Beneath the Apple Tree

 

Beneath the Apple Tree

 

We buried him under the apple tree.

 

Not because it was a place he loved, but because it was the only place the earth was soft enough to dig in winter. The other woman swung the shovel like she’d been born to it, cheeks flushed, black hair plastered to her forehead. I held my skirts with one hand, my belly with the other. I was six months along. She was seven.

 

Funny, isn’t it, how fairy tales forget the parts that matter.

 

When he came home the other night smelling of apple blossoms, I knew where he’d been. There’s only one woman in the whole world who wore the scent of apple blossoms like perfume. 

 

The next day, I went to see her. 

 

She opened the door before I knocked, eyes soft with pity.

 

“I thought you knew,” she whispered.

 

Perhaps I should have. Doesn’t every girl in every kingdom know the story of the prince who saved them? But fairy tales leave out what happens afterward. One prince saves a girl from a life of drudgery; another saves a girl from an evil queen. You didn’t expect the prince to be one and the same.

 

“He married me first,” I said.

 

“He married me last,” she said. “I carry his heir”.

 

I rested a hand on my abdomen. “So do I.”

 

The silence between us shifted. Not jealousy. Survival.

 

“He loves you, Cinderella,” she said softly. “He always has.”

 

“Yet he comes to you at night.”

 

We confronted him the next day. He never saw it coming. She poured the apple tea as I closed the shutters. Snow White held him when he fell, grasping his throat, eyes wide with betrayal. 

 

Then we buried him under the apple tree.

 

After all, Snow White and I have kingdoms to run.