Red as Blood, or Tales from the Sisters Grimmer: Expanded Edition Read Online Free PDF Page A

her own dark hair, and a flask of wine. And, as each of her children grew, she taught them who they must worship.
    She did this not out of fear of him, but out of pity. Because she had come to see the ultimate terrible truth behind all others. Which was that the stupidity and avarice and hatred of mankind had finally begun to make him also stupid, avaricious, hating, and cruel beyond reason. Even though he was a god, a god of love.
    RED AS BLOOD
    The beautiful Witch Queen flung open the ivory case of the magic mirror. Of dark gold the mirror was, dark gold like the hair of the Witch Queen that poured down her back. Dark gold the mirror was, and ancient as the seven stunted black trees growing beyond the pale blue glass of the window.
    “Speculum, speculum,” said the Witch Queen to the magic mirror. “Dei gratia.”
    “Volente Deo. Audio.”
    “Mirror,” said the Witch Queen. “Whom do you see?”
    “I see you, mistress,” replied the mirror. “And all in the land. But one.”
    “Mirror, mirror, who is it you do not see?”
    “I do not see Bianca.”
    The Witch Queen crossed herself. She shut the case of the mirror and, walking slowly to the window, looked out at the old trees through the panes of pale blue glass.
    Fourteen years ago, another woman had stood at this window, but she was not like the Witch Queen. The woman had black hair that fell to her ankles; she had a crimson gown, the girdle worn high beneath her breasts, for she was far gone with child. And this woman had thrust open the glass casement on the winter garden, where the old trees crouched in the snow. Then, taking a sharp bone needle, she had thrust it into her finger and shaken three bright drops on the ground. “Let my daughter have,” said the woman, “hair black as mine, black as the wood of these warped and arcane trees. Let her have skin like mine, white as this snow. And let her have my mouth, red as my blood.” And the woman had smiled and licked at her finger. She had a crown on her head; it shone in the dusk like a star. She never came to the window before dusk: she did not like the day. She was the first Queen, and she did not possess a mirror.
    The second Queen, the Witch Queen, knew all this. She knew how, in giving birth, the first Queen had died. Her coffin had been carried into the cathedral and masses had been said. There was an ugly rumor—that a splash of holy water had fallen on the corpse and the dead flesh had smoked. But the first Queen had been reckoned unlucky for the kingdom. There had been a plague in the land since she came there, a wasting disease for which there was no cure.
    Seven years went by. The King married the second Queen, as unlike the first as frankincense to myrrh.
    “And this is my daughter,” said the King to his second Queen.
    There stood a little girl child, nearly seven years of age. Her black hair hung to her ankles, her skin was white as snow. Her mouth was red as blood, and she smiled with it.
    “Bianca,” said the King, “you must love your new mother.”
    Bianca smiled radiantly. Her teeth were bright as sharp bone needles.
    “Come,” said the Witch Queen, “come, Bianca. I will show you my magic mirror.”
    “Please, Mamma,” said Bianca softly, “I do not like mirrors.”
    “She is modest,” said the King. “And delicate. She never goes out by day. The sun distresses her.”
    That night, the Witch Queen opened the case of her mirror.
    “Mirror. Whom do you see?”
    “I see you, mistress. And all in the land. But one.”
    “Mirror, mirror, who is it you do not see?”
    “I do not see Bianca.”
    The second Queen gave Bianca a tiny crucifix of golden filigree. Bianca would not accept it. She ran to her father and whispered, “I am afraid. I do not like to think of Our Lord dying in agony on His cross. She means to frighten me. Tell her to take it away.”
    The second Queen grew wild white roses in her garden and invited Bianca to walk there after sundown. But Bianca shrank