They had worked quickly, and were on the road within an hour. Dreamy had cleared the evidence from the cottage and then they lifted the coffin onto the back of the dusty wooden cart and covered it with an old blanket before surrounding it with firewood and bags of potatoes and old vegetables in the hope that it would pass at least a brief inspection. They’d harnessed the dwarves’ old, tired pony, that had done no more than the occasional trip to market for years, and the forest had let them through.

The first half an hour had been a tense affair until they were away from the main tracks and onto rockier, less well-used terrain. The dwarf led them, the pony responding best to his familiar clicks and tugs on the rein, and the prince brought up the rear. They didn’t speak much and the prince didn’t mind. The quiet meant the dwarf was focused and on the lookout for danger. For his own part, he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, hidden beneath his cloak which was turned inside out and covered in mud to darken its colours. He might look like a thief, he’d decided, but he certainly didn’t look like a travelling prince.

He rested one hand on the cart and wished Snow White’s frozen face wasn’t hidden from both him and the sunlight. He hated the thought of that stinking blanket covering her like a shroud. She was too beautiful and tragic and perfect for that. Dreamy was right, she was safer this way, but he didn’t have to like it. There was nothing noble or regal about being transported in fear, on the back of a dirty cart. Maybe when he got back to the castle he’d change the story. For her sake, as much as his. He remembered his injury and all that came before he’d wandered and found the dwarves. He shuddered. There would be a few stories that would have to be changed. But still, the dwarves had saved his life and brought him this sleeping beauty, and for that he would forever be grateful. When he was home he would send riches back to them as a reward.