‘Breakfast, sir?’ The voice came from the other side of the door and he pulled it open. The kitchen help stood there, a young boy of maybe fourteen or so. He stared at Snow White, a mixture of lust and awe, but the prince’s bride didn’t notice how inappropriate it was and simply sent a sweet smile his way.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Just put it on the bed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The tray held one glass of juice and one plate with warm bread and jam and some sliced meat and cheese. As the boy closed the door behind him, casting one longing look back at the princess, Snow White frowned.

‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘I ate in the market. I wanted to test it all and make sure it was good enough.’

She laughed again. ‘You’ll learn that I don’t have very fine tastes. I like ordinary things. I always have. They’re more real, aren’t they?’

She pulled the laces tight on her bodice and then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘This looks delicious.’ She smiled at him again, her eyes merry and twinkling at last. ‘Thank you for everything. For being so kind. And understanding. You didn’t have to. I’ll be a good wife to you. I promise.’

‘It’ll be perfect,’ he said, and watched as she raised the glass to her lips. There must have been something in his expression; a sudden hunger or urgency, because just before the liquid slipped down her throat, her eyes widened in sudden panic and darted sideways. He knew what she was looking at. His money pouch. It sat on the bed, thin and empty. The apple was gone. Crushed up into her glass. She looked back at him, the sparkle in her violet eyes replaced with a terrible sadness, and then the cup tumbled from her hand and spilled its cursed contents onto the floorboards which sucked it up greedily. She fell backwards onto the bed.

He kicked the cup under the bed and then lowered his face close to hers. No breath came from those perfect rosebud lips. Her eyes stared upwards, at nothing and everything. He stroked her cooling face. The apple was gone. And this time there was no chunk stuck in her throat that could be dislodged. He’d made sure of that by getting the cook to make a juice of it.

‘Hello again, my darling,’ he whispered, tucking a stray strand of hair carefully behind her ear. ‘I’ve missed you.’