Snow

It wasn't that the King couldn't govern. It was that he didn't want to. He listened to his ministers'

reports and agreed that food had to be imported, that something had to be done. He said all the right things and nodded at all the right times, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. His ministers weren't bad men, but they were men and the temptation to earn a fortune was too much for them to resist. Food prices grew, new taxes added seemingly every day, and the people began to spit whenever the King was mentioned, to grimace and curse his name. They remembered that the Queen had been from a strange place, a forest closed tight around itself, and that with her death it had grown stranger still, and cursed her name as well.

The only thing that could rouse the King was the sight of a mirror. He'd had all of them removed after the Queen died, declared them banned from his sight. A minister surprised by a morning visit from the King was caught arranging what was left of his hair by peering into one propped up against an open dresser drawer. His head rolled across the great courtyard that very day and the people dared to hope a little. Perhaps the King knew how they were suffering. Perhaps he cared.

Nothing changed. The minister's belongings were burned, the mirror melting down to a silver puddle. It kept snowing.

***

David saw his father for the first time when he was three. He was trailing down the hall after his nurse, distracted by the windows they were passing. They were covered with a thick layer of ice, rendering the outside world nothing more than a blur of glazed crystal white.

His father was on his way to his afternoon meeting with the ministers. He was not thinking of anything or anyone as he walked down the hall, but the sight of the nurse caused him to stop for a moment, peer at her cowering against the wall. He thought perhaps he remembered her.

Then he noticed the boy behind her. The boy didn't see him. He was staring out the windows, trying to see, and the King saw his wife's face etched in the boy's own, written in his cheekbones and the shape of his chin, the curve of his forehead. It made him smile. He bent down and peered at the boy, then turned to the nurse and said, “How old is he?” The nurse cowered back further against the wall. "Three," she said softly, and then added, "Your Majesty" in a tripping rush.

The King touched his son's head, ruffled his dark hair. He opened his mouth to greet him, a tiny portion of his heart thawing, waking up.

Then his son looked at him. He gazed up at his father with eyes the King knew. The last time he'd seen them his wife had been staring at him sightless and bloodied on the floor, jagged cold silver pieces of mirror all around her.

He walked away. He did not meet his ministers. He went to his rooms and stayed there for five days. On the sixth day he emerged, told the waiting ministers he was ready to begin his day.

"Would you like to see your son?" one of them asked. His name was Hugh, and he nurtured hopes that the King had drifted so far into melancholy that overthrowing him would be as simple as a question of seven words. He'd told his wife of his plan the previous night, watched her dream of a crown and jewels. He'd dreamed of removing her head with a sword and marrying her cousin, a young maiden who was forever watching him with shyly downcast eyes.

The King stared at him. "I have no son," he said softly, and motioned for his guards. Hugh's head rolled across the courtyard that afternoon. His wife entered a convent and found God to be a far more satisfactory husband.

After that day the King came back to life. He began to take an interest in his kingdom. He discovered what his ministers had done. He had their heads removed, a river of blood racing across the courtyard until the next day's snowfall erased it. He promised that things would be better and they were. Food became affordable again and the feral starved eyes that gleamed out of everyone's face gradually disappeared.

It continued to snow. There was talk of curses still, but mostly late at night as slurred whispers over cups of ale. Occasionally a prophet would proclaim that there was a way to end the snow. A few of them spoke so convincingly that people believed and gave away everything they had or traveled to faraway lands where all they found were slave traders waiting to make a profit from them.

The snow never stopped falling. The prophets all either lost their heads or were shunned, wandering wrecked through the kingdom cursed by everyone they met.

***

The day the King announced he would marry again the snow stopped for seven hours and when it started again it fell as a light mist so fine most people scarcely noticed it.

That was the day David's nurse told him he was going to be getting a brother and sister. The nurse noticed that it stopped snowing after she'd given David the news but thought nothing of it.

She was just happy to see him smile. She hadn't been sure he could until that day.