Monstrous Beauty by Marie Brennan Page A

cloak.
    The fire in the queen’s chamber has been built to a roaring blaze, but even that is not enough. The queen huddles and shivers before it, calling desperately for more wood. Her stolen beauty is haggard in the struggling light, and the fire dies ever downward, flames shrinking to nothingness at the killing pressure of the cold.
    The door opens at last, but the visitor is not a servant bringing wood.
    The last flicker of flame shrivels into ash.
    In the near-darkness of the chamber, the princess shines with an icy light. The queen cannot look away as she approaches. Her beauty has become an unearthly thing, greater than ever it was in life. But cold, so cold . . .
    The princess’ lips curve in a smile, gleaming with the redness of the bloody flesh that forms them. A moment later, the color fades from the queen’s mouth, leaving her blue and shaking. Next the skin, growing wrinkled and spotted once more. Then the hair, withering into brittle greyness. Strands of it drift to the floor like dying leaves.
    Then the pain begins.
    Her screams echo through the frozen darkness of the castle, where the servants huddle in fear. The huntsman hears his queen, but does not move; his loyalty cannot make him face the horror that has come.
    Alone now in the upstairs chamber, with only the shadows and the remnants of what was once the queen for company, the princess raises the bloody heart to her lips. Her sharp teeth tear into it, blood staining her snow-white skin, and then it is gone. She licks her flesh clean, and smiles once more.
    No blood, however hot, can remove the coldness from her now. But she hungers for that heat, and goes in search of more.
    Notes on “The Snow-White Heart”

Footprints
    Among the noble flowers that have gathered for the ball, the hopeful young ladies in lavender and spring green and pink, she stands out like a rose, red-black as venous blood. The prince sees her from across the grand hall, and wonders how he overlooked her until now. Did the footmen not announce her? Was he distracted when she entered, his time and attention imprisoned by some insipid girl in powder blue? What kept his eye from this beauty?
    Drawn to the upswept gleam of her dark hair, the shining silver of her mask, he tries to make his way toward her, but others intervene. Earls and counts, their faces concealed behind suns and stags and stars. Duchesses eager to climb yet higher, to marry their daughters to the royal line. Only one can attain the exalted height of the princely bed, and so they are merciless in their maneuvering, none willing to relinquish the prince’s attention to another. He struggles through the press of bodies, only to find she has moved on. His progress is undone by a general he cannot snub. He meets the stranger’s gaze once, and her black eyes hold him pinned, like a moth transfixed to a card.
    Then she is gone, and he cannot find her again.
    The morning after the masquerade, his royal parents ask for his decision, whom he will take to wife. His answer displeases them, for it is no decision at all. Another ball, he demands; he must have another opportunity to consider his choices.
    And so a second ball is announced. Again the invitations go out; again the parents of potential brides turn to their tailors and jewelers and hairdressers and mask-makers, to render their daughters the loveliest of all.
    Again they come, and again he sees her.
    She alone wears the same mask and gown as before, silver as smooth as time, silk that flows like blood. He dances with her this night, and her hand rests in his, cool and dry. Her scent he cannot place. Her face is unreadable, hidden as it is; her eyes give nothing away. She does not answer when he asks her name. She does not speak at all.
    When he tries to bring her before his parents, just before midnight, she slips from his grasp and vanishes into the crowd.
    Guards go in search. They tell him she came in a carriage of pine and wrought iron, drawn