The unkind witch in Hook Tree Woods has little use for people. Mothers and sisters, obviously, will only disappoint you, and friends—well. She never had many of those. Her only friends now are snakes and toads, who are far preferable to humans. Reptiles don’t demand flattery. Amphibians aren’t afraid of the truth. They’re quiet, clever, infinitely more useful. They even taste good, if you’re hungry enough.

The unkind witch is not actually a witch, but she certainly is unkind. Kind girls don’t make it, not out in the woods. Kind girls don’t eat their friends to survive.

• • • •

The runaway princess (once the silent princess, once just a girl lost and starving and alone) is hiding in a small barn in a small village on the eastern side of Hook Tree Woods. She grew up on the other side of these trees in a village much like this one; still has family there, although not the loving kind, not anyone she can trust to shelter or save her. Not the kind of family she misses—or at least, not the kind likely to miss her.

It’s strange to be back after all these years away. She’d never thought to return, had found herself a new life with a new family, a husband who loved her for who she really was. What a fool she’d been, to believe all that. But she’d believed so many foolish things. Like how all the cruelty she’d suffered as a child had all been for a purpose. Like a home was something to be earned or rewarded, like she’d finally proved she was worthy enough.

Fairies, the runaway princess decides, can go rot in hell.

Noises outside the barn. Loud voices, an excited buzz. Her heart sinks as she listens to the villagers: the prince is coming. He’s almost here.

She can’t stay. She can’t run. There’s nowhere to go.

Except—

A witch lives in Hook Tree Woods. She can turn you into a snake, they say. No, no, the witch turns into the snake and swallows you whole. No, the witch is human. From the waist up, anyway.

There were no witches in these parts, back when she was a girl. Perhaps there are none now; perhaps the village children are only telling stories. Perhaps the way is safe—

No. Absurd. No way is safe, certainly not the woods. That’s where she met him, after all. That’s where she smiled and dared to speak, and doomed herself in the process.

Maybe he’ll bypass the woods, thinking she’d never dare return. Or perhaps he’ll chase her, but the witch will eat her instead. Better, anyway, to face a witch than a husband.

Better to die out here than ever be rescued again.

• • • •

The unkind witch, really the unkind hermit, takes a certain bitter joy, listening to all those ridiculous stories. Snake-shifter, indeed. The villagers are idiots, incapable of telling the enchanter from the enchanted—but at least their fear is funny, now that she knows she can survive it.

Of course, there are other stories. In one, a sweet and lovely girl is exiled to these woods by her own mother. Fortunately, a handsome prince comes to the rescue, sweeping her away to some far-off kingdom. How the unkind hermit had choked back tears, hearing that story, tears and a few far more venomous things. This tale, at least, must be true. Kind girls get blessed, after all, not cursed. Kind girls get kind futures; that’s the lesson. Everyone gets the fate that they deserve.

The unkind hermit broods about fates and futures while picking wild mushrooms not far from her tent. Then a sharp snap of wood underfoot, and her head snaps up. A pale stranger stumbles nearby, close enough to throw a rock at. She’s ginger-haired and dirty, dressed in an oversized blue cloak. The stranger glances up at the late-evening sky. Her hood falls back. Those dark freckles, that heart-shaped face—

For the first time in months, perhaps years, the unkind hermit begins to laugh.

• • • •

That laugh. Impossible, a cruel, breathless echo from another life. Before the runaway princess was even a princess, back when she was just her father’s daughter, the youngest daughter. A kind and miserable girl.

That laughter doesn’t belong here, and yet—

The runaway princess sees the tent first, a small, weather-beaten thing half-collapsed against the ground. Then she sees a woman crouching a short distance away. She’s wild-haired, this woman, wearing multiple layers of threadbare dark clothing. That black hair, those pale eyes—

“Sister,” the runaway princess says, helplessly, as a diamond spills from her lips.

“Still blessed, I see,” her sister says, as four small toads hop off her tongue.

• • • •

The unkind hermit knows this about magic: it’s a balance of order and chaos, reason and irrationality. The actual mechanics need not make sense, so long as the moral mechanics do.

An example:

A good girl, gone to fetch water for her family, meets a poor, old woman begging for a drink. This girl, sweet and virtuous and disgusting, gladly gets the woman water even though she’ll be punished for dallying. Fortunately, the old woman is a fairy in disguise, and rewards the girl with a blessing for her kindness: flowers and jewels will fall from her lips, one for every word she speaks.

Later, the girl’s wicked elder sister is sent to fetch water, so that she, too, might reap her magical rewards. But this time, the fairy is disguised as a rich young woman, and unaware, the wicked sister is predictably rude. Promptly, she’s cursed for her insolence: snakes or toads will fall from her lips, one for every word she speaks.

The punishment is slimy and grim, but mysteriously harmless—at least, harmless to her. The unkind hermit only speaks poisonous snakes into the world, ones which begin life in her throat, worming their way up and slithering around her teeth before slipping sideways out of her mouth. The toads, too, materialize in her throat before hopping up and out to freedom. Everything about this is impossible: how such creatures could fit, how she’s never once choked, how she’s never been bit, how she can speak intelligibly at all.

But that’s magic, through and through. Magic is wonder spun from righteousness. Only the moral must make sense; in this, stories and spells are quite similar. Even the unimaginable is possible, so long as poetic justice is served. So long as it is very, very clear who deserves a future and who does not.

• • • •

What—

The runaway princess opens her mouth, then closes it before any questions or petals or precious stones can fall out. There are too many words in her throat right now, all of them bewildered and more than a little afraid. She might litter exotic poppies and pearls across an entire acre of woods. Think of the ecosystem. The poor fucking birds.

She does know other languages. One is silent, spoken with fingers and facial expressions. An attendant—a friend—had taught her years ago, before it was made clear such lessons were unnecessary, that the silent princess (not yet a runaway) had no need to communicate with anyone but her husband. If only her sister knew this language—but that’s very doubtful. She looks half-feral, every inch the witch she’s purported to be—and she must be this snake-witch. Who else could it be? How long has she been out here, living like this?

If her sister remembered their secret-tongue—

But that thought is too foolish to even complete. It’s not a real language, anyway, only an imperfect code, and neither of them have used it in a long, long time.

Out of alternatives, the runaway princess resorts to the universal language of spreading her arms and mouthing what the fuck.

Her sister laughs. Startles into it, head tipping back, throat bared to the sky. Then she points at the runaway princess and echoes the gesture. What are YOU doing here?

No. Absolutely not. The runaway princess has been chased through village after village, town after town, by the person she once thought to be her love and savior. All she’s had to eat for two days are rose petals. She’s dirty and exhausted and her mouth tastes of thorns, and her long-estranged wicked sister is going to answer her questions, or the runaway princess is going to beat her with a stick.

(It’s a lie, but what a comforting one, that she could wield such a stick, that her power could lie in violence instead of virtuousness.)

What. Are You. DOING? Here. The runaway princess mouths the words, slow and exaggerated, as she points at the sad, half-collapsed tent. Where is Mother?

Her sister blinks innocently, one hand cupped to her ear. It’s infuriating. It drives the runaway princess to madness; it drives her hands up in the air, pointer fingers curling over her ears like little horns. MOTHER, the runaway princess signs in their old code. MOTHER.

And her sister begins laughing again, belly-laughter, bending over with it. She laughs so hard, her eyes well up. Mother, she signs back, only her fingers make a halo, because that’s how their code once worked: different speakers use different shapes, depending on their personal relationship to the subject. There was no single word for parent. It was only parent who loved you or parent who didn’t.

And oh, how Mother had loved her firstborn daughter. So much so, in fact, that when her big sister got herself snake-cursed because she couldn’t bring herself to do even one fucking good thing, it became the runaway princess’s fault. The runaway princess, ever the scapegoat, was promptly banished to Hook Tree Woods. And then—

Come now, maiden. Tell me why you weep.

The runaway princess swallows her fury before she can scream rubies into her sister’s face. Not that her sister can be bothered to notice. Instead, she’s laughing even as she fetches a small, black journal out of her tent.

Mother, her sister mouths, baring her teeth, even as she begins to write.

• • • •

Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The eldest looked like their mother, and so their mother loved her best. The youngest looked like their father, and so their father loved her best. None of them were very happy, but they were happy enough, at least until the girls’ father suddenly dropped dead.

The eldest girl was glad, at first. She couldn’t love her father, who did nothing but berate her: why couldn’t she be kind like her sister, why wouldn’t she smile when she was told to, why couldn’t she keep her ugly opinions to herself? (Because people asked, and they shouldn’t ask if they didn’t want to hear the answer.) And surely Mother would be happy, now that she could always have her way. Surely, she could finally learn to love both her daughters.

But the money ran out so fast, and Mother had to find work, and her bitterness towards her dead husband only grew and grew and grew. And Sister wouldn’t stop crying, her grief so loud and inexplicable, and the eldest girl hated her a little, grieving someone still ripping their family apart from the grave. Was it any wonder Mother hated Sister, too, when her stupid tears gave everyone headaches? Was it so wrong that Mother made her clean and cook and fetch water from the well, and yelled if she took too long, and beat her if she did something wrong?

Yes, of course it was. But Mother was vicious, and the eldest girl learned to be vicious, too, so that their faces would continue to match. Because who was she, if not her mother’s child? And who would she be if Mother turned on her, too?

Well. She’d learn that lesson soon enough.

Because after Sister had been driven out, there was no one left to shoulder the blame—and there was so much to blame the eldest girl for: their inhospitable living conditions, the constant threat of death by mere impulsive word, the village’s fear and suspicion and disgust with them both, the promise that every tomorrow would be just the same as yesterday.

Was it so wrong Mother kicked her eldest out, too? Was it any wonder that nobody would take her in? Who would shelter such a spiteful child; who would welcome such venom into their lives? The villagers chased her away. Of course, they did, and Mother led the mob. She drove the eldest girl into the woods with nothing, and left her and her toads and her snakes to die.

But the girl spoke her rage and betrayal into the world, and she ate its flesh, and she survived.

• • • •

“Dinner?” her sister asks, and kills the large snake that falls out of her mouth.

The runaway princess says nothing, sinking to the ground with the journal clutched between shaking fingers. If she’d thought her throat had felt crowded before—

It’s indignation choking her, fury. How fascinating to discover that she might not have been abused if only she hadn’t cried so much, that mourning the only parent who’d ever loved her was the one crime which could not be repented. Everyone might still be happy, if only her grief hadn’t been so loud.

No. THINK.

The runaway princess forces her jaw to relax and allows the bitter chrysanthemums to disintegrate on her tongue. She’s sticking on the words that serve her own anger—but this story isn’t a condemnation of grief. It’s an explanation, the logic of a small, angry child—a small, frightened child—desperate to keep her mother’s love.

Strange, to think of her sister as someone frightened or small.

The runaway princess feels unsettled, dazed. It’s not that she’d assumed her family would be happy. On especially petty days, she’d imagined them living in a filthy, sticky house, bickering about who would go fetch the water and sharing the bed with a half dozen toads. She’d wanted them to be miserable, but she’d never dreamt—

Now her sister is here, crouched beside the fire, skinning and gutting her decapitated snakes. She makes quick work of it, roasting the meat. Her sister never cooked a meal in her life.

The runaway princess shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

“How could she?” she asks, ignoring the yellow petals. Her fingers shape the words with old resentment: Mother loved YOU.

Her sister laughs again. The sound echoes between the trees.

“No,” she says. “Some people are unlovable.”

• • • •

Here’s the joke: the unkind hermit once believed such stupid things, too.

There are five snakes slithering toward her sister. The unkind hermit shoos them away; reluctantly, they abide. It took months to realize her little friends understood her and even longer to understand they’d obey her commands, mostly. Some friends do prove more disagreeable, but that’s just to be expected when the only reward for obedience is death.

The dead snake is well-cooked. She gives half the burnt carcass to her sister, who doesn’t look nearly as horrified as she’d hoped. The unkind hermit can’t puzzle her out. She doesn’t sit like a princess should. She isn’t appalled by worms or dirt and doesn’t shift against the hard, unforgiving ground. She even has the audacity to look content as she chews too quickly, like she hasn’t eaten in days. If so, it’s a recent starvation: her body is rounder and fatter than it’d been when they were girls. And though she’s still beautiful—her sister could be three days dead and still beautiful—she’s also a shade of pale only seen in eggshells and sun-bleached bones.

All of it makes the unkind hermit uneasy. Reflexively, she bares her teeth as her sister flips through the journal once more, frowning like the words are backward and upside down. “Again?” the unkind hermit asks. “What’s so hard to understand? You think we all want love? That we’re all capable of it?”

Toads, toads, and venom everywhere.

Her sister doesn’t even look up, like the unkind hermit isn’t a wild and dangerous thing, like she can be trusted to safely corral her snakes rather than letting them roam and bite free. Never mind the unkind hermit is corralling her snakes; she could kill anyone so easily. Why isn’t her sister afraid? Why won’t she just run away?

Is it because her prince is coming? It must be nice, knowing that rescue is guaranteed. The unkind hermit has never been so fortunate. To think, she’d spent weeks lost in these woods, terrified that she might stumble over her sister’s rotting corpse, half-eaten by wild animals, bones sunken in the moss. She’d feared that more than anything, finding her little sister.

But then the village stories. The lucky, lovely girl.

“Lucky,” her sister says flatly, when the unkind hermit tells her so. “Lucky.”

Two garnets spill like blood drops. Her sister brushes them away, flipping to a blank page with violently shaking fingers.

“Let me tell you how lucky I’ve been,” she says, and—ignoring the cascade of white petals—begins to write.

• • • •

Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The eldest looked like their mother, and so their mother loved her best. The youngest looked like their father, and so their father loved her best. None of them were very happy, but they were happy enough, at least until the girls’ father suddenly dropped dead.

The youngest, grieving alone, tried to live up to her father’s memory, to embody all the things he’d said a good girl should be. Kind. Generous. Never insistent, never questioning. Accepting things as they are, rather than constantly demanding them to change. Thus, the youngest girl accepted that Mother would always despise her face, and never once asked her sister, “Why don’t you love me anymore?” For Sister had loved her, once. They used to play together, hide together, do whatever they could to subtly shift their parents’ moods. They never used each other’s names, disliking the ones they were born into; instead, they always signed the same shape. There was never a word for ‘sister who didn’t love you.’

But now Sister refused to speak in code. She bullied, she teased, and did nothing but look away when Mother smacked the youngest across the face. Fighting back wasn’t an option. Good girls didn’t shout; they didn’t hit, they didn’t complain. They did as they were told. So, the youngest kept her voice gentle and kept her words kind and never protested any housework, no matter how late the hour or how grueling the task. And when an old woman asked for water from the well, the youngest gladly fetched it because this kindness made her worthy of love, even if nobody loved her anymore. Because if she was worthy, perhaps that might change. If she was worthy, then maybe someday—

And someday came, he came. “Come now, maiden. Tell me why you weep.” And she told him the truth; of course, she did. Six pearls, six diamonds, and twelve words in reply.

And because she was desperate, because she was stupid, she never found it suspicious that he instantly fell in love, that he not only bedded her but wedded her, a strange girl from the woods, a commoner with no parents and broad, muddy feet. He said such sweet things, though. He gave such lovely gifts. He rescued her; he saved her. She owed him so much.

So, she didn’t complain when he told her to play mute and speak only when they were safely alone. She obeyed every command: never befriended a soul, never left the palace by herself. Indeed, she was rarely allowed to leave at all—but this was only to protect her. He reminded her everyday: think of everyone who might beat her and bleed her just for a handful of sparkling diamond words. And she had him, didn’t she? She had fine clothing and fine food and a dozen handmaidens at her beck and call. So long as she didn’t break the rules. So long as she pretended her handmaidens weren’t her husband’s spies first.

She pretended. She obeyed. It would be so ungracious, otherwise.

But then the first violation: she did befriend someone, her funniest handmaiden, a mischievous, fearless girl who knew how to speak without speaking aloud. They had long conversations between them, laughter in the dark, and one time—just one time—dared to sneak out to the market.

And then the prince found out, and that handmaiden disappeared.

Finally, the youngest girl began asking questions, sometimes of her husband but mostly of herself: had Father raised a woman or a caged bird? Was it enough to be safe when she could also be happy? But questions were the third violation, and so she was locked away, thrown into a dungeon with only one other prisoner: a wetly rotting body, her fearless handmaiden’s corpse.

The youngest girl was never tortured, never starved. There was no sunlight, but only one rule: tell her husband stories until he went away again. She refused to do so, at first, tried using her blessing as a bargaining chip. But then he came back carrying a small child and a sharp knife, and the youngest daughter folded after the very first slice.

But when she was alone again with only a corpse for company, she told her dead handmaiden that, someday, she’d escape. Fingers moving in the dark, one-way conversations. Apologies to the departed. Vows to the dead. She never promised revenge; that was not in her power, nor was it her nature, no matter her more violent, desperate dreams. Instead, she made the only oath she knew she could keep, that nobody would ever die for her again.

• • • •

The unkind hermit closes the journal, shaking her head, shaking her head again. Her sister’s story is—it’s unacceptable. None of this can be true. Kind girls get kind futures, and this is, this—

She chucks the journal at her sister—who catches it, barely—and makes a sharp ‘X’ across her mouth with both hands. LIAR.

Her sister tilts her head, bewildered, vaguely amused. Which part?

The unkind hermit opens her mouth—but the sound of a horn cuts her off, a foreign, frightening sound that has no place in these woods. Her sister straightens, perfectly still, every inch of her body listening. The unkind hermit remembers that stillness. They would wait like this whenever their parents fought, silently holding hands, listening to see whose footsteps were coming, to see which daughter would be in trouble that day.

But now a prince is coming, and that’s no time for holding hands.

The unkind hermit hastily puts out the fire and kicks her tent into full collapse. She can’t afford to leave it behind, will need the paltry shelter when the weather turns. Her sister only stares, frozen, useless. The unkind hermit hisses and pulls her to her feet.

“Move,” the unkind hermit says, and they do, leaving a newborn toad behind.

It’s past nightfall when they finally stop running. The unkind hermit doesn’t bother setting up the tent, just sits beside a particularly large, hooked tree and tries to decide whether they should climb up and out of sight, or stay below where there’s room to run. Her sister, sitting nearby, is staring again. Spreading her arms.

Why? Why didn’t you leave me behind?

Loftily, the unkind hermit ignores her; otherwise, she’d be forced to admit that she can’t answer the question. Who cares what happens to her sister? So what if this prince gives her a whole library to read, then chops off her head once the pages are spent? If the unkind hermit hands her over, she might even get a reward. It’s certainly what Mother would do.

Then again, what prince would honor a deal with a witch when he could just burn her instead? Or maybe he’d mount her head on the wall like a stag. The villagers would probably throw a parade.

Besides, for all her bitterness and all her rage, the unkind hermit’s face hasn’t matched Mother’s in a long time.

She takes the journal back from her sister. If I bowed and scraped to rich people, she writes, neither of us would be here, remember?

Her sister squints in the moonlight, then snorts and rolls her eyes. Would it have been THAT hard to fetch the water?

And the unkind hermit rocks back. Because her sister thinks—

Then she laughs because of course that’s what her sister thinks. Let her. Let her believe that the unkind hermit refused to help at all, that she fetched a cup of water only to dump it over the fairy’s head. Let her believe—

But her sister inches closer, frowning. “Did you get the water?”

The unkind hermit tsks at her, snatching orange lilies from the grass. If her sister has been leaving a trail like this, it’s no wonder the prince caught up so quickly.

Her sister exhales, long and slow, and pokes her sharply with the journal.

The unkind hermit hums insolently and pointedly looks away.

Her sister says a dirty word and throws vomit-petals straight at her face.

The unkind hermit recoils, batting away the flower. “Of course, I got the water,” she snaps. “I just wasn’t gracious about it.” And why should she have been? Why should a noble or fairy expect her to simper while doing them a favor they could easily do themselves? And anyway, why should the unkind hermit get her sleeves dirty just because they were cheaper sleeves? She hadn’t even wanted some magical blessing. Really, how many precious stones did one family need? She’d only gone because Mother had demanded it, and had been relieved when the old woman had disappeared. She’d even been stupid enough to think that—maybe this time—things really would get better. They’d be rich as thieves, after all. Mother would never have to work again. Surely, she’d finally be happy. Surely, they could all be a family once more.

Well. No one here is that stupid now.

The unkind hermit understands that a family once broken is broken forever. Her sister has no reason to love her, and there’s no point in hoping otherwise. Hope is a jinx, and she’s quite cursed enough. They’ll never be able to start over again.

But she won’t abandon her sister, either; doesn’t need to. This prince may be a monster, but he’s also a man, and men are fickle, bored so easily. When he gets tired of the chase, when he remembers that he’s a prince and doesn’t need anyone else’s gold, he’ll give up and return home. Then her sister will leave, choosing her next husband more carefully, and the unkind hermit will live here, alone. The story will make sense again. It has to, because if it doesn’t—

Then maybe the unkind hermit deserves a future, after all. Maybe she’s been suffering all these years for absolutely no reason.

Her sister watches her, gaze heavy. The unkind hermit doesn’t like the weight of it. She’s not sure she can withstand scrutiny; she’s not used to being seen.

She avoids her sister’s eyes, takes back the journal. Writes not a story, but a personal creed:

Snakes make better friends than fairies. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Then the unkind hermit gives her sister first watch, curls up in the dark, and falls asleep.

• • • •

Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The eldest looked like their mother, and so their mother loved her best. The youngest looked like their father, and so their father loved her best. But likely, neither parent loved either child very much. The sisters were pawns in a bitter game, one their father lost when he suddenly dropped dead.

The youngest tried to become everything Father wanted her to be. But she hadn’t understood what a caged-bird-woman that was. “Be kind,” he’d said, but he was not kind, not unless people fawned over him first. “Don’t question,” he’d said, because he didn’t like being questioned. Tantamount to nagging, the first of sins. “Don’t raise your voice,” because shrill noises were unpleasant, because women and children should be silent unless asked to speak. In the end, Father’s lessons boiled down to three things:

Don’t be like your mother.

Do what I say.

Marriage is hell. Accept it with a smile.

And the youngest learned it well. She and her sister both learned all the wrong things. Like that love always came with caveats and conditions. Like some people were simply too wicked to love.

But now, the youngest girl disagrees. Oh, she’d tried to believe such things once, but she’s loved too many terrible people: her father, her mother. Her murderer-husband. If she can still miss the man she’d once believed him to be, well. Perhaps no one is unlovable. Perhaps there are only people who cannot love.

You loved me once, Sister. Maybe you don’t anymore. Maybe you can’t anymore. Either way, I still love you. I don’t think I forgive you yet, but I love you, and you don’t deserve any of this. Not what Mother did—no child could deserve that. Not how Father treated you—you were stubborn and brave. And not how the fairy cursed you, either. You were a spiteful little shit, but you always told the truth.

I don’t forgive you, but I think maybe I could. If we only had more time.

But the prince will never stop. You don’t know him as I do. It’s not that he needs my diamond words; it’s that he wants them. That’s all it takes. He’ll capture us, and you’ll be—you, all defiance and self-loathing, and you are not allowed to die in some half-cocked bid for redemption. No one is allowed to die for me, not ever again.

I will go east and leave him a trail. Run fast as you can in the opposite direction. I might get a few happy days before he finds me. If not, well. Perhaps this was always my fate. I wish I could say I’d kill him, or die trying. I do dream about it, sometimes, choking him with my own hands—but violence has never been my strength. I don’t know how to be brave that way.

But this, at least, I can do. This is what I’m choosing to do, and not because of who Father raised me to be. This is who I’m fucking deciding to be.

I’ve left you the means for a happy ending. Take it, Sister, and live.

• • • •

The unkind hermit reads the story when she wakes the following morning, a pile of sapphires and snowdrops in place of her sister. She reads it again, then reads it again, then kicks a tree and probably breaks a toe.

She closes her eyes.

So, her sister has decided to play the martyr. How typical, how predictable. The unkind hermit is only angry because she should have seen it coming. It’s not because her sister had said I could forgive you and then left before that miracle could come true. It’s not because she’d freely offered her love, full well knowing it might never be returned. It’s not that the unkind hermit is sad or afraid; she isn’t, this is better, this is the best ending she could hope to get. Sapphires are better than sisters, after all. They’re beautiful, precious, infinitely more useful. She could buy herself new clothes, a real home. She could eat food born outside her own mouth.

She could have this future her sister’s given her.

But from the bottom of her spiteful, serpent heart: fuck letting her sister win.

“Help me,” the unkind hermit says, and catches the two snakes that fall from her lips. “Help me kill these men without killing my sister, and I’ll never eat any of you again.”

• • • •

The captive princess, once the runaway princess, once the youngest girl who only wanted to be good, wakes up in the middle of the night to the sounds of gurgling, terror, and asphyxiation.

She sits up as best she can, arms still bound behind her, and sees two large, red snakes slithering toward her. She freezes, but they don’t attack, just curl around her ankles like they’re waiting further instructions. Others have not been so lucky. The campsite is a veritable pit of toads and snakes, and the prince’s men are writhing and twitching against the ground. Her sister is pushing one quivering guard against a tree. She’s kissing him. She’s speaking a word into his mouth.

The guard claws at his throat, bloody froth dripping down his chin. Her sister wipes her own lips as he collapses face first into the grass.

She looks at the captive princess.

“That was a terrible story,” she says. “Just completely collapsed halfway through. Tell me a better one tonight, or I’ll let the snakes eat you.”

But her fingers draw two circles entwined in the air, and the captive princess’s breath catches because that means—

“Fuck off,” the captive princess says, smiling so wide, teary. “It’s your goddamn turn.”

Her sister laughs and turns away, and—oh, the prince is still alive. He’s been gagged, pale and bloody, tied down by snakes that are—too large, they’re just too large to have come out of her sister’s mouth. And yet.

“Any last words for him?” her sister asks, as the prince tries and fails to break free.

The captive princess considers that.

He’d demanded her stories too, once. She could tell him another one now, one where she and her sister leave these woods together, where they teach each other different ways to speak, different ways to survive. They’d find a house together, in this story, one bought by stones and defended by snakes. They’d learn to forgive one another, live with one another. They’d learn, slowly, what it means to be happy.

But he wouldn’t understand such an ending, and anyway, he doesn’t deserve any of her fucking stories.

So, the captive princess meets his eyes and only says, “Choke.”

A diamond the size of her fist tumbles out of her mouth. Her sister unties her and picks it up. She walks to the prince. Straddles him, ungags him. “Ah, ah, ah,” she says. “Open up.”

He makes such terrible little sounds when he dies.

The rescued princess stares at her husband’s dead face. Perhaps she feels sorrow deep down, perhaps guilt, but mostly she’s exhausted. Mostly relieved. Eventually, she drags herself to her feet, takes her sister’s hand.

“So,” she says, “about that story.”

Her sister grins.

“Once upon a time,” she says as they begin to walk, freely dripping snakes and stones behind them, “there were two sisters who found one another, who refused to die in the woods . . .”