The Poisoned Princess: A Snow White Retelling (The Skazka Fairy Tales)

DIMITRI

Something is wrong.

As we reach the cottage, my eyes scan the immediate surroundings. I find nothing blatantly concerning, but I can feel the unease of impending doom creeping up the base of my neck. We’ve been out for two days, traveling to and from the village to meet one of the men who promised us some insight into the castle and the way it operates. My sour mood might have something to do with the fact that he never showed. But it’s not just that—something is amiss. I glance over at Igor, the leader of our band of bogatyrs, and find the same calculating look on his face. Good. It’s not just me. We have to remain on full alert.

Turning to the others, I make a slashing motion with my left hand. They straighten up immediately, picking up on whatever tension Igor and I are feeling. The seven of us have been together for a long time. We can anticipate each other’s movements and moods, which comes in handy when faced with problematic situations.

On my left, Kostya leans in close enough that he can speak directly into my ear. “The stove has been lit recently. Heat is radiating off that area of the roof.”

Leave it to the scholar to have eagle eyes. I squint to see what he’s pointing at. After a moment, I can make out the slight distortion at the top of the roof. Honestly, I have no idea how he saw that, but that’s what makes him so vital to our group. He can always spot something none of the rest of us think to look for.

The sun is already up, so we don’t have the luxury of darkness. Pavel moves to my right, putting himself between me and Igor.

“What are we thinking? An ambush?” he asks.

“No one knows where we are,” Igor replies, shaking his head. “It’s something else.”

I’m not as optimistic about our hideout as he is, but I don’t say that out loud. The others are waiting for orders, so Igor gives them a firm nod and we separate. Arseniy and Yasha go right to cover the windows, while Kostya and Pavel move to the left. Maxim stays at our backs, and Igor and I take the front entrance.

We move together, as if enacting practiced choreography. There’s no need to exchange directions, we know what we’re doing. Years of training together—and now living together—makes us a well-oiled machine. I’ve finally seen one of those in town finally, after reading about them in books, so the expression officially makes sense.

When we reach the front door, I let Igor take the lead as usual. He has the experience and the know-how. I prepare to rush inside, but Igor surprises me by reaching for the door and pushing it open slowly. I don’t even have a moment to question before he slips inside. Shaking my head, I follow.

The smell of freshly baked dough immediately fills my senses. Whoever broke in apparently used the stove for…making buttermilk pancakes? I can see a dish filled to the brim with a clear cover in the stove’s entrance.

The next thing I notice is that dishes are laid out on the table, with utensils on either side. Eight plates, eight forks, eight knives, and a glass in front of each place setting. I can feel Maxim behind me, waiting to come in, but I’m still too confused to offer any kind of direction.

Igor walks farther into the room, past the table and into the living room area.

That’s when I notice the third thing. The place is cleaner than I’ve seen it in ages. The clothes have been folded into neat piles, and books have been put back on shelves. Someone definitely swept, because when we left, I’d made a mental note to do so when we returned. There was too much dried mud on the floor.

Igor stops abruptly, and I immediately step toward him. His eyes are on the couch and that is when I notice the last thing. There’s a girl sleeping on our furniture.

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, Igor is already dragging me back out of the house, past Maxim. He shuts the door behind us.

“What exactly are you doing?” I ask. He takes a few steps away from the door and makes a soft cooing noise with his mouth. The others return immediately, congregating around us.

“What is it?” Kostya is the first to ask, and we’re all looking at Igor intensely. Me, even more so. He doesn’t immediately reply, so I explain.

“There’s a girl on our couch. Sleeping soundly. It looks like she cleaned the house. And made breakfast.”

Even as I say it, I feel like I have stepped into an alternative time and place. Does this actually happen to people?

“A girl?”

“Girl?”

“A GIRL?”

“Breakfast?” That last response comes from Pavel, who takes his job as a cook very seriously.

I roll my eyes at the chorus of exclamations, just as Arseniy leans a little closer.

“A girl?”

The glare I send his way could sour milk but leaves him unfazed.

“You have seen one of those before, right?” I ask.

“Oh, I have. Seen and treated kindly. Boys, stand back. This one is on me.” He moves toward the door, just as Igor quickly grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back.

“No one is going anywhere. We need to figure out what she wants.”

“I’m not the scholar here,” Maxim, the baby of the bunch pipes up, “but wouldn’t it be easier if we just asked her?”

Six pairs of eyes turn to him, but he simply shrugs. He’s not wrong.

“I’m going to assume waking up to seven men might be a little traumatizing,” Igor says slowly. I now understand his hesitation. He’s the biggest and oldest of us, our leader in every way—including one way that matters a lot. He’s got a big heart.

“She might not be a damsel,” I point out, because that’s who I am. While Igor sees the good in people, I typically see the realistic.

“And she might be,” Igor replies, holding my gaze steady. We really don’t have time to deal with this. After the last two days, all I want is a bath and a long nap. We’ll be heading to the next village soon enough, and we have to rest in between, or we’re no good to anyone.

“You know, Dimitri, if you keep frowning like that, your face will get stuck,” Maxim says, right before he reaches over and pokes me in the cheek. I wrap my arm around his neck automatically, pulling him down in a headlock.

But he’s quicker than he was even a few months ago, and he’s already reaching for my stomach, wrapping his arms around me, and using his shoulder to push him down. Arseniy, as usual since he’s Maxim’s big brother, laughs the loudest. But then I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, a strange sort of awareness. I turn toward the cottage immediately and find the front door open and the girl standing there.

“Hmm,” she says, her voice rough from sleep. She scans our group and then her heavy-lidded gaze lands on me, making my stomach flip. Immediately, I stand up straighter, as if preparing for battle. “I thought kids lived here. I suppose I wasn’t too far off.”

Her lips curl up at the corners, just a bit, and I decide right then and there that I don’t like her.

IVANKA

This is definitely not what I was expecting. I stare at the seven men—dirty and rough are the two adjectives that come to mind—and tell my heart to stop trying to beat out of my chest. If I survived the forest and my stepmother’s attempt on my life, I can handle a few men.

The one who held the smiley one in a headlock is glaring at me. His piercing blue eyes seem to see right through me, and my chest feels heavy under his skeptical gaze. I have the sudden urge to run a hand through my hair, as if to make sure it isn’t a crazy mess. Instead, I curl my hands against my sides.

Maybe—no. I have to go through with this. I came up with a whole plan while I was cleaning and cooking. I can’t back down now, even though my expectations for residents were a little…different. This cottage is the perfect place for a hideout while I try to figure out my next move. And as unorthodox as it may be, I’m determined to stay. Granted, I expected a family with some kids. But I can work with this. I can.

I can.

“Prastite pozhalusta,” I say, bowing a little as I step out of the house and face them. “I had stumbled on your charming cottage in the middle of the night and sought refuge here. I’m sorry to cause trouble, but I made you some breakfast. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, but there is a whole dish inside. Please let me repay you for giving me a roof over my tired head last night.”

All of the words tumble out of me in a single breath. My head is still a little dizzy from the lack of sleep and food. I can feel the blue eyes staring at me, and I have to fight the urge to turn and glare back. I’m typically not one to do that, but maybe a near-death experience will change a person in unexpected ways.

“Would you please come in and eat?” I ask and then step back inside, motioning for them to join me. For a second, I think they won’t. But then the tallest one leads the way, and the others follow, crowding near the door.

None of them have spoken.

I know they can talk, because their voices woke me. I wonder if they’re in shock. Which will pass because there’s no way it won’t wear off. They just need to process. Maybe if I feed them?

“Here, sit, sit.” I wave my hands toward the table, then race over to the kitchen. My feet are raw from last night, covered with cuts that haven’t even begun to heal, and I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. This is not the time to show weakness. This is a time to show kindness, and I have plenty of that.

I kept the dish inside the warm stove, and now I carefully pull it out and take the lid off. Immediately, the smell of freshly baked dough intensifies in the air. I place the dish in the middle of the table on a pot holder and head back to the kitchen.

Grabbing a jar of jam and a jar of honey I found earlier, I turn to find all seven of the men staring at me. Again. I glance around them, as I bite my lower lip—while so many emotions race inside of me, the biggest one being fear. The door is to my right. It would be easy to head that way. But no, I’m not about to run away. I already did that this week. Once was enough.

“I promise it’s delicious, and nothing’s wrong with it.” I hurry back to the table, grabbing one of the plates I set out earlier and putting one of the oladi on it. Then I scoop out some jam, spreading it on top of the pancake. I stab a fork in it and raise it to my mouth, taking a huge bite.

“See,” I say the moment I swallow, “safe and delicious.”

One of the men looks like he’s having the time of his life watching me try to convince them to eat. He has a glimmer of laughter in his eye, and I offer him a genuine smile. He doesn’t hesitate to return it. He pulls a chair out and plops right down.

“She sold me,” he says, before reaching for his own oladi and jam. The rest make annoyed noises, as if this is normal behavior for him, while they too move toward the table and glance at the man at the head, his hands on the chair.

“Will you eat with us?” he asks me, and for a second, I think I’m about to lose the war with my tears. I nod instead, holding it in as I sit on the other side of the long table.

The men pile into their seats and, without another word, dig into the food. I finish off the single piece I’d grabbed earlier, doing my best not to look to the right of the man in front of me. Blue eyes is sitting there; he hasn’t taken his gaze off me.

My body is sore, my feet cut and probably bleeding again, and I have a nearly overwhelming urge to cry, but I hold my head high. I refuse to let any of them—especially blue eyes—see me break down.

I know I spent my whole life protected from everything and it’s probably made me naive and soft. But last night, when I was making oladi, I realized that I’m only as soft as I let myself be. If Queen Pelageya truly is as horrible as Anya said she is—and I have no reason not to believe her after what the queen tried doing to me—I will need to be strong to take back my throne. To take back my kingdom.

So I raise my chin and meet blue eyes straight on. Something flashes in his gaze as our eyes clash, but I don’t look away and neither does he. Then I do the only thing I can think of.

I smile.