Snow White and the Dragon (or, Sleeping Beauty and the Seven Dwarfs)

What would happen if Sleeping Beauty had to create a poisoned apple, and Snow White faced off against a dragon? Fairy tales meet As a baby, Rose was cursed to meet a mysterious fate on her thirteenth birthday . . . but no one bothered to tell Rose that until a week before she turns thirteen. And a week’s not nearly enough time to figure out what to do when she’s suddenly whisked from her Dreamwood cottage to a strange palace--trapped with an evil queen who hands her an apple . . . Princess Snow is preparing for the ceremony that will prove she’s fit to rule her kingdom. The problem? Her wicked stepmother. The other problem? Without warning, she finds herself in the middle of the Dreamwood, where, on top of all her other problems, she has to worry about . . . a sleeping curse. Happily-ever-after couldn’t feel farther away. Can Rose escape the curse that’s followed her since birth? And can Snow save her kingdom from her stepmother? For other Princess Swaps, don''t miss <Cinderella and the Beast (or, Beauty and the Glass Slipper)<!

Auteur
Kim Bussing writes fairy tales for children and adults, and is the author of the Princess Swap series. She has an MFA from the University of Arizona, and her shorter work has appeared in various publications and has received several awards. Kim is obsessed with The Phantom of the Opera and gluten-free croissants. Originally from Seattle, Washington, she currently lives in Tucson, Arizona.

Texte du rabat

"Sleeping Beauty and Snow White find themselves swapped into each other's fairy tales"--

Échantillon de lecture
1

Snow

It’s over.

It’s always over.

Sometimes Snow just gets a little farther.

“This section of the city’s closed to the public, miss.”

Two guards pace forward, dawn glancing off the heavy plated helmets.

“Fine,” Snow declares, stuffing the paper bag within her cloak so they won’t see it. “I’ll go the other way.”

This part of the city isn’t usually closed--it’s one of Snow’s favorite shortcuts--but what’s more important than arguing is making sure the guards don’t recognize her. She’ll take any route as long as the queen doesn’t hear where she is.

Well. Temporary queen.

“Hang on a moment,” the guard says slowly. “I know who you are.”

Snow’s seen the guards not notice a family of small gnomes stealing an entire suckling pig from a market stand. If only they could be as equally unobservant today.

“You probably don’t,” Snow tries.

“It’s her,” one mutters. His eyes widen. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“The streets aren’t very safe for a young lady to walk alone,” the other insists. She’ll call him Captain Boot Licker. “Especially a certain young lady.”

Snow pinches the inside of her elbow to remind herself not to make a face that would get her into more trouble.

“The streets are very safe,” she says. “Unless you two haven’t been doing your job?”

“We do our jobs,” Boot Licker promises.

Snow tugs her hood tighter over her black waves. Her stepmother has been very strict about Snow not leaving the castle, and Snow would prefer that her stepmother think she’s dutifully obedient. It might be a hard sell at this point, but Snow’s never one to give up. She’s also not given up being disobedient when the mood strikes.

She whistles, a quiet song that she can’t remember where she learned but has known her entire life.

“What are you doing?” one of the guards says suspiciously.

“Be nicer,” the other guard scolds. “It might be her.”

But before they can continue to debate who Snow may or may not be, there’s a rustling of wings and a shadow blots out the sun.

“Wha--”

A large winged thing streaks across the sky, launching itself at the guards. They shriek, scrambling away.

“Attack!” one screams. “We’re under attack!”

In the commotion, Snow darts to the bustling High Street, where it’s easy to get lost in the crowds. Despite what the guards think, out of all the cities in Reverie, Apfel is the safest, as long as you stick to the right neighborhoods.

Like Reverie’s other five capital cities, it shares the same name as its kingdom; but unlike the others, it’s plopped straight in the middle of the Dreamwood, with no walls around it. Warlocks dine at cafes, next to ogresses sipping tea and teacup-sized pixies seated on sugar cubes. Wood nymphs lead art classes in the parks; famous fairies attend local balls if the costume theme is interesting enough.

In capital cities like Miravale and Coralon, the worst a pickpocket might face is a night in jail. In Apfel, picking the wrong pocket could get you turned to stone by an annoyed witch. Risks like that encourage better behavior.

As Snow trots up the narrow road winding to the castle, the shadowy shape streaks across the sky again. Snow grins. The raven lands on her shoulder, nuzzling Snow’s hair.

“Good job, Newton,” she says, stroking the bird’s back.

Apfel Castle sits high on a hill, its white spires topped with steep blue roofs, and the path to get there is crowded, especially at this time of year, when the trees are brilliant with red and gold leaves. Some people come here on royal business or to tour the castle, but most come for the view: the Dreamwood cascading around them, which doesn’t seem so dangerous from here. The large lake at the base of the hill is dotted with a few swans. From this far away, they look like white flowers.

In the main courtyard, vendors roast candied nuts for the tourists; the nobles, wrapped in furs, hurry between buildings. A woman sings for alms near the small chapel. Keeping her head ducked down, Snow drops whatever coins she has into the woman’s tin.

Snow yanks off the cloak’s hood. She inhales the smell of sugared almonds. Maybe she could sneak a few. . . .

“Princess!” a noblewoman exclaims, and curtsies, and Snow smiles tightly as she rushes past.

“Princess!” a young servant girl murmurs, curtsying.

“Princess!” a merchant lord smirks, bowing.

The odd part about being a princess is that everyone knows you and talks about you, but you don’t know most of them. She thought she would get over it as she got older, but it only feels stranger. And a little lonelier.

“Princess.”

This time Snow stops short, and Newton takes off, a black streak winding through the castle to Snow’s quarters.

Amalia folds her arms over her chest. She’s not dressed for the cold, like she’s daring it to try to bother her. “It’s not seemly for a princess to be seen dashing around.”

Amalia is Queen Consort Lucille’s damafrau. When Snow becomes queen, she’ll be Snow’s. Amalia is the queen’s right hand, assisting with affairs of state and enforcing court policies; she’s been here as long as Snow’s been alive. And no matter what Snow does, Amalia treats her only with annoyance. “I’m not dashing,” Snow says. “Maybe you’re just . . . moving too slowly.”

Amalia doesn’t seem amused. She never does. She has the same sense of humor as a block of iron, which she somewhat resembles, from her metal-colored curls to her rigid dresses and her terrible clogs, which make an echoing clop-clop-clop. At least they warn you when she’s coming.

“Be careful, Princess,” Amalia says with a slight bow. “Not everyo…