‘Oh, there is no one quite like Snow White. You’ll know when you’ve found her.’ She turned to face him. ‘But just in case . . .’ She tilted her head back, her neck as slim and pale and strong as the swans’ on the great lake, and opened up a locket at her throat. He leaned closer, to both look and also to feel her heat again. He had been on the road a long time and there had been plenty of danger and little earthly pleasure. He tore his eyes away from her pale skin and looked at the pictures. On one side was the image of a middle-aged man; thick-set and piggy eyed. If this image was a flattering likeness then the huntsman was not surprised the queen was so unhappy. The other frame held the image of a full-lipped dark-haired beauty whose eyes, even trapped by an artist’s pen, danced with merriment and joy at life.

‘I want her heart,’ the queen said softly, before snapping the locket shut. ‘You will bring it to me or I will cut yours out myself.’ From within the folds of her delicate gown, she pulled out a hunting knife. ‘Finest dwarf silver and steel. It will make it quick. And don’t even think about running. The forest is deep but my guards will find you.’

She didn’t hand him the knife but instead stepped closer, tugged at his belt and holstered it there. He looked down at the swell of her breasts trapped tightly in the bones of her dress. He was hardening and her hands were so close he wondered if she was aware of it.

He was still covered in dirt and sweat and both the stag’s dried blood and his own, and her fingers drifted across the stains on his clothes as if fascinated by them. Finally she looked up at him and he could see in the endless lakes of her eyes, where good and bad and everything in between darted like fish in their icy depths, that she knew exactly what effect she was having on him.

‘Why are you so sad?’ he asked.

She pulled back slightly, shocked. ‘Why would you say that?’

He moved fast, reaching in and taking her face in his hands. His mouth was on hers, soft and sweet and so far from the taste of the forest, before she could stop him. His tongue pushed against her protesting one for a long moment and then she broke free. She stared at him, panting slightly, and for the first time she looked like a young woman rather than a queen.

‘I can taste it on you,’ he said.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Not exactly royal language.’ He laughed aloud, unable to stop himself. ‘Dragged up in the streets, were you, before the king found you?’

‘You know nothing about me,’ she spat at him. ‘Nothing.’