Chapter 59

Two years passed.

I learned their names: Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy, Dopey. I learned their routines, their preferences, their tempers. Doc was the leader, thoughtful and fair. Grumpy complained about everything but was secretly kind. Happy whistled while he worked. Bashful couldn’t make eye contact with me for the first six months.

I learned to cook—really cook. I learned to make bread that didn’t burn, stew that wasn’t watery, porridge that didn’t stick to the pot. I learned to scrub floors, mend clothes, tend the small garden behind the cottage.

I cut my hair short—not princess-length anymore, just a practical crop that I kept tucked under a kerchief. I wore their old shirts and patched trousers, stained my face with a bit of ash to hide my pale skin. When I went to the village for supplies, I was just Rose Red, the dwarves’ niece, quiet and unremarkable.

Most people didn’t look twice at me.

Some did. I caught a few men staring sometimes—the baker’s son, the blacksmith’s apprentice. But I kept my head down, didn’t meet their eyes, and they lost interest quickly enough.

I was eleven now. Taller than I’d been at nine, but still small. Still learning. Still thinking about the mirror’s words, about my mother, about the Huntsman and his mercy and the promise I’d made.

When I have power, I’ll remember.

I would. I swore I would.

That day, I was picking berries in the woods near the cottage—blackberries for a pie the dwarves had been asking about. The sun was warm, the forest quiet except for birdsong and the rustle of leaves.

Then I heard voices.

I froze, listening.

“—where are you going, little one, all alone?”

A girl’s voice, young, maybe a year older than me: “To my grandmother’s. With food. She’s ill.”

I crept closer, staying hidden behind the bushes. Through the leaves, I could see them.

A girl in a red hooded cloak, holding a basket. And one of the Wolf people.

He had Gray and black fur, yellow eyes, sharp teeth visible when he smiled. His clothes were well-made but worn, and he moved with a predator’s grace.

The girl should have been terrified.

She wasn’t.

“All alone?” the Wolf asked, circling her slightly. “A young girl shouldn’t be alone in the woods. There are dangers.”

“I’ve walked this path my whole life.”

“Have you?” His voice was amused, intelligent. “And yet they still warn you about it. Still tell you to be careful. To stay on the path. Not to talk to strangers. Are you talking to a stranger now?”

The girl lifted her chin. “They warn me about everything. Stay on the path. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t encourage the boys. Wait for Father to choose. Be good. Be modest. Be appropriate.”

Something in her voice—frustration, anger, longing—made me lean forward, straining to hear.

“They call you a girl when it suits them,” the Wolf said softly. “A child who needs protection. But a woman when they need your labor, your obedience, your eventual marriage into some useful alliance. You’re whatever serves them best in the moment.”

“Yes,” the girl breathed. “Yes, exactly.”

“And what do you want?” he asked. “Right now. Not what you’re supposed to want. Not what’s appropriate. What do you want?”

I held my breath, watching her face. She was pretty—dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of face that would make men look. The kind of face that would cause problems.

The kind of face I had.

“I like you,” she said suddenly. “You don’t pretend. You don’t tell me it’s for my own good while taking choice away. You just ... ask.”

The Wolf extended his hand—large, clawed, dangerous.

She took it.

They walked together, deeper into the woods, away from the path. The girl in her red hood and the Wolf Man, hand in hand.

I watched them disappear into the trees.

I should have felt something. Shock, maybe. Concern. But all I felt was a strange understanding.

She was choosing. For herself. Whatever happened next—good or bad, safe or dangerous—it would be her choice.