She pulled tighter, the laces burning her cold fingers like rope and Snow White gasped.

‘Not too tight, your Majesty,’ the other maid stepped forward. This one was bolder. Older perhaps, and her eyes met the queen’s. ‘I can do it.’

‘You will stay silent,’ Lilith spat, and the girl, whatever bravery she might have had, slunk back a few steps like a scolded cat.

‘It is really tight,’ Snow White said, her voice small. ‘I’m not sure I can breathe properly.’

‘That’s how it should be.’ The stays secured, the queen stepped back. Her fingers flashed white against pink and burned where she’d pulled the laces so tight. ‘There. Now you look like a proper princess. Of course you won’t be able to ride like that. And if you have hidden some other clothes somewhere . . .’ The darting glance from Snow White confirmed that was the case, ‘. . . then don’t even think about changing into them.’

‘I’ll ride anyway,’ Snow White said. Her faced had paled.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Lilith said. ‘You can’t.’

‘You can’t stop me!’ The girl pushed past her and stormed out into the corridor. ‘I’ll do what I want!’

Lilith stared at the door. There was no way she could go riding, not in that dress. She was just having a tantrum. Always the child. Always so child-like.

‘I’m surprised she hasn’t broken a rib,’ one of the servants muttered. ‘Far too tight.’

Lilith ignored them both and strode out of the room. The boy was due back at any moment and she had more to think about than the disapproval of a pair of foolish maids. Her fingertips still felt numb from working on the rough stays. She thought of Snow White’s soft skin that would be rubbed by the bone and pinched by the tightness of the bindings.

Good, she thought bitterly. Good.

The queen was never fooled by Aladdin. He always returned full of simpering smiles and obsequious comments but she knew that, underneath them all, he hated her. No, he loathed her. Of course he did. No one ever liked anyone they were beholden to, or who controlled them. That was the nature of people; more than that, Aladdin simply wasn’t a very pleasant child. Even by Lilith’s standards.

He was standing in front of her, perhaps thirteen years old, as he always would be, wearing the same clothes he wore on any of these trips – the only clothes he could possibly wear, and his dark eyes danced in that Arabian face which was made to be the subject of tales in market places where snakes danced to tunes played by weathered men. He bowed.