the flames. But these
few—stashed away in the cuff that overlapped the art book's hard back
cover—these she couldn't part with: a hand casually resting on a jaunty hip;
whiskers, so sparse and baby-fine they almost didn't count as such, on a
vaguely feminine cheekbone; beads of perspiration collecting like morning dew
along a dense hairline.
As her eyes traveled the parchment, gliding over a trouser leg that failed to
disguise the well-toned calf beneath, she absentmindedly stroked the rosebud in
front of her. Its head craned out from the vase she had placed it in, lolling
above the pages as if it too were captivated by the stable boy and all his
delightful symmetry. She smiled at the thought and let her fingers trail down
the thick stem, wondering what it would be like to—
"Ouch!"
Regina jerked her hand away and stared at the bright pearl of blood on her
fingertip. She cast an injured little look at the flower, feeling betrayed. For
just a moment, its thorn (did they normally sparkle so?) seemed to turn up at
her in a fang-sharp grin. Then it was gone, and Regina was left wincing at her
stung middle finger. She brought it to her mouth reflexively, but a second
before it reached her tongue she had an idea. Flipping back to the front of her
book, she selected the rose sketch she was least dissatisfied with and
carefully began swirling the blood into its shaded parchment petals. She used
her fingertip as skillfully as a paintbrush, milking out a few more red drops
when the strokes became faded. She managed to fill in the entire blossom this
way before running dry.
Leaning back in her chair again, she gazed down at her desk in mild
astonishment. On its surface was a near perfect replica of the rose in the
vase, fresh new coat glistening with every bit as much luster as the original.
(Pulsating. Maybe that was the word . . .)
"How curious," she murmured, extending her hand towards the real rose with
slight trepidation, fingers pausing a hairsbreadth from the petals.
"What I find curious, is that you don't appear to be studying at all," said a
still, cool voice.
In the split-second before her rational mind took over, Regina was convinced
the rose had been the one who spoke. And then the very air itself twanged as if
someone had struck a tuning fork next to her ear, making the hair on her arms
and in back of her neck go stiff. She fought to keep her composure, but both
hands quaked badly as she turned to face her mother. Clasping them in her lap,
she said in a high, pinched voice that was meant to sound natural, "Oh, hello,
Mother. I didn't hear you knock."
Because you never do.
Immediately, she banished the thought and dropped her eyes to the floor,
certain her impudence would be detected on sight. To her surprise, Cora's once
spotless white leather boots were coated with rings of dirt at the heel and a
thin, dry line of muck on each side. Odd, since it had rained the previous
afternoon but not this morning. Something about that threadlike trace of soil
frightened Regina more than she could possibly say. But there was no
opportunity to figure out why, because she glanced up to find her mother
standing directly overhead. Cora had moved forward without a sound, as if her
feet never even touched the floor. The air vibrated a second time.
"Perhaps you weren't listening," returned Cora, subtle accusation in her tone.
But she balanced two gloved fingers under her daughter's chin, tilting it
upwards until Regina lifted in the chair, and offered a fond smile. "Head in
the clouds, as usual."
Regina reciprocated the smile with some uncertainty, still trying to determine
her mother's mood before replying. She had learned quite young to adjust her
own behavior to whatever best fit Cora's current state, but lately it had
become increasingly difficult to follow along—whether that was caused by a
shift in her mother's willingness to cooperate or her own, she did not know.
More and more often, Regina fretted about the answer till her stomach ached and
her temples throbbed.
"I suppose," she said guardedly. With her head tipped back so far, she
struggled to swallow. She gulped down too hard, self-conscious of the loud
noise her throat made in the otherwise silent room. Not the most ladylike sound
in the world, to be sure.
Her mother held her chin up a few seconds longer, then released it and cupped
the base of her skull with the same hand. It descended slowly over the flowing
sable waves at Regina's back; moved up again; repeated the motion in long,
continuous strokes. Instead of relaxing into the touch, Regina felt even more
on edge, her eyes fixating on the other hand buried up to the elbow inside
Cora's shawl. She preferred her mother's hands to be visible at all times.
"What is all this?" Cora asked, nodding to the art supplies on the desk.
"Oh, it's . . . it's nothing." Regina had trouble swallowing again. Her heart
seemed to be lodged in her throat, tongue suddenly thicker and cotton-dry.
"Just a bit of nonsense, really. I'll put it away—"
Cora reached over and intercepted the art book as calmly as if she were
removing dinner plates from a vacant table (not that she ever would). The
history tome Regina had swooped up in her clutches landed solidly on the empty
spot a moment too late. She cringed at its heavy, graceless thunk. Deadened,
she thought, inexplicably.
"I'm sorry, Mother." Her words spilled together in an overeager rush as she
watched Cora study the sanguine flower on the front page, tapered thumb pinning
it in place. The rest of her mother's fingers—on that hand—were splayed at the
back cover, leaving impressions in the leather where they curved inward like
silken black talons. "I know I ought to have been reading, but my eyes were
going crossed. I decided to take a short break, and then I got distracted by
the rose you brought me. It's so lovely . . ."
Cora closed the book but kept it clasped tight against her chest with one arm.
She looked down her nose for a moment, treacherously beautiful despite a blank
expression. The curly tendrils of hair framing her face trembled, though not a
draft stirred in the room. "Don't be silly, darling. You needn't apologize. I
think your sketches are wonderful, you know that."
Regina knew no such thing. But she wanted to believe it (surely her mother's
approval had to be more than just a hollow recitation, even if that's how it
sounded?), so she let gratitude wash over her, sweeping suspicion away in the
tide. Her smile warmed considerably. "Thank you," she said, blinking as her
eyes misted without warning. "For the rose as well. How ever did you grow
something so splendid?"
"I have my ways," Cora said, returning the drawings to the desktop. And then,
finally, her other hand emerged from inside the shawl—empty. She gave a
mischievous wiggle of her fingers, tapped her daughter lightly on the end of
the nose, and flourished the opposite hand behind Regina's ear. When it
reappeared, a tiny copper horse stood balanced on the flat of her palm. "How
else would I have ended up with such a splendid young daughter?"
"Oh," Regina breathed, delighted in spite of herself. Sleight of hand was for
gullible children at festivals, and her mother's talent for it could be
particularly unsettling, but it had been an awfully clever trick. It also
didn't hurt that the trinket looked just like Rocinante, if he were the perfect
size for a fairy to saddle. Grinning widely, she reached out, thought better of
it, peered up at her mother with tenuous hope. "For me?"
"Of course." Cora chuckled, offering an affectionate pat on the cheek.
Treasure in hand, Regina dropped her guard completely and threw both arms
around her mother's waist. She was rewarded with another laugh, another caress.
And when they parted from the fierce little hug, her mother bent forward,
cradled her face gently in either palm, and drew her into the softest, sweetest
kiss she had ever tasted. It left her a bit breathless, and she ducked her head
when it ended, hiding her burning cheeks at Cora's midsection. Beneath the
shawl, something solid and bulbous clinked like glass on metal. Regina didn't
notice at first, her attention on the copper horse and her mother's
intoxicating perfume. Cora mixed the fragrance herself with extracts from her
own garden. Many of the ingredients were easy to recognize, such as the olive
oil and lavender. There was even a faint woodsy aroma that conjured images of
swaying boughs and endless verdancy. But underneath it all lay a mildly
unpleasant smell Regina had never been able to identify. Dark, winged,
scavenging. It reminded her of . . . of . . . ?
"And now, dear heart, I need something from you." As Cora spoke, she produced
another item from inside her shawl with the same cunning as the first.
Just before looking up, Regina had a premonition so strong it made her scalp
tingle: whatever that clinking noise had been, she wasn't going to like it.
She was right.
Cora held up the glass vial by its slender neck, switching the spherical bottom
to and fro like a pendulum. At least this one was fairly small. The bigger ones
frightened Regina most, her imagination about what they fitted running away
with her. For as long as she could recall, her mother had been collecting
pieces of her and storing them in those vials, to be used as bases in potion
making. (Once and only once, she had ventured a peek into Cora's spellbook and
seen the word "virgin" featured even more predominantly than in Realms and
Religions.) There was an entire wall of shelves in the vault below the
fireplace devoted just to her: baby teeth that resembled kernels of white
hominy and rattled like the toy they had cut on, even when you didn't shake
them; curlicues of fine black hair held together by string—some with the roots
still attached, some not; flaky, mottled skin peeled whole from long-forgotten
wounds—some accidental, some not; a shriveled reddish-brown cord which lay
coiled at the bottom of its container like an ancient dead snake.
Most of the time it didn't hurt. Finger and toenails were the easiest and most
common contribution, and she didn't mind those much, as long as she controlled
the clippers. But once, while Regina's cheeks were bulging with the strawberry
tart that had been a birthday surprise, her mother had leaned across the dinner
table without a word and pulled an eyelash straight from the lid. Regina spent
the first few days of her seventh year wiping a persistent leak at the corner
of her garishly inflamed eye. And then there had been the time Cora brought her
the largest flask yet, in place of a chamber pot. That had been more
humiliating than painful, although the distinction between the two was slim, if
you asked Regina. There were other times, other bodily fluids, but the memories
were buried deep and she didn't care to unearth them.
Sometimes she awoke to a strong scent lingering in her room, a sickly sweet
lavender and lush and underneath-it-all smell (carrion?), and she knew for
certain her mother had paid another visit. Stolen another part of her,
collected another tithe. One day all that remained of Regina would be what was
enshrined in the vault beneath her feet.
And suddenly, she knew exactly what the other smell was—Death. Or at least the
harbinger of it. Cora had the ability to communicate with ravens; it stood to
reason she would carry a bit of their essence around with her. Yes . . . and if
Cora was the raven, did that not make Regina the decayed and bloating corpse
she intended to pick clean? Certainly it must.
"What is it you wish from me this time, Mother?" Regina asked, trying to sound
braver than she felt. She kept her shoulders squared, but leaned away from the
vial until her back collided with the desk. "My tears? My blood?"
"Oh, nothing as extravagant as that." A flash in Cora's eyes belied her light
tone. Her smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I assure you, it won't be
painful. In fact, quite the opposite."
Regina's stomach turned as she gazed up into the merciless face above, unable
to pry her eyes from that hard little line between red, red lips. The
connotation in the words they had spoken made her feel like she might be sick.
Forgetting herself entirely, she began to gnaw at her thumbnail, working to
tear off a sliver she could grind with her back teeth. It was a deplorable
habit she had acquired somewhere in childhood and couldn't seem to break, no
matter how many slaps she received on the hand. Funny how it only appeared in
her mother's presence.
The bitter charcoal taste that flooded her mouth was oddly soothing. It took
her mind off the other sensations pressing up against the membrane of her
consciousness, struggling to be birthed into fully realized, undeniable
thought. She managed to loosen some skin before having her hand swatted away.
She held the tiny fleck defiantly on her tongue for a moment, then swallowed it
down where even her mother couldn't get at it. "I'm in no mood," she said,
tossing out one of Cora's favorite phrases on impulse. Her heart pounded
erratically as she turned to face her desk, but she kept a steady posture and
tone. "Now, if you'll please leave me, I should get back to my studies."
When she reached for her art book, fingers itching to hide it from view, her
mother's hand shot forward and separated the covers without touching them. A
purple gust fanned through the pages, bypassing the roses and every blank sheet
thereafter. Regina held her breath as the last overturned with a slow and
agonizing crinkle, drifting into place atop the rest. And that, dear boy, is
why I've given you no face, she thought, casting a doleful look at the sketch
of Daniel now on open display. It was the one she had been musing over when the
thorn pricked her finger—the stable boy's frame from the shoulders down,
exuding easy confidence and grace as he leaned against her apple tree. Nothing
too telling or sordid, other than the artist's obvious appreciation for a fine
physique. She doubted her mother would recognize the build or the modest
clothes it wore (Cora cared only for the trappings of nobility). Still, she let
her breath out in a heavy whoosh, shoulders sagging in defeat.
"And is this what you call studying?" Cora asked, stabbing a finger to the
parchment.
"How did you—" Regina stopped herself from finishing the foolish question. It
was never a matter of how with her mother, it was why and when. Why profess to
love Regina one minute, then treat her so harshly the next? When would it ever
end? She bit into her tongue until she tasted blood, holding the questions
inside as she always had. As she probably always would.
"I've told you already, dear, I have my ways." With a small gesture, Cora
beckoned to the rose in the vase. It materialized in her waiting palm, obedient
as a trained pet. She brought the blossom to her nose, a tender expression on
her face as it lingered there, infusing her creamy complexion with a pinkish
glow. She trailed it lower to rest against the curve of her neck. Head tilted
just so, it appeared as if she were listening while the rose whispered secrets
in her ear. But she must not have liked what she heard; a moment later, her
features hardened to stone and she suddenly whapped the rose down on the
parchment. "Who is this? Tell me."
Regina glared at the flower, wanting to rip it apart petal by petal. Now she
understood what made it so alluring: an enchantment of some sort. The damn
thing had been spying on her this entire time! It didn't surprise her, not
really and truly. She often got the sense she was being watched whenever she
set foot into her mother's garden. Sometimes the ground itself seemed to cling
to her, as if it wanted to absorb her into the soil like summer rain.
Blessedly, she had never taken Daniel there. And she wasn't given to girlish
tendencies such as gossiping with nature about the boys she liked. No, she
thought with a twinge of savage glee, it wasn't possible for those traitorous
little fiends to tell all her secrets. She had some ways of her own too.
"I have no idea what you mean," she said.
"Don't you lie to me—"
"I'm not lying." Regina schooled her expression into wide-eyed innocence. "It's
just that I can't possibly explain who that is, because it isn't anyone. I made
him up. He's nothing more than a fanciful notion."
Cora's eyes narrowed, boring into Regina with a shrewdness that left her
feeling exposed. "There is nothing more dangerous than a foolish girl and her
fanciful notions. And I've sacrificed far too much to stand by and let you ruin
yourself with this one." Cora stepped back, heels clicking briskly against the
stone flooring. She used the rose to indicate the space in front of her, like a
headmistress brandishing a pointer. "On your feet."
"What?" Regina blinked, disbelieving. "Ruin myself? That's absurd. I haven't
even— I've never—" She lifted her hands in dismay, uncertain how to elaborate.
She had grown uncomfortably warm. Heat prickled at the skin beneath her dress,
crept up her neck, spilled into her cheeks.
(Those memories were straining to get out again:
When she was a little girl, she had once watched a group of gypsy children
playing hide and seek in the billowing fabric hanging on their mother's
clothesline. She had longed to join in, but of course been forbidden. Now, her
thoughts—the ones too awful to be given form—were playing the same elusive
game, their silhouettes looming just beyond the veil, daring her to find them .
. .)
"And this will ensure that you don't," Cora said, clasping the vial so tightly
in her fist it was a wonder it didn't crack. She hadn't stopped pointing that
damn rose. "Up."
"Mother, I will not!" Regina stamped her foot under the desk for emphasis, no
longer caring how childish she might seem. Her breathing had gone ragged, chest
heaving. She could feel the veil being drawn aside, dark shadows seeping around
the corner, a black, sucking oil pouring into her soul.
"On your feet, girl," Cora demanded. She thrust forth her hand—rose and all—a
violet aura crackling in the air around it. The magic flowed out of her palm
and slithered toward Regina with frightening speed, wrapping itself around her
in a thick, ropey coil. She tried grabbing onto the sides of her desk, but came
away with only splinters as she was tugged upright so violently her chair
turned over backwards. Her body railed against the force invading it, to no
avail. It was like being gutted and led around by handfuls of your own
intestines. Luckily, her mother had it down to an art, and with another rough
jerk that flipped Regina's insides and set her senses whirling, they were face
to face. An abrupt release snapped her teeth together and threw her balance off
kilter as both feet hit the floor.
"There, now." Cora put out a steadying hand, the other still shimmering purple.
The color of royalty. "Be a good girl and remove your dress. Or shall I do it
for you?"
Regina struggled to make sense of the command, mind reeling as she gradually
regained control over her quivering limbs. She teetered for a moment, eyes
locking on the chamber door. Fleeing would be useless, but perhaps if she
shouted for her father . . . . No. He couldn't help her. The most he had ever
done was leave the room to afford her some privacy for these degradations. He
loved her, she knew that. But he loved his own wellbeing more. Standing there
with Cora's impassive face inches from hers, godlike in its cool indifference
to suffering, she couldn't really blame him.
"I'll do it myself," she whispered, hating how small and terrified her voice
sounded. It proved to be as foolhardy a claim as all the rest she had made in
the past few minutes. Her fingers fumbled at the ruched satin alongside her
bodice, unable to separate buttons from holes. She glanced pleadingly at her
mother, who was more than happy to oblige. To Regina's surprise (or perhaps not
so surprising at all), Cora tucked the vial back inside her shawl and undid the
buttons one at time with her fingers, instead of relying on magic. Her eyes,
brown and depthless as garden soil, stayed focused on Regina's while she
worked. Her hands were perpetually cold, despite the gloves she always wore.
Regina could feel them like chunks of winter ice against her torso, even before
the first layer of clothing fell away.
And with each subsequent layer that was stripped from her body, the memories
returned in equally piecemeal fashion: a roving touch, frigid even beneath the
warm bath water, exploring her in places she had never thought to explore
herself; petal-shaped stains on a thigh or inner wrist or collarbone, left
there by red, red lips; the give of a featherbed when lavender-scented weight
slipped beneath the covers; her mother's gaze fixated on her with open hunger,
just like now.
She watched the delicate chemise as it slid from her shoulders and pooled at
her ankles, mind and body bared in their entirety, and somehow felt more whole
than she had moments ago. They might not be right, they might not be sane, but
the memories were a thing that belonged to her. Stolen pieces she had
reclaimed. And maybe that was victory enough. Taking the hand offered her, she
discarded her slippers and stepped from the pile of garments with a regal air.
Even barefoot, she was almost taller than her mother.
An approving smile graced Cora's lips as she circled Regina at a leisurely
pace. Her boots gave a smart little tap with every step. "Lovely," she
murmured, twirling the rose by its stem between her thumb and forefinger.
"Absolutely lovely." She paused to graze the blossom along the back of one
thigh, petals ghosting over flesh and leaving goose bumps in their wake.
Regina fought hard to maintain control, but the rose's enchantment was stronger
than she had realized. The moment it made contact with her skin, she became
hyperaware of every sensation, her body suddenly alive and teeming.
(Pulsating.) She felt as sensitive as a raw nerve, but it wasn't pain that
coursed through her, igniting the blood in her veins and thrumming in time with
her heartbeat. No, not pain at all. It should have been shameful, she knew,
that delicious thrill in her belly when the rose came down on her backside like
a riding crop; she just couldn't bring herself to care, nor even to flinch away
in disgust. She caught sight of her mother's reflection in the large looking-
glass by the bed, and wanted nothing more than to see its heated expression
trained directly on her. Every previous ounce of rebellion had been replaced by
the intense need for satisfaction—whether given or received.
When the rose glided up her relaxed spine, she immediately tightened her
stomach and threw back her shoulders. Then she shook out her dark locks,
letting them cascade behind her in a show of pure vanity. According to Regina's
friends, her hair was her best feature. She sometimes noticed Cora staring at
it with an odd look that might actually pass for admiration. Indeed, it now
earned her an appreciative hum, which came from deep within her mother's throat
and vibrated in Regina's eardrums until she shivered. The clack of heels
against stone was getting to be too much, making her squirm where she stood.
Each one sent a tiny jolt of pleasure straight to her groin.
"My, so impatient," Cora said with a light laugh. But she sidled around to face
Regina, trailing the flower from hip to hip, along a stretch of abdomen, and
doubling back in a loop to the overlooked belly button. She dusted into the
shallow dip as if collecting powder with a rouge brush, and grinned widely at
the sharp gasp it elicited. Focusing the enchanted bud on that area for a
while, she continued drawing slow and maddening circles.
"Mother," was all Regina managed to rasp out, the plea dying on her lips as the
petals curved upwards in a steep arc, tracing idle patterns across her breasts.
Her nipples, unbearably taut and so pronounced she normally would have covered
them in embarrassment, received a single butterfly stroke apiece. The ache that
filled her chest nearly crumpled her to the floor. She released a soft moan, a
low and wanton sound she had never heard herself make before, and gripped her
mother's icy wrist in both hands, knees threatening to give at any moment.
Sweeping through the valley between Regina's breasts, the rose tracked its way
to the base of her throat, swirling against the little notch there, and on up
to rest beneath her chin. Its fragrant breath mingled with Cora's as she leaned
in, warm mouth a stark contrast to chill skin, and whispered, "Are you ready,
sweet girl?"
Regina whimpered something incoherent, and nodded. Nothing existed beyond this
bedchamber, this exact time and space with a body of flame and frost pressed
against hers—no lurking garden that waited to consume virgin flesh, no father
who turned a blind eye, and certainly no stable boy. Only this.
"First, answer me true," Cora said, her voice an indistinct purr as she dotted
kisses to Regina's neck. Afterwards, there would be an entire chain of them,
like a ruby-red choker worn tight against the skin. She was careful not to
leave any marks that couldn't be washed away, but gave into temptation the very
next second and nipped gently at a delicate earlobe. Cora Mills was never one
to deny herself a tender morsel. "Whose are you?"
"Yours," Regina said automatically. No thought in advance, as natural as
breathing.
(Yours . . . yours . . . gods above, yours . . .)
Cora rewarded her with another throaty hum of agreement, tickling Regina's
inner ear and every other part of her, and slipped off one long black glove. It
landed in an inky puddle next to Regina's feet. Never in sixteen years had she
seen her mother intentionally discard a glove on the floor. Her breath caught
with an audible click, her entire body buzzing in anticipation. No, lust—that
was the word. She had lost track of the rose at some point, but it didn't
matter anymore: her mother's palm was splayed against her lower abdomen, its
coldness penetrating her blazing skin. She cried out in protest and then, as
Cora's fingers found the silky warmth pooling between her legs, in pleasure.
For a moment, she worried her mother might take what she needed and go; but it
was a fleeting concern, half-realized and soon forgotten in a matter of a few
steady strokes. If her heightened senses during the rose's odyssey had been
powerful, they were nothing compared to what she felt from this touch. She
opened her mouth to encourage, to beg, but couldn't form the words for either.
Her eyes kept drifting out of focus, colorful flashes exploding behind her
vision (they weren't exactly flashes though, were they? More like endless
lavender fields; acres of blue-violet spruce; yards of the finest purple
velvet, fit for a queen . . .), so she shut them and concentrated on feeling,
alone.
Cora was inside her now, fingers as adept at their current task as they were at
mixing potions. They measured Regina out, ground her down to size, let her
simmer awhile. There was little else she could do but drop her head onto Cora's
shoulder, lost in the gentle, maternal sounds of the voice that called her "my
sweet girl" over and over. She still had hold of her mother's wrist, using it
for support, legs trembling like a newborn calf. She managed to stay upright a
few moments more, until the firm, circular motion of her mother's thumb sent
her barreling to the edge.
An arm went around her waist, catching her just as both knees buckled. Dimly,
she realized the rose petals must have been torn away from her skin during the
fall—she could no longer hear the blood rushing in her veins, nor taste Cora's
nectary words on her own tongue. But the other stimulation, the one that didn't
owe its strength to any magical properties, had yet to lose its effect. Regina
rolled her hips, drawing out the climax for as long as she could, and the fact
that she wasn't denied that last bit of indulgence made it all the more
euphoric. She felt herself being eased to the floor, light as a feather ebbing
on the breeze, and her heart swelled with overwhelming gratitude. How much her
mother must love her, to be so generous, to share such intimacy. Surely no
other daughter had ever been cherished more.
She let go when Cora's wrist rotated in her grip, instead clutching at fistfuls
of the satin skirt she knelt before with all the conviction of a penitent.
Resting her cheek against her mother's thigh, panting softly through parted
lips, she waited. Waited for the caressing hand in her hair, the pet names
meant for her ears only; waited for her chin to be lifted, a ruby kiss bestowed
(not even her father was granted many of those). When none of it happened, she
gazed up through blurry vision and blinked away the tears she hadn't known
where there until now.
Cora held the vial in the same hand as the rose. With the other, she wiped her
slickened fingers across its glass mouth, gathering every last drop of arousal
on the brim. She watched its progress intently, never taking her eyes off the
bottle's slender gullet until it was sufficiently coated in clear, musky fluid.
And when she did look down, she seemed to have forgotten her daughter had been
there the whole time. She studied Regina for a moment, taking in the flush
complexion, the pert breasts still heaving from exertion, the thatch of wiry
pubic hair, and said in an impassive tone, "Fetch me my glove, won't you,
dear?"
Dazed, Regina patted the floor blindly at first, then finally had to glance
around to find the glove. She handed it over without a word, feeling dumb as a
mute. Perhaps if she didn't speak, the spell would not be broken. Perhaps that
warmth would return to her mother's voice . . .
"Look at this mess." Cora tsked her tongue as she accepted the glove and caught
Regina's hand in mid-retreat. She turned it over to examine the charcoal
smudges on each finger and black crescents below each nail. The middle one
still had a thin dash of blood trapped beneath the surface, like an interrupted
sentence. "Disgraceful. Really, Regina, you are a well-bred young woman, not a
vagabond peddling her wares." She suspended the offensive paw out in front of
her, then released it with a disgusted sigh and stepped over the deflated dress
underfoot. "Clean yourself up," she said, and made a brief gesture to the
writing desk, "along with the rest of this nonsense. And don't let me ever find
you neglecting your studies again.
"In fact . . ." She paused halfway out the chamber door and slit her eyes at
Regina, as if she were a magistrate determining what to do with a hopeless
miscreant. "I think it best you remain here for the evening. No supper unless
you've completed your assignments."
And with that, she swept out of the room, in possession of rose, glove, and
another trophy for her wall. Regina didn't have to see the binding spell
performed to know the door had sealed upon exit (although the violet mist that
sneezed from the hinges was a fair indicator). She stared at its blank oaken
surface for such a long time it became distorted and meaningless. Not a solid
object at all, but a gray void like the world outside and Regina inside. Her
toes had gone numb from sitting on her heels—she had knelt to that woman—but it
was the wetness leaking onto the soles of her feet that finally made movement a
necessity. She shifted onto her bare bottom and took inventory of her
surroundings. Her blue dress, once favored for its robin's egg hue, lay in the
middle of the floor, its skirt mushrooming around the heap of plain white
undergarments. The copper horse rested on its side next to the desk where she
must have dropped it when Cora yanked her from the chair. Her art book was
still open to the faceless sketch of Daniel, his broad shoulders slanted
against the trunk of her apple tree. The vase stood empty a few inches away.
Cursed mementos of a cursed existence.
She picked herself up slowly, laboriously, fingernails scritching on the stone
tiling. One day they'll be in a jar anyway, she thought, gazing down at the
frayed tips while propped on all fours. Right next to my— With a mighty shove,
she forced herself upright and listed dangerously to and fro before finding her
balance. An unfortunate side effect of having pure magic pumped into your
system, that. Sometimes she woke up the morning after one of Cora's nighttime
visits and staggered out of bed like a drunkard. (But how was it possible to
only just remember such a thing? How could a memory that didn't exist an hour
ago now be more vivid than the gray void of her bedchamber?)
Hollow-eyed and unblinking, she set about tidying up her clothes. She
considered burning them, but Cora would notice if any garments went missing, so
she hung her dress in the wardrobe and wadded the underthings in a drawer where
she wouldn't have to see them until they had been laundered. Securing her hair
with a ribbon, she wiped the lip stain off her neck and ran a cloth between her
legs at the washbasin. She would tend to her filthy hands later, once she had
put away the charcoal and sketches. After donning her simplest brown frock, its
one redeeming quality a pretty crosshatching of laces up the front, she went
over to retrieve the copper horse with which she had been bought.
"Foolish girls and fanciful notions," she said to the creature, offering it a
faint little smile. "Mother's love and heart's devotion . . ."
Something about the weight of the figurine in her hand, or maybe the weight of
the rhyme she had conjured, snapped Regina in two. But she wouldn't cry. Oh no,
she would not do that. Instead, she grabbed the charcoal stick from its notch
inside the art book and began to scribble out a single word on the parchment
pages, a word she wanted to scream at her barricaded door until it blasted off
the hinges. A word she wanted to bellow into the vault under the fireplace
until every vial shattered in a hailstorm of glass and thundering heartbeats. A
word—nay, a curse, a damnation—she wanted to throw her chamber windows wide and
shout out for all the cold gray world to hear. Maybe they would come with
torches and axes and raze this whole godforsaken prison to the ground, with her
inside it. That was just fine, as long as they got that serpent in the vault
while they were at it.
She worked like one possessed, scratching out the word in thick dark lines from
front to back on every page, including the rose sketches and her handsome
stable boy. When she ran out of room in the book, she darted over to the
looking-glass, which was too pristine to resist, and began scrawling in huge
capital letters across its pane. She would have started in on the walls next if
she hadn't looked down to an empty hand, the charcoal now nothing more than a
layer of soot on her palm. Reaching for a clear spot overhead, she used the
residue to smear out her missive one final time on the mirror.
Breath coming in harsh, hitching gasps, she stood back to observe the silent
screams she had brought to life in ugly bold black, the color of Cora's heart:
WITCH
When she caught a glimpse of the broken child reflected back at her, she raised
its toy horse high into the air, swung her arm in a brutal arc, and smashed the
dirty glass. She smashed that little girl to pieces.
                                     xXxXx
Cora practically clapped her hands together in delight as she watched the
liquid-filled vial begin to bubble and change color. Each ingredient was
translucent on its own, but bonded together by magic they were turning a frail
shade of blue. Suddenly, the whole potion seemed to doubt itself and blushed
pinker than bonnet lace. And after a glorious fizzling that permeated the vault
with a somewhat familiar scent (lilac, was it?), it finally settled on vibrant
topaz. Most unusual.
Then again, nothing about her encounter with Regina had gone quite according to
plan. Cora had known she would emerge with the substance now percolating in the
vial, one way or another—she just hadn't foreseen its method of retrieval. The
rose's enchantment was more powerful than she could have hoped. Seduction
spells frequently called for blood, as did many of the others in her book, but
seldom did it behave as such an aphrodisiac. She was almost certain she had
seen the rose petals glow crimson when they first brushed against Regina's
skin. It had been so tempting to remove her gloves right then and hold the stem
in her bare hands, just to get a taste of what her daughter was experiencing,
but it wouldn't do to lose herself in the moment.
Still . . .
The sight of olive-toned flesh, so ripe and vulnerable; the sweet young curves
of womanhood, still girlishly dimpled in places; the deep and luxuriant moans
that were anything but childlike . . . it had been impossible for Cora's own
body not to react. Her undergarments were soaked through in a way they had not
been since her days as Rumplestiltskin's apprentice, his lean and agile frame
forked snugly behind her at the spinning wheel.
Of course she didn't relish these sessions with her daughter as she had with
her master. She preferred Regina as chaste as any sixteen-year-old girl could
be. But sixteen-year-old girls also provided some of the most potent serums to
be found. Evidence of that was catalogued on the nearest wall in row upon row
of glittering glass. Typically she allowed Regina the option of bottling items
herself—the girl had come of age, and it only seemed fair. But guidance was
sometimes required for the more delicate extractions, the ones Regina tended to
balk at most, and that made her receptiveness this time, her eager pliancy
beneath Cora's hand, all the more surprising. And all the more worrisome.
The potion would remedy that. A few drops during afternoon tea tomorrow, or
perhaps delivered this evening via good-night kiss, and any predicament
Regina's eagerness might get her into would be ended before it began. No woman
ever became queen with a bastard child on her hip, after all. When the time was
right (preferably her daughter's wedding night), Cora would lift the curse and
welcome each and every grandchild with open arms. Likewise, no woman was a
successful queen who did not bear her husband at least one heir to his throne.
Tomorrow, she decided, after some thought. Best to give the girl sufficient
time to recover from one dosage of magic before administering a potion, on top
of a mind-altering spell. Sifting through memories and deciding which to keep
and which to discard was an intricate process. Practiced too often, the spell
weakened and became hazardous to the recipient. Cora would have given it up
years ago if her daughter didn't become so unmanageable without it. Even now,
despite being warned not to, Regina was dillydallying with that art book of
hers. Cora watched in the silver-plated hand mirror she had charmed—along with
the looking-glass that was a gift for Regina's thirteenth birthday—to serve as
a window into the upstairs bedchamber. As the girl viciously scrubbed at one
page after the other, Cora sighed and shook her head. Sometimes she honestly
did fear for her daughter's sanity.
"If she just learned to harness some of that emotion . . ." She looked down at
the rose cradled against her like an infant, its blossom tucked in the crook of
her elbow, stem crossing over her lap. Absently, she used her gloveless fingers
to fondle the petals. They still gave off heat. "Think of what she could
accomplish. Think of the power."
The rose said nothing, but Cora felt the accusation in its silence. Scowling,
she pierced its blood red heart with her thumb and forefinger and plucked out
one of the petals with a soft snap. She would not be judged by her own
creation. Everything she did was in her daughter's best interest, which was
more than anyone had ever done for Cora at that age. Her tactics were unsavory,
perhaps, but someday Regina would understand and be grateful. As for now . . .
Cora rubbed the petal between her fingertips and gazed into the mirror, where
Regina had unknowingly turned to face her. The child looked half mad, pupils
blown so wide they engulfed the brown irises of her tearless eyes. The pretty
mane had been pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing already striking
features. That drab little gown, better suited to an asylum inmate than a
future queen, heightened her beauty even more. She quivered like piano wire
strung too tight as she stood there mouthing something—Cora squinted, not quite
able to make it out—and defacing her looking-glass with that damned piece of
charcoal.
Well . . . as for now, Cora no longer doubted who held her daughter's heart in
hand. Nothing but true love inspired that much passion.
"Temper, temper, darling," she said lightly, lovingly, when Regina reared back
and drove a fist into the glass with startling force, terminating their
connection. Left staring at her own reflection in the hand mirror, Cora trailed
the lone rose petal across smiling lips. If she closed her eyes, she could
still smell Regina on its velvety skin, a brewing storm on the horizon.
                                     xXxXx
The fact that the dirt was bleeding seemed logical. Hearts went on beating
underground and gardens devoured souls with teeth as sharp as thorns. Rivers of
blood beneath the soil were one of the least unnerving discoveries Regina had
made all day. But when she finished packing the loose clumps of earth into
place and slumped back heavily against the tree trunk, she realized the scarlet
flow had oozed from her own two palms.
It wasn't any wonder. After shattering her mirror with the copper horse, she
had gone on thrashing it, bare-knuckled, until not a single piece remained in
the frame. Then she had gathered the shards in a pillowcase—also by hand,
pressing the grit-sized flecks into the pads of her fingers when pinching them
up didn't work—and risked life and limb descending the wall outside her chamber
window on a ladder of bed sheets she kept for just such an occasion. She had
known instinctually that burying her kill was the next step, and so spent half
an hour or more digging a hole beneath her apple tree, clawing and paddling
into the dirt like a dog with a dead rabbit in its mouth. Now, her hands and
fingernails were caked in so much greasy red mud she could barely see the deep
gashes underneath. At least they didn't hurt . . . yet.
Hellbent on proving her wrong, searing pain radiated from both hands and up the
length of her arms when she tried to ball her fists. She gave a small cry and
held them open and away from her body, hunching over in agony. And here she was
again, groveling on her knees where she belonged.
Nuzzling into the cool grass, she rested her forearms on the ground beside her
head, dirty appendages throbbing as they lay upturned in a supplicant pose.
When the first dry sob escaped, there was no turning back. She wept until her
eyes and throat were raw, until her chest ached for air then choked her with
it; she wept tears of bitter defeat, feeling each more sharply than the glass
she had buried. Cora had won. Cora always won.
By the time Regina sensed him standing over her, it was too late for
pretending. She had known he would find out how pitifully broken she was sooner
or later—she had been hoping for later.
"Regina? Are you all—"
She sat up perfectly straight, chin at a steep angle, and tossed her long
ponytail. The queen on her throne. She must have looked as feral outside as she
felt inside. Daniel froze with his palm outstretched, his concerned expression
shifting to wide-eyed horror when he took in her appearance.
"Dear gods," he said, barely above a whisper. "What's happened to you?"
"That's none of your concern, boy," she replied, spitting out the nickname as
if it were poison. Sometimes she still called him that just to hear him laugh
or, if she spoke it fondly enough, to watch his ruddy cheeks grow even ruddier.
This time she wanted it to sting. "Go away and leave me be."
"But you're hurt." He took a cautious step forward, arms spread in a non-
threatening gesture, the same way Regina had seen him approach skittish horses.
Stooping beside her on one knee, he gazed her over with troubled blue eyes and
furrowed brow. "Let me help you."
When Daniel reached for her face, tentative fingers nearing her mouth, she
shrank back and said, "What are you doing? Don't touch me!" Forgetting her
injuries, she batted his hand away, then cringed and sucked air between her
clenched teeth with a loud hiss. Gingerly, she lowered the backs of her hands
against her lap, knuckles curled loosely into a nest of skirt, and glowered up
at him in accusation.
"Your lip. It's bleeding. I'm sorry, I just wanted to . . . I shouldn't have .
. ." His voice trailed off as he glanced into Regina's lap, a grim cloud
passing over his features and darkening his eyes to piercing sapphire. "Gods.
How did this happen?" he repeated in a low tone, leaning in as if he suspected
the apple tree of eavesdropping on them.
Regina dabbed her tongue experimentally along the ridge of her bottom lip,
grimacing at the bloody glaze she found there, warm and syrup-thick. So that
was the awful taste in her mouth. Prodding at her top lip, she winced as her
tongue landed on the source: a thin slice in the right corner, starting just
below her nostril (vaguely, she recalled a scythelike sliver leaping out at her
as she pummeled the looking-glass). It was shallow enough that it hadn't broken
through to the other side, yet gushed fluid that seeped into her throat,
burbling up when she exhaled. She turned and spat into the grass. No sense
behaving like a lady when she probably closer resembled a ghoul who had been
feasting on fresh entrails. The blood beneath her chin and down her neck had
formed a crust, pulling at the skin when she turned her head; she noted without
much disappointment that it covered the front of her dress as well. Pressing
her sleeve to the wound, she gave a resigned sigh and muttered, "I broke my
mirror."
(seven years bad luck)
Daniel waited for further explanation, and when none was offered, he nodded
like he understood. "You shouldn't be out here alone. It will be dark soon and
those cuts need to be dressed. Come, let's get you inside where it's warm."
"I can't." Regina shook her head, but this time she didn't tug away from the
light grip at her elbow. Daniel's hands were always so gentle, despite a few
calluses and the physical strength she had seen him display—readily, and
wearing a rakish grin—on numerous occasions. She sometimes caught herself
wondering, with fluttering belly and rosy cheeks, what it would be like to feel
that work-roughened skin against hers, to be held in arms that seemed capable
of keeping any monster at bay.
She looked down at the stable boy's big and sturdy hand curled around her
elbow, caught a glimpse of the dirt embedded under his fingernails, and burst
into tears.
"I can't go back in there, Daniel!" she said shrilly. And again, once she got
started she couldn't stop: "She'll punish me. She already— She made me— I
wasn't supposed to leave my room. If she finds out I climbed down here, there's
no telling what she'll do. She's wicked."
"Your mother?" Daniel asked softly, though he didn't sound surprised.
"Cora," Regina growled.
"What of your father? Is there nothing he can—"
"My father?" Regina let out a cruel little laugh. She heard the edge of
hysteria in her own voice and knew she would regret the words that followed,
but no longer cared. Today was a day of burials and exhumations, of lying
kisses and killing truths. What was one more body for the pile?
"My father is a sheep, but with half the intellect and none of the fortitude.
He will do whatever she asks of him. If she demanded my head on a plate by
suppertime, he would be inside polishing her knife and fork as we speak."
Daniel remained silent for a very, very long time. Finally, Regina peered at
him sidelong to be sure he was still there, and not some figment of her
imagination (her mind had been playing tricks on her for some time, it seemed).
She expected to see him looking appalled by her hateful remarks about her
parents. Instead, he was watching her with such sorrow, such sympathy for her
plight, she thought he might begin to cry too. The idea made her stop and stare
in wonder—and confusion. No one had ever cried on her behalf before.
"Have you no one else to turn to?" he asked, and swallowed thickly.
"I have none but you." Regina hadn't realized how true the statement was until
she spoke it out loud. She exhaled heavily, feeling a crushing weight lift from
her chest, and when Daniel's arm went around her, it was as though she had
always belonged there, head on his shoulder, his chin resting in her hair. She
could feel his heartbeat—a steady, powerful thrum—in the pulse at his throat,
and longed to press her lips to it. One day, perhaps she would; but for now,
she was content to be in this embrace, where a heartbeat sounded like sanctuary
and not a thousand lost souls.
A few moments later, Daniel asked, "May I?" and held up a small white cloth.
Upon closer inspection, Regina saw that it was the handkerchief she had given
him for his brow—her initial embroidered in the corner. It hadn't been used. In
fact, it looked cleaner and smelled better than it had on the day she gave it
to him.
She nodded, but lowered her face when the hanky approached. Daniel nudged her
chin up gently with a bent finger, his thumb fitting into the groove beneath
her bottom lip. With equal tenderness, he used the kerchief to dry her tear-
stained cheeks, smoothing the cloth along them as if they were made of the
finest crystal. He held it to her nose while she blew, then folded it over and
daubed the opposite side to her sore lip. His eyes flickered to hers, found her
intent gaze upon him, and darted away just as quickly.
"This may scar. I think it needs stitching," he said, clearing his throat
softly. He withdrew the kerchief, tucking it away in his pocket when Regina
glanced at the gaudy stains on its once snow white surface, and took up the
edge of his cloak to resume swabbing her neck and chin. "I can't do that
myself, but I have a salve that should ease the pain."
Regina opened her mouth to decline. Cora had always tended to wounds with
magic, even the ones inflicted on purpose, as long as it served her to do so;
and it simply would not be acceptable for any daughter of Cora Mills' to go
through life disfigured. But Regina didn't even want to speak that name, so she
kept it to herself and tilted her head quizzically at Daniel, whose cheeks were
coloring. "What is it?"
"The salve . . ." He flushed brighter, ducking his head boyishly. "It's for
horses."
Regina's laugh was cut short by her smarting lip. She opted for a stiff and
slightly crooked smile. "I don't mind," she said.
Grinning, Daniel got to his feet and started to help her up as well, careful of
her mistreated hands. "I have some in my quarters. Not a far piece—" He glanced
down in surprise when she wriggled from his grasp, planting both of her knees
firmly back on the ground. Had she been capable, she would have sunk her
fingers deep into the earth and clung tight.
How to explain to him that she couldn't leave this spot; that she had taken up
root here just as securely as the apple tree behind them; that if she had to
spend one more minute alone in a room with someone, even someone she trusted
never to do her harm, her lungs would fill up with soil until she suffocated
from within?
Her tongue was wooden and useless in her mouth.
"Why don't I go fetch it and bring it back here?" Daniel offered, tone wary as
he eyed the soft purple twilight overhead. (He was right to be concerned by
such a sly color.) "I won't be long."
Regina gave him another lopsided but grateful smile, and nodded. A second
later, he had shrugged off his cloak and—before she had time to make a weak and
obligatory protest they both knew she didn't really mean—draped it lightly
around her shoulders. His warmth settled into her, spreading right down to the
bone, until she wanted to curl up like a housecat on a sunny windowsill. She
might have done just that if he weren't still standing over her, hand lingering
near her hair.
"Thank you," she said, wanting to feel his fingers comb through the loose
strands by her ear, praying they wouldn't.
Daniel eased his hand away and tipped his head. "M'lady."
And then Regina knew she loved him.
As he headed for the stables, clearing the meadow with long, loping strides,
she huddled deeper into his cloak and breathed in his scent. She bunched the
woolen fabric under her nose, not giving a tinker's damn about its threadbare
condition, and buried her face in it, immersed in him and only him. By the time
he returned, no more than ten or fifteen minutes later, she had almost rid
herself entirely of that death and lavender smell . . . . Almost.
Daniel set to work with the same diligence he practiced in the stables. First,
he placed the water bucket next to the tree, where it wouldn't tip over; then
he ducked out of the satchel strap across his chest and began removing items
from inside the bag, lining them up in the grass beside Regina: a pair of
tweezers, a small tin that presumably held the salve, several long strips of
linen wadded into a ball, and a few extra squares of clean cloth. From the
latter pile, he peeled two cloths off the top, dunked and wrung them out in the
bucket, and with a nod of assent from Regina, wiped at the blood he hadn't
managed to get off her face and neck by kerchief or cloak. He hesitated at her
lip, but the worst of it was not being able to meet his eye when she bared her
throat. She half expected him to find a ruby-red choker branded onto her skin,
a reminder of to whom she truly belonged.
But if he saw anything out of the ordinary, he didn't react. He merely set
aside the soiled rags, uncapped the tin of salve, and scooped up a dollop with
his pinky finger. "Keep still," he said, though he seemed to be the one about
to hold his breath. His lips parted, folding around his teeth as he anticipated
dotting the ointment to Regina's wound. Any other time, his solemn
concentration would have made Regina giggle and tease. Now, it brought tears of
fondness to her eyes, which were already watering from the sting of the salve.
Daniel was so good. And after spending sixteen years with its antithesis, she
found such genuine kindness more than a little daunting.
Run away, Daniel, she thought, suddenly wanting to scream the warning at him
and shove him to a safe distance (another realm altogether might suffice). Run
as far away from me as you possibly can.
"I've hurt you," he said, dismayed. He swiped the leftover salve into the grass
and whisked away her fresh tears with the backs of his fingers.
"No." Never. "It already feels better," she said, and that much was true.
"Thank you."
Regina's hands were not so easily mended; she gasped as Daniel lowered them
into the bucket of tepid water. Tiny daggers of pain jabbed into her flesh, and
the pressure building behind her eyes and in her ears made the world too
bright, too loud. For a moment, she was right back in her bedchamber, fists
pounding against the mirror as it rained down in glinting, razor-sharp drops.
She struggled not to pull free while Daniel wiped off the grime with another
clean cloth, revealing the crisscross pattern of scratches, like a child's
unskilled needlework, on her knuckles. The gouges were deeper on the sides of
her hands and in her palms, where she had clutched up pieces of glass and
stuffed them in the pillowcase with no more heed than if she were gathering
feathers. She turned her face aside, shamed by the weak whimpering sounds that
escaped her when the tweezers plucked out bits of glass—and a few splinters
from the writing desk—as Daniel discovered them. Teeth gritted, he made an
apologetic sound of his own, extracting a shard the length of a straight pin
from the heel of her palm.
"I expect I won't get caught sketching again for quite a while," Regina said
shakily, watching the bloody glass plink into the bloody water bucket and sink
to the bottom.
Daniel mopped at the bright rivulets that flowed anew from each hand, first
with a wet cloth, then a dry one. His fingertips were stained as if he had been
picking red raspberries, and pink water dripped into the cuffs of his sleeves,
spreading like dye on the light fabric. He finally quelled most of the
bleeding—or at least slowed it down enough to finish dressing the cuts. "Is . .
. is that why she confined you to your bedchamber?"
"Among other reasons," Regina said in a dark monotone.
She refused to look at him, and he moved on quickly, dispensing tidy little
blobs of ointment to each gash and blowing lightly on them afterwards. Then,
with a tinge of admiration in his voice, he asked, "Did you really climb all
the way down from that window of yours?"
"Mm-hmm."
"But it's so high. You might have been killed!"
"And how is it you know which window is mine?" Regina asked briskly, eyebrow
quirked.
"Well, I— I just— that is to say, I . . ." Daniel made a series of helpless
gestures, resembling a court jester emoting in some farcical tragedy. The
title: Mortification. He opened and closed his mouth several more times without
producing words, then gave up and shrugged. The tips of his ears glowed hotly
when he noticed the faint smirk twitching at one corner of Regina's mouth. He
shook his head and chuckled to himself, but continued blushing as he unraveled
the linen strips and sawed them over his knee to smooth them out.
Regina bumped her shoulder into his. "It's not so awfully high when you're used
to it. Although, I don't know how I shall get back up this time."
They drifted into pensive silence, gazing down at her raw and aching hands for
several moments. Slowly, Daniel reached for the left one, guiding it to him by
the wrist, and began winding the linen around it in snug, overlapping layers.
He tied off both ends of the strip in her palm, securing the knot through a
buttonhole in the fabric, and Regina wondered if he had torn up one of his
shirts just to make her bandages. So, in the last half hour or more, he had
offered her everything from solace to the shirt off his back, and she had
repaid him only in blood. Such was her lot in life, it seemed.
"Worry not, fair maiden," Daniel said with a gallant air, and wrapped the right
hand as thoroughly as the first, until just the tips of Regina's fingers were
visible. He turned them over to rest in his palm, the desire to kiss them
unmistakable in that wistful expression he wore. (Not yet, Regina thought. Not
while they're cold as ice . . .) Ever the gentleman, he instead buffed gently
at her fingernails with the pad of his thumb, then retrieved the tweezers and
started whittling at the dirt below each nail. It fell away in clumps the size
of mouse droppings, disappearing into the grass. "I'll return you safely to
your bower by sundown. You won't even miss supper."
"Oh, that remains to be seen. What's the old proverb? 'An unruly child hunger
mild,'" Regina said, trying to match his playful tone and failing miserably.
Her stomach betrayed her even further, letting out a low, mournful rumble.
Daniel's smile faded and he finished grooming her nails without a word, his
brows knitted in thought. He swished the tweezers into the water bucket and put
the cap back on the salve, returning both to his satchel, along with the
leftover rags. Then he hopped to his feet and circled underneath the apple
tree, examining its fertile branches, his head thrown full back, eyes narrowed
in decision. When he spotted his target, he leapt spryly off the ground and
caught the bough in his hands, swiping at its low-hanging fruit. He landed on
his feet again with a solid thump, and rounded the trunk, shining two large
honeycrisps against his vest. Beaming, he presented one of the apples to
Regina, but realized his mistake at the last minute and retracted it with a
guilty look.
"Aha," he said, face lighting up the very next moment.
Regina observed the little show with thinly veiled amusement, her eyebrows
going up when he rummaged in the satchel and produced a small folding knife.
"My, aren't we efficient," she said dryly. But she accepted the thin slice of
apple he pared off and extended on the knife blade, and though she had eaten
more than her share of fruit from the tree in its lifetime, she felt certain
the pulp had never tasted so sweet. She chewed it ruminatively, pulsing lip
forgotten, her eyes on his until they both reddened in the face and glanced
away.
"I suppose we ought to get you back now," Daniel said, reluctant.
"I suppose we ought." Regina still wasn't certain she could move from the
spot—this makeshift graveyard that had summoned her like the moon pulling the
tide—but with Daniel's help, she stood; she put one foot in front of the other;
she left one plot of buried secrets behind, on her way to yet another.
As they walked, Daniel continued doling out pieces of the apple, and Regina had
finished it herself by the time they neared the garden wall a few yards from
the main residence. He chucked the core into the tall grass behind them and
offered her the second apple, which she declined, appetite suddenly gone. She
would have chosen a different path, no matter how roundabout, if there had been
one; but this direction was their only option if they were to remain unseen—at
least by human eyes. Thankfully, they could skirt the wall without traveling
through the garden itself. Still, Regina held her breath, chest seizing up
whenever so much as a twig snapped underfoot.
Daniel must have sensed the danger as well, or so Regina thought, fooled by his
quiet nature. They had almost made it past the garden without incident, almost
made it to safety (if the gore-stained bed sheets dangling from her chamber
window like a flag of surrender after a bloody battle could so be called), but
Daniel paused by the patch of wild daisies sprouting up from a crevice near the
wall's foundation. Before Regina realized his intentions, he bent down and
plucked one of the flowers from the ground, then stood with it outstretched
towards her. She stared at it, a painful lump in her throat, for such a long
time that his face fell and he lowered his hand gradually. Just for a second,
in the strange shadows cast by the dwindling sunlight, it looked as though he
were sinking into the earth.
In one fluid motion, Regina snatched at the daisy and hooked her arm through
Daniel's, propelling him forward so abruptly he stumbled to catch up. When they
were out of earshot, she halted just as quickly and whirled on him with enough
ferocity to fan her skirt at the knees and send him back a step. "Promise me
you'll never go in there," she said in an urgent whisper, ignoring the dull
thudding in her bandaged hands as she placed them on either of his arms.
"Where? Your mother— Cora's garden? Why—"
"Just promise," she hissed, clapping a hand to his mouth.
Something in her desperate tone and wide, pleading eyes got through to him, and
he nodded when she eased her palm away. "You have my word," he said, and from
that day forward he never would set foot inside the garden walls. Regina laid
her hand on his chest—over the place where that steady rhythm beat out its
constant refrain: pure, honest, true—thanking him silently, eyes closed as if
in prayer. When she opened them again, the daisy was in her line of sight and
she had the urge to fling it away from her, away from the kind boy who was
gazing down with his heart in his eyes. But she couldn't do it while Daniel
looked at her like that, so she held it to her own breast this time and resumed
trudging alongside him, his hand hovering near the small of her back.
The flower was most likely harmless, anyway; it wasn't one of Cora's creations.
She would never waste her time planting something so ordinary as a daisy. But
Regina still breathed a sigh of relief when she tucked the stem into her
pocket. Then she peered up at the ladder of knotted sheets and the window it
issued from, and all relief vanished. Itwas awfully high when you were looking
straight up at it. They might as well have been preparing to scale the walls of
Camelot.
Daniel gave the sheets several experimental tugs—and then several more. "I'm
sure you tie a skillful knot," he said, noticing Regina's dubious expression.
He waved her in behind him and stooped down.
"Well. Better than you lie, at least," she replied, arms curling around his
collar.
And so they began their ascent, Regina clinging to Daniel's back, her limbs
fastened about his neck and hips in a death grip. Even with his rolled up cloak
fashioned into a harness at their middle, she felt her hold on him grow more
precarious with each passing moment. She squeezed her eyes shut against the
retreating ground below and the fire raging in her forearms, and concentrated
on the huffs and puffs of Daniel's breathing, his muscles straining to their
limits.
It took minutes to reach the top, but Regina could have sworn an eternity had
passed before Daniel grunted out her name. He jerked at the knot in the cloak
until the entire thing unraveled and swooped to the ground like a giant bat
after its prey. She wedged her foot into the stirrup of his available hand,
scrabbling up and over. Her hands screamed in protest as she pawed at the
windowsill, unable to find the purchase or the strength required to pull
herself inside. A rush of fear and total release—freedom!—surged through her as
she started to slip, but a firm boost at her backside sent her sprawling onto
the floor of the bedchamber. She scooted around on her rear, kicked loose from
a tangle of skirts and crawled frantically back to Daniel, whose head and arms,
grappling at the sill, were the only visible parts of him.
"You all right?" he asked, panting.
"Me? You're the one dangling thousands of feet in the air!" Regina pinched
uselessly at his shirt, as if that would prevent him from plunging to certain
death. Leaning on her elbows, she glanced over the sill and gasped at the sight
of his poor legs swaying in the breeze. Energy restored, she clamped her hands
under Daniel's armpits and tugged with all her might, foot braced against the
wall.
"Uh, Regina? What're you doing?" His voice was muffled by her dress.
"What's it look like I'm doing? I'm saving your life," she said, grunting and
tugging some more, without budging him an inch. When his whole body shuddered,
she thought for sure this was it, this was the end of her stable boy—goodbye,
young man, and fare thee well . . . Until she realized the wheezing sound he
had made was laughter, not a dying man's last breath. "Or I might just leave
you hanging out here for the birds to . . ."
Regina had relaxed her grip on him and settled back inside the window a bit,
only to find their faces so close together she felt the warmth from Daniel's
laughter against her mouth. The chestnut-colored fringe that fell across his
forehead tickled at hers. His teeth were parted just enough for her to see the
pink rosette of tongue hidden behind their even, white ridges. Yours, she
thought, and with the slightest tilt of her chin, brushed her lips to his while
they were still split into a grin. She applied no pressure, afraid his first
taste of her would be blood. But after a moment's pause, he puckered a kiss
almost too light to feel against the notch of her upper lip.
(She decided then and there to keep the scar. She would feed Cora whatever lies
were necessary to explain the broken looking-glass and the cuts. She would even
agree to being healed by magic. But the scar was hers now. A reminder of what
happened to disobedient daughters—at least that was how she would sell it. And
if Cora used her power to somehow drain every other memory of this nightmarish
day from Regina's mind, so be it. Oblivion had become an old, old friend Regina
welcomed with open arms. Besides that, even Cora's power had its limitations.
She couldn't steal memories she didn't know existed.)
Daniel's lips made a soft pecking sound when Regina departed, the dry bottom
curve adhering to moisture at the threshold of her mouth, unwilling to let go.
His eyelashes batted open, and he flashed a love drunk little grin. Then: "I .
. . I can't hold on much longer."
"Run along home, boy," Regina said, and this time the nickname soothed like a
balm.
While Daniel shinnied down the wall with impressive ease, Regina watched from
above, hand drifting into her pocket. As he hastened through the courtyard,
taking hearty bites from the apple he had stored in his satchel and tossing
occasional glances back at her window, she brought out the daisy and began
plucking its rumpled blades off one at a time. And when he disappeared into a
line of trees beyond Cora's garden, the last three petals fluttered into the
darkness below.
He loves me . . .
He loves me not . . .
He loves me . . .
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