“It worked,” she said, laughing. She made her way through the trees, hoping to find him. She came to the same small clearing she’d met him in before, with the same small bench. Once again a fresh glass of water stood next to the bench. This time, though, rather than chopping wood, Philip sat with a large white board on a tripod in front of him. She couldn’t see what he did with the board, but he watched it intently, in spite of the fact that she knew he couldn’t see it.
“I hear you have a new cottage,” Philip said, not looking up from the board.
“You hear right,” she said.
Snow walked toward him, making sure he could hear her footsteps and halt her if he wished. She stopped before walking around to look at the board. Philip held a paintbrush.
“You’re painting!” she exclaimed.
“Yes.” His voice remained calm in the face of her outburst.
“But, how . . .”
He waved her around. “Come and see.”
She slowly walked around the white canvas, keeping her eyes on Philips face. He stared intently at the canvas, as if he could see what he painted. When she stood next to him, she turned her eyes to the painting.
Philip’s castle was depicted there, in absolute clarity. The same white spires disappeared into the sky, sun glinting off the windows in sparkles of light. The grounds were covered in the same grassy green, only the flowers and plants looked different. They were the colors they were supposed to be, at least the colors she remembered them being at home rather than the bright, unusual colors of Fableton.
“How did you paint this?” Snow asked. “If you’ve never seen the castle, how can you paint it so clearly?”
Philip turned his head slightly toward Snow as his brush stilled above the canvas. “This is what the castle looks like?”
“Well . . . yeah. You didn’t know?”
“No. As you said, I’ve never seen it.” He gave a derisive laugh. “Katarina is a clever one, isn’t she? Creating me a new castle identical to my own castle.”
“So you’re painting from memory? How do you remember where you left off and where to begin again? It’s very good, nothing overlapping.”
Philip dipped his brush once again and began stroking the canvas, placing the tip exactly where it needed to be. “I can see only one thing,” he said. “Katarina enchanted the paints and the canvases. I can see them as clearly as I used to see everything. She did it so I could create her likeness and remember what I’ve lost.”
Snow grunted. “And have you painted her?”
“Aye. Multiple times.” Philip grinned. “I don’t think Katarina would appreciate them though.” He turned toward her. “Perhaps I’ll show them to you sometime and you can give me your opinion.”
Snow shuddered at the thought of facing Katarina again, even if it were just via a painting. “Maybe sometime,” she said.
“Do you enjoy your time in Fableton?” he asked.
Snow wasn’t sure how to answer in light of her recent revelation that this could be her new, permanent home. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to find you again,” she said.
“I was hoping you would,” he replied. “Tell me about your new cottage.”
“I still can’t figure out how they built—and furnished it, in a single day.”
“Time here has different meaning,” Philip said.
“That’s what they said, but what does it mean?”
“What felt to you like the passage of no more than a day could have been several days for them,” Philip replied. “Time is eternal here. Remember when I told you no one ages here?”
“I remember,” Snow said. “Doesn’t it get . . . I don’t know, boring I guess? Or monotonous? Doing the same things day in and out, day after day.”
Philip smiled. “I’ve never considered it. At first I spent a great deal of time trying to find an escape, then a great deal of time trying to fill my kingdom with others so I wouldn’t be alone. Finally, I resigned myself. If I worried about being bored, I’d probably be crazy by now. So I fill my days as I would have had I not been taken from my kingdom, except for riding and hunting.” He paused and glanced up from his painting. “Are you bored, Snow White?”
Snow shook her head, then remembered he couldn’t see it. “No. I’ve had so much going on each day I haven’t had time . . . to be . . .” She laughed. “Time. Time has a different meaning here.”
Philip nodded. “Right. I can only mark the passage of time in the outside world when someone new comes. But no one has come for over three centuries. I was surprised when you came and told me the year.”
Snow shook her head. It was such a strange concept.
Philip turned her way and tipped his head. “I have an idea,” he said. “A way I might be able to see you. But I’d need your help. Are you willing to play a game with me?”
Curious, Snow said, “Sure. Why not? Apparently we have all the time in the world.”
*****
“No, a little less bushy,” Snow said.
Philip dabbed the brush into the flesh colored paint and thinned the eyebrows on the painting. Snow sat in front of a large mirror next to Philip, trying to describe herself as he painted. It made her think of the police drawings when a criminal was searched for. Only Philip’s painting was vibrant and colorful, and nearly reflected the image she looked at in the mirror. Any inconsistencies were because of Snow’s lack of ability to clearly describe what she saw.
“Now your eyes,” Philip said.
“Blue,” Snow said.
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Philip said. “What shade of blue?”
“I don’t know, just blue. Like . . . like when you’re outside on a day that’s a little overcast, so it’s not so clear and bright.”
Philip mixed some blue with a little gray and dabbed the painting. Snow was stunned. The shade he painted was the same as what looked back at her in the mirror. “Shape?” Philip asked.
“Round,” Snow replied.
“Not of your iris,” Philip said. “Of your entire eye.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m not very good at this. Almond shaped, I guess.”
Philip painted her outer eye. Snow glanced back at the mirror, then at his painting again. “Tilted up just a bit at the edges,” she said.
The experiment was painstaking, getting the shapes just right—her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, her nose. Philip insisted that everything be exactly right. Eventually, Philip leaned back and said, “Is it finished?”
Snow stood and looked at the painting, then back at the mirror. Back and forth her eyes went. She couldn’t tell when she was looking in the mirror or looking at the painting, other than one reflected her stunned look and the other remained still.
“Yes, Philip, that’s me.”
Philip stared at the painting. Finally he laid down the brush and turned to Snow. “I see now.”
“See what?” she asked.
“Why Katarina hated you so much.”
“You can tell that by nothing more than a painting of me?”
“Yes.”
“Then please, share with me.”
Philip stood, rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands. “Walk with me?” he asked.
Snow wondered if she should offer him her arm to guide him, but he began walking, neatly sidestepping any obstacles. She chided herself. Of course he’d know the place better than the back of his hand after having been there five hundred years. She quickly caught up and walked by his side.
“If there’s one thing that I know without a doubt, it’s that Katarina prizes beauty. But not as someone else would prize beauty. She’s obsessed with it—in herself. She will create any number of spells and enchantments to maintain her beauty.” He sighed and looked toward Snow. “And she destroys anything that she deems as more beautiful than herself.”
“Yeah, I get all that. It still doesn’t explain why she hates me.”
Philip stopped and Snow stopped with him. “You really don’t understand,
do you? It’s you, Snow. You are the thing that is more beautiful than her.”
“You really are blind,” she muttered. Then she gasped. “I’m sorry, that was so rude. I didn’t mean—”
Philip laughed. “I may be blind, but I saw you clear enough in the painting.” He lifted one hand and drew his thumb down her cheek. She blushed beneath his touch. “Someone has convinced you that you are less than beautiful,” he said. “And I can guess who that was. You’re beauty is complete, Snow, from the blue of your eyes to the purity of your heart. You are everything she rebels against, everything she cannot be.”
Snow shook her head and he let his hand drop.
“Do you want to see something amazing?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Sure,” she said, unable to push his words from her mind. Could it be true? Could Katarina have done such a horrible thing to her, arranged her murder, just because she was somehow jealous? It didn’t seem fathomable. But then again, nothing here seemed fathomable, and yet it was.
She heard the water before it came into view. Philip stopped and she walked ahead of him, jaw gaping. The waterfall must have been thirty feet high. It rolled down glistening rocks, the water sapphire blue and sparkling like thousands of diamonds in the sun. She glanced back at Philip and saw that he had his eyes closed, a smile on his face.
“This is amazing,” she exclaimed. “I thought I’d seen amazing, hanging around here, you know? But this . . . this is unbelievable. So gorgeous.”
“Is it?” Philip murmured. “I can’t see it. But the sound, can you hear it?”
“It sounds like water,” she said.
Philip smiled. “Close your eyes and listen.”
Snow didn’t want to close her eyes against the beauty, but did so anyway. It sounded like water, just like she’d said. “I don’t hear anything,” she said. She jumped when Philip’s hands took her upper arms. Her eyes shot open in surprise.
“Then you’re not listening right,” he said. “Keep your eyes closed and open your mind. Just listen.”
Snow shrugged and slid her eyes closed—still water. She waited, Philip’s hands warm on her arms, the shadow of his body behind hers. She turned her mind back to the task of listening.
Somewhere in the distance she heard an occasional tinkling, like rain dropping on a crystal glass. She focused on the sound. Where did it come from? As soon as she gave it her attention, the sound increased. The tinkling multiplied, growing louder, sounding nearer. And then the sounds rearranged themselves into a rhythmic order until it was a song.
Snow gasped and Philip squeezed her arms. “You hear it, don’t you?”
Snow slowly opened her eyes. Sight didn’t make the music disappear. She watched the sparkling water fall as it sang to her. It was almost overwhelming, the sight and sound combined. On impulse, she spun and threw her arms around Philip’s waist.
“Thank you,” she cried. “Thank you for showing me this. It’s . . . unbelievable.”
When she’d thrown her arms about him, his hands had lifted from her and now hung in the air. Realizing what she’d done, Snow felt embarrassment climb her cheeks. She moved to pull away but his hands came down on her shoulders, hesitant at first, then slowly sliding across the middle of her back until they met in the middle of her back. There he stopped, holding her loosely, tentatively.
Snow felt the nervous tenseness in him, and it occurred to her that it might have been several years—or centuries even—since he’d been hugged. She remained still, waiting for him to be the first to break away. Instead of doing so, his arms tightened, crossing tightly over he back, and his head dropped until his cheek was resting on the top of her head.
They stood that way for long minutes, or it could have been hours since time meant little here, before he loosened his grip. They moved apart and Snow looked up at him. The look on his face nearly broke her heart. He looked fragile, emotional, almost as if she were to touch him, he’d shatter. Then he smiled and his face changed, becoming exultant.
“This is my favorite place to come,” he said, “Even more so now.”
Snow was glad he couldn’t see her red cheeks.
*****
“Prince Philip is having a ball!”
Snow turned at the excited voice. When she saw it was Coy who had burst into the house, shouting the news, she was surprised. He rarely spoke above a whisper. As he looked at her, he seemed to realize what he’d done and immediately shrunk back, cheeks flaming, eyes downcast. He probably would have retreated from the cottage if he hadn’t been forced in by the other enthusiastic men.
They all talked excitedly—well, all but Grouchy. He mostly grumbled about it, arms folded tightly. Snow finished wiping the counter and hung the towel up. She’d been cleaning for The Seven—that was something she knew how to do well from living with Katarina. And they needed the help. Seven men living together . . . it was a full time job cleaning up after them. Plus, it freed them up to work longer at their own job cultivating the fruit trees.
“Is it unusual for him to throw a ball?” she asked when there was a break in their chattering.
“Unusual?” Grouchy repeated sarcastically. “He’s never held one before.”
“Really? I wonder why he’s having one now.”
Grouchy raised a brow at her. “I think I can guess why.”
Six additional pairs of eyes from six now quiet men turned to her.
“Ah-ha,” Blithe said, as if it hadn’t occurred to him.
“What?” Snow asked, spreading her arms wide. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“You spent a lot of time with him yesterday,” Grouchy said.
“That’s true,” Medic agreed.
“Is she the one?” Sneezer asked before letting of three powerful sneezes.
Their eyes all jumped to Sneezer before returning to her. “The one what?” Snow asked.
Glances between them before Medic finally said, “The one to finally cause Prince Philip to throw a ball. We’ve been waiting a long time.”
Snow just stared at him. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t think he spoke the truth. Maybe they’d been hoping for someone to come along to what? Be his princess? She shook her head. She didn’t want to stay if she could avoid it.
Still, the idea brought back the memory of standing in his arms, the waterfall singing behind them.
*****
The Seven all took Snow to see Stitcher, who, not at all oddly, was the seamstress in Fableton.
“I’ve been very, very busy,” said the frazzled woman who led them into the back where she kept all her bolts of fabric. Snow looked at them, wondering where in the world they got all of it from. “The excitement of the ball, and all. Everyone needs new outfits. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”
Snow felt bad for adding more work on the harried Stitcher, until Stitcher glanced at her. Snow saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes, the grin that turned up the corners of her mouth.
“What else would we be here for?” Grouchy grumbled.
Blithe shot a hushing look at Grouchy. “Whatever help you can give us would be very much appreciated,” he told her cheerfully.
“It won’t be elaborate, but it’ll be serviceable,” she mumbled, stacking bolts of fabric in each man’s arms. Three bolts each for, “Trousers, shirtsleeves, and jacket,” she said.
Snow didn’t know anything about fashion or sewing, and yet even her unpracticed eye could recognize that the bolts Stitcher handed them fit them perfectly. The colors and patterns of the materials matched the man’s personality and coloring impeccably.
Snow wandered around, fingering some of the fabrics. She came across a bright, shimmering gold and stopped. It looked like spun gold but with the texture of fine silk. She pulled the end piece up and held it against the front of herself.
“No, no, no, that’s all wrong for you.” Stitcher snatched the fabric from her and Snow’s heart dropped. “I have just the thing . . . now, where did I put it . . .” Stitc
her searched through the bolts of fabric as Snow followed her.
“Where does it all come from?” she asked.
Stitcher didn’t even hesitate in her search. “Where does what come from?”
Snow swept her arms around the room. “All of this fabric. I mean, after so much time, you’d have to be running out.” Stitcher threw her a questioning glance and Snow realized she might not have been here as long as Philip. “I mean, if you clothe all the people of Fableton, sooner or later it’ll run out, right?”
Stitcher continued in her search, shaking her head. “No, it’ll never run out. It never does. Every morning when I come in, any fabric I used the day before has been replenished. Sometimes new ones appear when I haven’t even used any.”
Snow didn’t think anything else about Fableton could surprise her, but this did. She was about to comment on it when Stitcher threw her hand triumphantly into the air. “Ah-ha!” Snow jumped at her loud exclamation. “There it is.”
She pushed her rolling ladder over to a high stack of material and climbed up. Snow wasn’t sure how she could see anything up on the stack. She pulled something from the top of the stack and climbed quickly back down.
“This is for you,” she said, thrusting two bolts at Snow. Snow looked down, awed. One of the materials was sapphire blue, the same color as the waterfall. The second was ice blue and as the light caught it, it threw off sparks of light that looked like prisms of diamonds.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed.
“Of course it is,” Stitcher said as if she were offended that Snow questioned her. “Now go away and come back tomorrow for your fittings.”
“Tomorrow?” Snow asked.
“I’m very busy,” Stitcher reiterated. “I can’t have them done today. Now go, shoo, shoo,” she said, practically pushing them out the door. Snow shook her head. She hadn’t been asking Stitcher to finish them today, she’d only been surprised that Stitcher could have all eight outfits finished by tomorrow. Then again, Stitcher’s tomorrow could be different than Snow’s tomorrow.