Queen Grimhilde's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The carriage left the tower before dawn, the poisoned apple wrapped in cloth and nestled among the harmless ones. Grimhilde had dressed in the old woman's clothes, her face painted with wrinkles, her hair tucked beneath a gray wig. The horse pulled steadily through the forest until the road narrowed to a single track carved between ancient trees. Then she saw it. The bridge had collapsed. Stone arches lay broken in the ravine below, covered in moss and broken timber. The only carriage route to the cottage was gone. She climbed down and studied the gap. Too wide to cross, too deep to risk the wheels. The sun was already climbing through the branches. If she turned back now to find another road, night would fall before she reached the cottage, and the plan required daylight. She needed the girl to see the apple clearly, to trust the harmless old woman at the door. Grimhilde unhitched the horse and left the carriage where it stood. She would go on foot. The forest path split ahead. One trail led around the long way, safe but slow. The other cut straight through a section of woods marked by trees twisted into strange shapes, their trunks covered in thorns that looked like dragon scales. The thorns formed walls on either side of the narrow path, dense enough to block any other route. Grimhilde chose the shortcut. She pushed through branches that caught at her disguise and tore the fabric of her skirt. Thorns scraped her hands. The basket with the apple swung from her arm, protected. When she emerged from the thorn forest, the sun was still high enough. Blood dotted her sleeves and the old woman's costume was damaged, but the disguise held. More importantly, she had learned something. The forest itself would not stop her. No bridge, no barrier, no path too dangerous. She would reach the cottage before dark, and nothing Snow White could trust—not distance, not isolation, not the forest's protection—would keep her safe. Grimhilde adjusted the basket and kept walking.