Poisoned

PROLOGUE 

Once upon long ago, always and evermore, a girl rode into  the Darkwood. 

Her lips were the color of ripe cherries, her skin as soft as  new‑fallen snow, her hair as dark as midnight. 

The tall pines whispered and sighed as she passed under  them, the queen’s huntsman at her side. Crows, perched high  in the branches, blinked their bright black eyes. 

As the sky lightened, the huntsman pointed to a pond ahead  and told the girl that they must dismount to let the horses  drink. She did so, walking side by side with him. Lost in her  thoughts, she did not hear the soft hiss of a dagger leaving its  sheath. She did not see the huntsman lift his face to the dawn,  or glimpse the anguish in his eyes. 

A gasp of shock escaped the girl as the huntsman pulled  her close, his broad hand spanning her narrow back. Her eyes,  wide and questioning, sought his. She was not afraid—not yet.  She felt almost nothing as he slid the blade between her ribs,  just a slight, soft push and then a bloom of warmth, as if she’d  spilled tea down her dress. 

But then the pain came, red clawed and snarling.

The girl threw her head back and screamed. A stag bolted  from the brush at the sound. The crows burst from their roosts,  their wings beating madly. 

The huntsman was skilled. He was quick. He had gutted a  thousand deer. A few expert cuts with a knife so sharp it could  slice blue from the sky and the delicate ribs were cleaved, the  flesh and veins severed. 

The girl’s head lolled back. Her legs gave out. Gently, the  huntsman lowered her to the ground, then knelt beside her. “Forgive me, dear princess. Forgive me,” he begged. “This  foul deed was not my wish, but the queen’s command.” “Why?” the girl cried, with her dying breath. 

But the huntsman, tears in his eyes, could not speak. He  finished his grim task and got to his feet. As he did, the girl  got her answer. For the last thing she saw before her eyes  closed was her heart, small and perfect, in the huntsman’s  trembling hands. 

In the forest, the birds have gone silent. The creatures  are still. Gloom lingers under the trees. And on the cold  ground, a girl lies dying, a ragged red hole where her heart  used to be. 

“Hang the huntsman!” you shout. “Burn the evil queen!”  And who would fault you? 

But you’ve missed the real villain. 

It’s easily done. He’s stealthy and sly and comes when you’re  alone. He stands in the shadows and whispers his poison. His  words drip, drip, drip into the small, secret chambers of your  heart. 

You think you know this tale, but you only know what you’ve been told. “Who are you? How do you know these  things?” you ask. 

Fair questions, both. 

I am the huntsman. Dead now, but that’s no matter. The  dead speak. With tongues blackened by time and regret. You  can hear us if you listen. 

You will say that I’m telling you tales. Fairy stories. That  it’s all make‑believe. But there are more things afoot in the  Darkwood than you can imagine, and only a fool would call  them make‑believe. 

Keep to the path, the old wives say. Stay out of the forest. But one day, you will have to walk deep into those dark  woods and find what’s waiting there. 

For if you do not, it will surely find you.