He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the young man until he had staggered up the other side of the mound and was almost beside the coffin. The mouse scurried into the bushes. Dreamy reached for his knife. The stranger was tall and broad and framed in late-afternoon sunshine that danced on his dirty blond hair. He was handsome. He was also injured. Dreamy got to his feet, and moved forward quickly to catch his arm as he fell.

‘Thank you,’ the stranger mumbled, as Dreamy lowered him carefully to the ground. He wasn’t a soldier, not from this land at any rate, and although his clothes were dirty they were made from fine fabrics. Both the hilt of his sword and his red cloak carried the same insignia. A lit torch shining through a golden crown. He was royal this one; a prince perhaps. But not of this kingdom.

‘Here. Drink.’ He handed over his flask and the prince drank greedily from it, not caring that it was heady beer and not water. His pale skin glistened with sweat; a thick sheen that had nothing to do with the warm summer’s day.

‘I must find my companion,’ he said, eventually. ‘He’s been gone for days. I think.’ He frowned. ‘I’m losing track of time.’

‘You’re injured,’ Dreamy said. It was clear the man had a fever. His eyes were brilliant blue, but flecked with red and his whole body trembled. Dreamy pulled the cloak back slightly and the young man winced. A bandage of sorts was wrapped around his middle but blood had leaked through and dried, mixed with mud, on the once-white linen shirt. Whatever injury lay beneath was festering. It would need attention or the dwarves would have a second lifeless royal body on their hands.

‘You should come back to my cottage,’ he said. ‘We can—’

‘What is this?’ The prince’s eyes narrowed as he pulled away from the dwarf and leaned over towards the glass coffin containing Snow White’s perfect form. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said. His voice was as dry as whispering baked autumn leaves and, hearing a strange nervousness in his tone, Dreamy wondered when he’d last drunk or eaten properly. Had he lost his way to the river? How long had he been wandering?

The prince’s face was so close to the glass that his sickly breath condensed on it and Snow’s beautiful face was almost lost from view. He frowned again.

‘Yes, she is,’ Dreamy said, simply. ‘She was cursed by a crone. She seems to be neither completely dead nor alive.’ His heart broke all over again saying the words aloud.

‘Cursed?’ The prince’s head darted round. Why did he look so wary? ‘In what way, cursed?’