Snow in Summer: Fairest of Them All: Fairest of Them All by Jane Yolen Page B
Authors: Jane Yolen
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nodded back at him with one hand raised, and with the other, she pushed me toward the front of the room.
I could only wonder at this church and these people. However did Stepmama find it in the first place, and what possibly kept her coming back?
It was all terribly strange.
And about to get stranger.
•17•
STEPMAMA REMEMBERS
N ow we come to the moment that my plan unfolded. I had waited with the exquisite patience of the serpent. Snow would either accept me and the Craft, accept that I would take seven years from her life in exchange for knowledge, or she would die—but not at my hand. Her father would slip away in sorrow. The land would then become mine by marriage right, with no shares to any other person alive. The dead have no rights in this country.
And with that money, I would find some other young person just on the cusp of adulthood. I was still a young woman myself. There was no rush yet. Master had made many servants of the Craft before me. I would make many in my turn.
And hadn’t I earned my widow’s portion these past few years, stuck out in this forsaken mountain town, tied to a man whose silent fight against my potions has all but maddened me; his daughter’s small, insignificant rebellions only proving an irritation.
The mirror has promised me everything I asked for and more. Or at least it seemed that way:
“Wait until the time is right,
You’ll have what’s yours without a fight.”
Days, weeks had gone by. I wondered if I had misread the answer.
But when I found the With Signs church, everything came together. Everything I wanted, I found in this one dismal place: fear and hope, rage and renewal, poison and antidote.
The boy teetering on manhood is my linchpin.
My stepdaughter just entering womanhood brims with magic and years.
I tremble in anticipation. The mirror has made promises. I will work to make them come true.
The serpents are to hand.
The serpents are to hand.
Hush—the charm’s wound up.
•18•
MARK 16 : 16–18
I didn’t know why, but even in that hot room, I was shivering and on the edge of my seat as the preacher and two of the other men motioned everyone to sit. The preacher’s two help-I ers drew up chairs from somewhere and sat on either side of the table where the wooden boxes had been set.
The man on the right had hair the color of a night sky, and the little black hairs on his well-scraped chin had already started coming through again, like a shadow on his otherwise unremarkable face. The man on the left was his exact opposite, one of those white blonds we have throughout the county, his cheeks reddening noticeably in the heat of the room.
Then the preacher came around in front of the table, Bible in hand. He was a thin man with a long face, like a vulture’s, and black, watery eyes. He nodded right and left at the members of his congregation but didn’t say a word. There was something compelling about him, something that his congregation might have called holiness, but what looked to me more like hunger.
The preacher was waiting, I think, till everybody was focused directly on him. Then, without warning, he suddenly turned and pounded his fist on the table, which set up a strange racket from the boxes. I must have been the only one surprised, because no one else jumped at the noise. I gave a little hiccupy shudder that threatened to turn into full-blown shakes.
Stepmama’s hand reached out for mine. Not to comfort, but to silence me.
“Be silent, child,” she hissed, “and be ready to learn.”
I turned to her. “Learn what?”
She smiled and I bent my head under that uncomfortable grimace. Her voice came hissing again toward me. “The Craft,” she said.
“What craft? Knitting? Needlework?” And why, I thought, would I learn it here in this strange church?
She snatched her hand from mine. “Stupid girl. The Craft that shapes the world.”
I couldn’t think what she meant and shook my head.
“It starts here. Open yourself to
I could only wonder at this church and these people. However did Stepmama find it in the first place, and what possibly kept her coming back?
It was all terribly strange.
And about to get stranger.
•17•
STEPMAMA REMEMBERS
N ow we come to the moment that my plan unfolded. I had waited with the exquisite patience of the serpent. Snow would either accept me and the Craft, accept that I would take seven years from her life in exchange for knowledge, or she would die—but not at my hand. Her father would slip away in sorrow. The land would then become mine by marriage right, with no shares to any other person alive. The dead have no rights in this country.
And with that money, I would find some other young person just on the cusp of adulthood. I was still a young woman myself. There was no rush yet. Master had made many servants of the Craft before me. I would make many in my turn.
And hadn’t I earned my widow’s portion these past few years, stuck out in this forsaken mountain town, tied to a man whose silent fight against my potions has all but maddened me; his daughter’s small, insignificant rebellions only proving an irritation.
The mirror has promised me everything I asked for and more. Or at least it seemed that way:
“Wait until the time is right,
You’ll have what’s yours without a fight.”
Days, weeks had gone by. I wondered if I had misread the answer.
But when I found the With Signs church, everything came together. Everything I wanted, I found in this one dismal place: fear and hope, rage and renewal, poison and antidote.
The boy teetering on manhood is my linchpin.
My stepdaughter just entering womanhood brims with magic and years.
I tremble in anticipation. The mirror has made promises. I will work to make them come true.
The serpents are to hand.
The serpents are to hand.
Hush—the charm’s wound up.
•18•
MARK 16 : 16–18
I didn’t know why, but even in that hot room, I was shivering and on the edge of my seat as the preacher and two of the other men motioned everyone to sit. The preacher’s two help-I ers drew up chairs from somewhere and sat on either side of the table where the wooden boxes had been set.
The man on the right had hair the color of a night sky, and the little black hairs on his well-scraped chin had already started coming through again, like a shadow on his otherwise unremarkable face. The man on the left was his exact opposite, one of those white blonds we have throughout the county, his cheeks reddening noticeably in the heat of the room.
Then the preacher came around in front of the table, Bible in hand. He was a thin man with a long face, like a vulture’s, and black, watery eyes. He nodded right and left at the members of his congregation but didn’t say a word. There was something compelling about him, something that his congregation might have called holiness, but what looked to me more like hunger.
The preacher was waiting, I think, till everybody was focused directly on him. Then, without warning, he suddenly turned and pounded his fist on the table, which set up a strange racket from the boxes. I must have been the only one surprised, because no one else jumped at the noise. I gave a little hiccupy shudder that threatened to turn into full-blown shakes.
Stepmama’s hand reached out for mine. Not to comfort, but to silence me.
“Be silent, child,” she hissed, “and be ready to learn.”
I turned to her. “Learn what?”
She smiled and I bent my head under that uncomfortable grimace. Her voice came hissing again toward me. “The Craft,” she said.
“What craft? Knitting? Needlework?” And why, I thought, would I learn it here in this strange church?
She snatched her hand from mine. “Stupid girl. The Craft that shapes the world.”
I couldn’t think what she meant and shook my head.
“It starts here. Open yourself to
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