Free Snow in Summer: Fairest of Them All: Fairest of Them All by Jane Yolen Page A

I.
    That room—I was sure of it as I was sure of anything—held the final secrets of the Craft. The ones that would make me a Master in my own right.
    I had managed to get an impression of the key as I toweled Master dry after a long, leisurely bath. Not trusting any locksmith with my desire, I’d made the key myself, pouring molten silver into a mold I’d created in secret. It had lain in my jewelry box, in a hidden compartment. And I waited—oh, I am good at waiting—till it was the hour of my fulfillment.
    Checking once more that the Master slept the sleep of the not-quite dead, I crept down to the cellar, took out the silver key, and opened the door of the forbidden room. It squawked at the intrusion. I hesitated, ready to shut it quickly and be at work in the main room should I hear his steps on the stairs. But then once again his stentorian snores from two floors above floated down the stairs. I pushed open the door completely and went in.
    There I found three things that I knew at once I had to make mine.
    The first was a book of secrets written in a large readable hand that even a child could pick out. Master had no need of writing in code. He had never expected anyone but himself to ever read his magic book.
    The second was a stone mortar, the pestle exactly fitting my hand. The Master’s hand, with its swollen knuckles, must have had a hard time using it. But the pestle might have been made especially for me.
    And the third was a mirror covered by a dark cloth.
    When I twitched the cloth off, there was a face in the glass, but not my own face. No, it was more a mask than a human likeness. It asked me my name and once I had said it—all my names, not just the one the Master called me—it told me to ask a question. After sorting through a dozen questions, I had about made up my mind when the door behind me swung open with a scream and Master was there.
    His punishments were swift, but not swift enough. Nor harsh enough. I had already memorized two of the enchantments in the book, the one that saved my mind from harm, and the other that showed me how to kill a man without anyone knowing, not even the Master himself. And I used them both, willingly and with complete understanding of what I was doing.
    So how could I let this silly child, this Snow in Summer, think to best me? Me, who had bested the Master?
    Yes, I punished her. I had to. I could show her no mercy. At least not for a while. I liked it that she was strong enough not to cry. It made the game even more interesting. If it turns out she’s a good foil, would make a fine apprentice, comes to the Magic willingly, then the seven years I take from her will be sweet and strong, like good wine.
    But if she balks, if she refuses my offer—as her father has, fighting my green magic with his own—well, she’ll make a lovely victim as well. The heart of a child new come to her womanhood, when stewed in cherries and brandy, is a powerful charm. If she won’t give me the seven years of new life, she will at least give me that.
    After several months of punishments, and the summer gone by, I let Snow think I was weakening. I even let her have a late birthday outing with her silly, puling Nan. It was an old trick but a good one.
    For the moment, she’s a useful tool: biddable, hardworking. As I was once for my Master. Besides, a girl’s first blood course is the best time for the most potent of the Master’s spells. Of course, if she must be killed, I can’t do it directly myself. Small towns make that deed—however tantalizing—too chancy. It might even rouse her papa from his befuddlement, which I can’t have. Or Cousin Nancy from her fear, though that is unlikely. I will have to be discreet. After all, the Craft is a subtle occupation, and I have much time ahead to figure out a promising plan.

•14•
    A PRESENT
    I was not sure when my sixth-grade teacher, Miss Alison, first noticed the burn marks on my fingers or the way my hair was often unplaited