Snow White & Rose Red

People in the valley called them Snow White and Rose Red, although neither name had been given at birth, and anyone who assumed from the way the two women shared a cottage, a garden, a pantry, an argument, and nearly every hour of every day that they must therefore be sisters had only to watch them look at one another for a little too long to understand how very wrong that assumption was. Snow White had come to the valley first. She was thirty-one then, a quiet woman with hair black enough to shine blue beneath moonlight and a complexion so pale that the widow who had owned the cottage before her declared, after seeing her standing among the winter roses, that she looked as though she had been carved from the first snow of the year. Rose Red arrived the following spring, twenty-nine, red-haired, loud when she laughed, quicker with an opinion than with an apology, and carrying everything she owned in one battered trunk. She had intended to stay three nights. Three nights became a week. A week became a month. By the time autumn browned the meadow grass, there were two cups beside the washbasin, two cloaks hanging behind the door, two pillows on the bed in the loft, although Rose continued for several increasingly ridiculous weeks to insist that she slept on the little couch downstairs. And then winter came. The evening that changed everything began with snow. It had been falling since noon, thick enough to bury the garden wall and turn every branch into white lace, and Rose stood outside the cottage beneath the lantern with a basket of firewood balanced against one hip while Snow White tried, unsuccessfully, to untangle a strand of frozen rose vine from Rose’s cloak. “Stop moving.” “I am not moving.” “You are moving now.” “That is because your fingers are freezing against my neck.” Snow White glanced up. Rose was smiling. Not her usual mischievous smile, not the grin she wore when she had managed to trade six eggs for twelve or persuaded a farmer to give her two measures of flour while charging everyone else for three, but something quieter, something that softened her entire face. Snow White’s fingers stopped against the clasp of Rose’s cloak. For a moment neither woman spoke. Snowflakes settled in Rose’s red hair. “You have one here,” Snow said. “Where?” Snow lifted her hand and brushed a melting flake from Rose’s temple. Rose did not move. “You missed one.” “Where?” “Here.” Rose touched Snow’s cheek. Snow’s breath caught. Rose’s thumb lingered there for only a second before she pulled away and said, far too brightly, “We should go inside.” “Yes.” “It is cold.” “Very.” “And you are staring at me.” Snow turned toward the door. “I am not.” “You absolutely are.” “You have snow in your hair.” “So do you.” “That proves nothing.” “It proves winter has excellent taste.” Snow laughed despite herself. Rose looked delighted. “There,” Rose said. “I knew I could make you do it.” “Do what?” “Laugh when you are trying very hard not to.” Snow opened the door. “Bring the wood inside.” “That is not a denial.” “Rose.” “Yes, Snow?” “Inside.” Rose walked past her, deliberately brushing shoulder against shoulder. “Bossy woman.” “Impossible woman.” “Yet you keep me.” Snow shut the door behind them and whispered, so softly that Rose did not hear, “Yes.” The storm worsened after dark. Wind rattled the shutters and sent powdery snow through cracks around the door, while inside the cottage the fire burned high and golden and the two women settled into their familiar evening places, Snow White stitching beside the hearth and Rose reading aloud from a book she claimed to dislike but had somehow reached the final third of. Rose had just declared the heroine an idiot for the fourth time when something struck the cottage door. Once. Then again. Rose lowered the book. “Did you hear that?” “Yes.” A third blow shook the latch. Rose stood. Snow caught her wrist. “No.” Rose looked at her. “Someone is outside.” “Or something.” “So we leave it there?” “In this storm?” “That is precisely my argument.” “That is not an argument. That is you deciding to open the door.” Rose grinned. “You know me very well.” “I know you alarmingly well.” They approached together. Rose took the iron poker. Snow lifted the latch. The door flew inward beneath the force of the wind, sending snow across the floor. And filling nearly the entire doorway stood a bear. Rose screamed. The bear recoiled. Snow screamed because Rose screamed. Then Rose raised the poker. “Wait,” Snow shouted. “For what?” “For him to explain himself?” The bear lowered its enormous head. And then, to their astonishment, it spoke. “Please.” Rose’s poker dropped three inches. Snow stared. The bear continued, in a deep, rough voice that sounded strangely weary rather than threatening. “Do not strike me. I mean you no harm. I am half frozen, and the storm has covered the path to my den.” Rose looked at Snow. Snow looked at Rose. Rose whispered, “The bear talks.” “I noticed.” “What do we do?” Snow considered the enormous creature filling the doorway. Then she stepped aside. “Come in.” Rose turned to her. “You’re letting him in?” “He’ll freeze out there.” “Snow, he is a bear.” “A very polite bear.” The bear hesitated. Rose pointed the poker. “One bite and I make a rug of you.” “Rose.” “I am establishing rules.” The bear lumbered inside. Once the door was shut and the bear lay beside the fire, Rose’s courage returned in full. “What is your name?” The bear blinked. “Do bears usually have names?” Snow asked. “They talk. I think names are now the least surprising possibility.” The bear gave something like a sigh. “I have had many names.” Rose sat on the floor opposite him. “That means you have one you do not want to tell us.” “Rose.” “What?” “You interrogate everyone.” “It is how I learn things.” “It is how merchants give you discounts so you will leave.” The bear made an unmistakable sound. Rose narrowed her eyes. “Did he laugh at me?” “Yes,” Snow said. “I like him less now.” But she brought him a bowl of warm milk anyway. Snow sat beside the bear and ran her hand gently over the wet fur at his shoulder. “You have a wound.” “It is old.” “Old wounds still hurt.” The bear looked at her. For some reason, that gaze unsettled her, because there was understanding in it, more understanding than any animal should have possessed. Rose knelt beside them with a blanket. “You are looking at her strangely.” The bear turned toward Rose. “Jealous?” Rose almost dropped the blanket. Snow froze. “I beg your pardon?” The bear lowered his head to his paws. “Nothing.” Rose stared at Snow. Snow became extremely interested in the bear’s wounded shoulder. After a moment Rose said, “I dislike magical creatures.” “You liked him two minutes ago.” “I have reconsidered.” They kept the bear overnight. Then again the following evening when the storm returned. And the evening after that. Soon he began appearing each night just before darkness, and although he never gave them his name or explained how he had learned to speak, he told stories of distant mountains, ruined castles, and deep forest places where streams ran over beds of silver. But it was not the bear that Snow White found herself watching. It was Rose. Rose asleep against the hearth with her red hair spilling over one shoulder. Rose laughing when the bear stole an apple. Rose kneeling in the snow to mend the fence. Rose climbing into the loft at night and saying, as she always did, “Move over,” even though there was plenty of room. One night Snow lay awake beside her. “Rose?” “Mmm?” “Are you awake?” “No.” “I wanted to ask you something.” “Then I am awake.” Snow swallowed. “When you came here last spring… why did you stay?” Rose opened her eyes. For once she did not answer immediately. “I told you.” “You said you liked the valley.” “I do.” “You said the cottage was comfortable.” “It is.” “You said you had nowhere urgent to go.” “I didn’t.” Snow turned toward her. “But those were not the reasons.” Rose stared into the darkness between them. “No.” “What was?” Rose sighed. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” “You.” Snow stopped breathing. Rose continued before she could answer. “I stayed because of you, Snow. I stayed because on the second morning I woke up and you were outside in the rain tying cloth around the broken limb of an apple tree as though it were a wounded soldier, and I thought I had never seen anyone treat a tree so tenderly, and then you came inside soaked through and scolded me because I had used the last of the honey.” “You used all of it.” “I was making breakfast.” “You poured half the jar into porridge.” “It was excellent porridge.” “It was syrup.” Rose smiled. Then her expression softened. “And I thought, perhaps I could stay near this woman a little longer.” Snow’s heart beat painfully. “A little longer became nine months.” “Yes.” “Why?” Rose looked directly at her. “You know why.” Snow did know. That was the frightening part. She reached across the blanket. Her fingers stopped an inch from Rose’s hand. Rose looked down. Then quietly, without a joke or smile, she closed that inch herself. Their hands touched. Neither woman slept for a long time. Winter eventually surrendered. The snow melted. The bear disappeared into the forest one bright March morning after standing at the garden gate longer than usual. “You will return?” Snow asked. “When you need me.” Rose folded her arms. “That is an annoyingly mysterious answer.” “I have spent months learning from you.” “Then you should know I prefer directness.” The bear looked at Snow, then at Rose. “Some things become clear only when they are no longer hidden.” Rose frowned. “That sounded pointed.” “It was.” And the bear vanished between the trees. Spring transformed the valley. White roses climbed the cottage wall. Red roses bloomed around the gate. Snow White planted herbs while Rose ignored every instruction she received and somehow produced better strawberries. One morning they were gathering flowers near the meadow when their hands reached for the same red rose. Rose’s fingers landed over Snow’s. Neither moved. “We appear to have a problem,” Rose said. Snow smiled faintly. “Only one?” “I want that rose.” “So do I.” “We could fight.” “You would lose.” Rose stared. “Did Snow White just threaten me?” “I stated a fact.” “You are becoming dangerous.” “I blame my company.” Rose leaned closer. Their faces were only inches apart. “Snow.” “Yes?” “If I kissed you…” Snow’s fingers tightened around the rose stem. Rose’s voice grew quiet. “…would you be angry?” “No.” Rose swallowed. “Would you be frightened?” “Yes.” Rose’s smile disappeared. Snow hurried to add, “Not of you.” “Then of what?” Snow looked at their joined hands. “Of how much I want you to.” Rose became utterly still. Neither noticed the harsh voice from beneath the roots beside the stream until it shouted: “You stupid, clumsy women! Stop whispering and help me!” They sprang apart. A dwarf was trapped beneath an old tree root, his long beard twisted around a thorn branch while one hand clutched a leather sack that glittered through a tear in the seam. Rose stared. “Oh, no.” The dwarf scowled. “What are you gawking at?” Rose looked at Snow. “I already miss the bear.” Snow crouched beside the dwarf. “How did this happen?” “None of your concern.” “Then perhaps our help is none of your concern.” Rose beamed. “I love it when you do that.” The dwarf snarled. “Cut my beard loose!” Snow removed a small knife. The dwarf shrieked. “Not too much!” Rose folded her arms. “You are trapped by your beard.” “It is a magnificent beard.” “It is attached to a tree.” “Rose.” “What? I am helping.” Together they freed him. The dwarf snatched up his sack. “You have ruined it!” Rose’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” “My beard!” “You were stuck!” “You cut three inches!” “Snow,” Rose said, very calmly, “may I put him back?” “No.” “Two minutes?” “No.” “One?” The dwarf stormed away. As he disappeared, several jewels spilled from the torn sack. Snow picked one up. A ruby. Rose’s humor faded. “The bear spoke of silver and jewels in the mountains.” “I remember.” “You think this little creature stole them?” “I think we should find out.” They encountered the dwarf twice more during the following weeks, once dangling from a fishing line he had somehow wound around himself and once with his beard trapped beneath a fallen log. Each time they helped him. Each time he insulted them. And each time he carried more jewels. Then, one evening, Snow found blood on the forest path. Not human blood. Bear blood. Rose crouched beside the dark drops. Her face changed. “We follow it.” “Rose—” “We follow it.” The trail led upward, toward the ruined watchtower beyond the ridge. They found the dwarf in the clearing. And the bear beside him. Chains bound the bear’s forelegs. The dwarf held a knife. At his feet lay sacks of silver, gold, and gemstones. “You,” the dwarf hissed. Rose stepped forward. “Let him go.” The dwarf laughed. “You foolish creatures have no idea what you interfere with.” Snow’s voice was steady. “We know enough.” The bear lifted his head. “Go.” Rose stared at him. “No.” “Rose.” “No.” The dwarf raised the knife. Snow moved first. She struck his wrist with a fallen branch. The knife flew from his hand and vanished into the snow. The dwarf shrieked and lunged toward her, but Rose stepped between them and drove both hands against his chest. “You have chosen the wrong women to threaten.” He staggered backward, recovered, and reached for another blade hidden beneath his coat. Then the bear roared. The sound shook snow from the branches. With one tremendous pull, the bear snapped the chains around his forelegs, surged forward, and struck the dwarf aside before he could draw the weapon. The dwarf crashed into the snow. His sack burst open beneath him, spilling rubies, emeralds, coins, and stolen ornaments across the clearing. For a moment he tried to rise. The bear planted one enormous paw beside his shoulder. The dwarf froze. “Enough,” the bear growled. The little man’s face went pale. Rose stepped forward, breathing hard. “Not quite so brave now, are you?” “Rose,” Snow said. “What? He tried to stab you.” “I know.” “And chained him.” “I know.” “And after all the times we helped him—” “I know.” Rose folded her arms and glared down at the defeated dwarf. “I would simply like it recorded that I never liked him.” Even Snow laughed at that. The dwarf looked from the women to the bear and seemed to understand, finally, that the fight was over. The bear lowered his head. “You will leave this valley. You will take nothing that is not yours, and if you return, you will answer to me.” The dwarf nodded frantically. Only then did the bear step away. The dwarf remained sprawled in the snow among the treasure, too frightened and battered to move. Rose turned toward Snow. And suddenly everything else—the jewels, the dwarf, the broken chains, even the bear—ceased to matter. Snow White was staring at her. “What?” Rose whispered. Snow crossed the distance between them. Snow caught Rose’s face between both hands. “You could have been killed.” “So could you.” “You ran at him.” “You hit him with a branch.” “You stepped in front of a knife.” “You started it.” “You are impossible.” “So you keep telling me.” “I thought I was going to lose you.” Rose’s expression broke. “Oh.” Snow’s voice shook. “I have spent a year pretending that what I feel can remain unnamed if I simply refuse to speak it, and I cannot do that anymore.” Rose whispered, “Then don’t.” “I love you.” Rose closed her eyes. For a heartbeat Snow thought she had made a terrible mistake. Then Rose laughed, and the laugh became something suspiciously close to a sob. “You dreadful woman.” Snow blinked. “What?” “You made me wait a year.” “You could have said something.” “I tried!” “When?” “This morning!” “You asked what would happen if you kissed me.” “Yes.” “That was not exactly a declaration.” “It was to me.” Snow stared. Rose stared back. Then Snow kissed her. It was not a gentle experimental kiss between uncertain friends. It was a kiss that had been waiting through an entire winter. Rose grabbed the front of Snow’s cloak and pulled her closer, Snow’s hand slid into Rose’s hair, and for several glorious seconds the defeated dwarf lying forgotten in the snow, the scattered jewels, the cold, and even the enormous bear standing guard behind them ceased to matter. When they finally separated, Rose rested her forehead against Snow’s. “Well.” Snow’s cheeks were scarlet. “Well?” “I was right.” “About what?” “You are dangerous.” Snow laughed. Behind them, the bear cleared his throat. Rose jumped. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The bear’s eyes seemed amused. “Do not stop on my account.” Snow covered her face. Rose pointed at him. “You are never sleeping beside our hearth again.” “Our hearth?” Snow asked. Rose turned slowly. Snow lowered her hands. Rose smiled. “Yes.” Snow smiled back. “Our hearth.” The bear approached the abandoned treasure. “Most of this belongs to families the dwarf robbed over many years.” “Then we return it,” Snow said. “All of it?” Rose gave her a look. Snow raised an eyebrow. Rose sighed. “Yes. All of it.” The bear pushed a small wooden box toward them with one paw. “This does not.” Rose opened it. Inside lay two old silver rings, each shaped like intertwined roses. Snow stared. “Who do they belong to?” The bear looked at them. “They have been waiting.” Rose’s voice softened. “For us?” “For whoever was brave enough to choose freely.” Snow took one ring. Rose took the other. Then Rose looked suspiciously at the bear. “You planned this.” “I hoped.” “You mysterious beast.” “So I have been told.” By midsummer, the valley knew. Of course it did. Valleys are excellent places for mountains, rivers, wildflowers, and gossip. Some people were surprised. A few pretended to be shocked. Most simply nodded, because anyone who had watched Snow White and Rose Red together for more than five minutes had apparently known long before either woman did. Mrs. Adelmann from the mill brought them a cake. The baker brought wine. The blacksmith brought two iron hooks for hanging flower baskets and pretended this was somehow a traditional wedding gift. There was no prince. No castle. No royal procession. Snow did not want one. Neither did Rose. Instead, beneath the white rose bush beside their cottage, Rose placed one silver ring on Snow’s finger. “Are you certain?” she whispered. Snow smiled. “You asked me that when you moved your trunk upstairs.” “You told me there was no room.” “There wasn’t.” “You made room.” “I always will.” Rose’s eyes filled. “That was unfairly beautiful.” “I practiced.” “You liar.” Snow took Rose’s hand. “Your turn.” Rose slid the second ring onto her own finger and looked at it. “Well.” Snow laughed. “You cannot say ‘well’ after exchanging rings.” “I am overwhelmed.” “That is what overwhelmed sounds like?” “It does when overwhelmed is trying not to cry.” Snow stepped closer. “Then cry.” “I refuse.” Snow kissed her cheek. Rose immediately cried. Years later, travelers passing through the valley would still tell stories about the cottage of red and white roses. Some said two witches lived there. Others said healers. Children insisted there was a talking bear in the forest who guarded the women from thieves. Adults dismissed that part. The children were correct. And on warm evenings, when the mountains turned gold and the garden smelled of roses, Snow White and Rose Red would sit together outside the cottage, hands intertwined, sometimes speaking, sometimes laughing, sometimes simply letting silence settle comfortably between them. One such evening, Rose rested her head on Snow’s shoulder. “Do you ever think about the night he first came to the door?” “The bear?” “No. The king.” Snow looked at her. Rose grinned. “You know another talking creature who arrived in a snowstorm?” “He never said he was a king.” “I have decided he was.” “You cannot simply assign royalty to woodland animals.” “I can. I live here.” Snow shook her head. Rose played with the silver ring on Snow’s finger. “If he had not come…” “You think we would never have said anything?” Rose considered. “No.” “No?” “I think eventually I would have kissed you out of frustration.” Snow smiled. “How romantic.” “I am extremely romantic.” “You threatened to turn our magical protector into a rug.” “He was flirting with you.” “He asked if you were jealous.” “Exactly.” Snow laughed. Rose lifted her head. “There.” “What?” “That.” “What?” “That laugh.” Snow’s expression softened. Rose touched her cheek exactly as she had on that snowy evening years before. “I knew I could keep making you do it.” Snow leaned into her touch. “And I knew I would keep you.” Rose smiled. “You said that?” “Not where you could hear me.” “When?” “The first night.” Rose stared at her. “You have been keeping secrets.” “One or two.” “I demand compensation.” “What sort?” Rose leaned closer. Snow smiled before their lips met. Around them, red roses climbed one side of the cottage and white roses climbed the other, their branches crossing above the door until no one could say with certainty where one ended and the other began. And perhaps that was the truest magic the valley ever knew. Not the talking bear. Not the stolen jewels. Not the dwarf or the silver rings or the strange enchanted paths beneath the mountains. But two women who had begun as strangers, become companions, become home to one another, and finally found the courage to call love by its proper name. And there, among the red roses and the white, they lived—not perfectly, not silently, and certainly not without argument— but very happily indeed. The End