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For Raven Queen’s sixth birthday, she had been proclaimed a Big Girl now. Mother had insisted. She claimed it would be good for her: it would teach Raven independence, pride and grant her a little more freedom necessary for fostering sparks of mischief. Sparks of mischief that would one day, of course, rage into an inferno of Evil. Mother said it was the best gift she could have given her.
Father had gotten her a puppy.
It was a silly little thing, loping by her side with energy that only a six-year-old girl could match. His short curls were wiry yet soft to touch and his fur was yellow, like Father’s hair. He had followed her everywhere, always faithfully at her hip, growling at any goblin who got too close.
Raven had called him Prince because, like the princes in the stories Mother told, he was loyal and protected her from potential harm. Unbeknownst to her, like the princes in Mother’s stories, he would suffer a fate worse than imminent death.
Years later, Raven would think she had been foolish to place her hand so readily in Mother’s and allow herself to be led to the Potion Chamber to help in the creation of a ‘puppy potion’. In that time she would forget that Mother had never done anything to hurt her Raven, that Mother never did anything to hurt her Raven except leave, but that still did not change the fact that she had happily put her faith in Mother that her puppy potion would be for the Good of the puppy and, in doing so, had forgotten that Mother was also the Evil Queen.
The Potion Chamber was a large, cavernous room in one of the taller towers in the East Wing of Queen Castle. Mother had told Raven once that it was placed in such a way that when Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandmother Evira Queen was brewing the potion to lull her stepdaughter to sleep-like death she could keep track of time from the waning of the sunlight to the first rays of morning. When Raven had asked why they hadn’t just used a clock, Mother had laughed, throaty and warm – a far cry from her usual chilling cackle, and told her that brewing a potion was about the essence of time, not its exactitude.
The chamber itself was organised in such a way to emphasise the idea of its objects more so than its reality. The vaulted ceilings were painted a midnight blue with painted constellations that Raven liked to trace whilst Mother worked. The sofas before the carved fireplace were plush and soft, yet the velvet which covered them was flat and worn, as though they had not been changed since Evira’s time – the cushions felt thin and tacky when Raven ran her fingers across them, but there was a jolt, a spark that trembled in her blood, belying the ages that the fabric had seen and endured.
Raven did not like the bone rat.
It was a large, terrible thing – five times the size of a normal rat. Gone were the silky curls she had luxuriated in running her hands through, gone the sweet face and intelligent blue eyes, replaced with a gangly monster that was all sharp bristles and red eyes that Raven was certain glowed with malicious intent.
It scurried under the sofa furthest from the door with speed that alarmed Raven out of her composure.
The tears had been instant. Raven had always been embarrassed by how quickly her eyes began to water and her lip began to tremble threateningly – but then when Mother was so quick to scoop her in her arms and coo soothing, gentle words into her ears until she had forgotten her complaint in a sea of gentle shushing, itchy eyes and aching ribs, how could she ever hope to stop herself?
“Oh my, such tears, my little hatchling!” Mother crooned, scooping the girl up before pushing Raven’s tear-streaked face into the crook of her neck and holding her there, cradling her as she would before she became a Big Girl, her sharp nails tracing gently along her back that jolted with each wracking sob. “Whatever is the matter, darkling? Did you not like Mommy’s surprise?” Raven murmured something against her skin, high and whining and incomprehensible. The Evil Queen knew her daughter well enough to know that had she been able to hear the words they would be nonsense regardless: Raven had never been very good at articulating herself when upset, but – Mira considered – at the very least she was trying to use her words and, well, baby steps. “Does the bone rat scare you?” Mother whispered into Raven’s hair; after a moment’s hesitation, the Evil Queen felt more than saw the minute nod of an ebony head that had found safety in Mother. “Oh now now,” she shushed, rubbing her girl’s back in firm circles. “This is all for the best.”
Raven tensed at that. Hearing her breath hitch, she felt the wiry hair of the witchling’s eyebrows tickle the join between her neck and shoulder as they knitted together (she swore up and down that that girl of hers would get premature wrinkles). The raven peeled carefully away from her mother’s neck and as sure as snow would fall her girl was pouting ever so prettily too, but that could not make up for the baleful mutiny glittering in her glassy eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mother scolded, yet still reached out to gently wipe tears that were still glistening on her cheeks, leaving angry red marks on otherwise porcelain skin.
“B-but I–”
“No buts! A Queen does not argue, little one, she…” Mother’s eyebrow arched to indicate a response would be required.
“She asserts her voice above everybody else’s.”
“Good girl. Now, try again.” But as Raven opened her mouth to fulfil the order, she was cut off by a stern finger in front of her nose: “And this time, no stuttering.”
The admonishing appendage turned into a cold hand cupping Raven’s chin, tilting her head so she could not escape Mother’s unyielding yet not unkind eyes. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Raven set her jaw.
“I liked the puppy.”
“Why?”
This caught the witchling off-balance: she did not expect such a blunt, quick answer. Raven took her time considering her answer, and the Evil Queen was more than happy to wait patiently whilst she was thinking (one day Mira would teach her how to answer spontaneously, but that would not be for many years; for now, when it was just the two of them, Mira wanted reason and consideration).
Raven’s eyes eventually snapped back to her mother’s from where they had drifted to the amethyst on Mira’s belt and Mira knew she had her answer.
“Daddy gave him to me.”
“And I am giving you the bone-rat, why, then, should you favour one over the other?” Despite the unrelenting words, there was a welcoming edge to them and the ghost of a fond smile tickling the edges of the Evil Queen’s lips. After all, it was her intention to guide, to teach, not to scare her daughter. At least not whilst she was by all means still a hatchling.
Raven’s reply came quicker this time, although she took her time over each word, as though weighing its gravity.
“To have your gift means I no longer have Daddy’s gift.” Raven paused a moment before reasserting: “And I liked Daddy’s gift.”
That was a surprisingly logical reply from her usually so emotional girl; Mira was impressed. She hummed low in her throat. She had planned to wait a couple more years before having this conversation, but she would be a fool to let this moment pass to preserve her little girl’s naivety.
“Come, my little corvid,” Mother held out a perfectly manicured hand for Raven to take. “Let us sit.”
So Raven took Mother’s hand because Raven had never had any reason to fear Mother’s open palm (and because Mother sometimes squeezed if she took too long), following without complaint as they crossed the room towards the two sofas perpendicular to the grand fireplace.
That was until they crossed onto the rug and a flash of red eyes rooted Raven to the spot. She tugged. Hard . Hard enough for Mother to whirl around in a flourish of feathers and silk, wisps of red magic curling defensively around her fingertips until she realised that Raven was not hurt or under attack. Her tense posture only relaxed when she tracked Raven’s wide eyes to those glowing beneath the opposite sofa to the one she was leading them to.
“It will not hurt you.” Raven still hesitated, gaze still fixed on the glowing crimson eyes in the darkness beneath the opposite couch. Tenderly, Mira stroked a knuckle down the plump smoothness of the girl’s turned cheek, waiting until her violet eyes found her own. “Do you really think I would let it hurt you?”
Raven hesitated a moment, considering, before resolutely shaking her head. The confidence of her faith in Mother was enough to wash out the lingering sting her previous hesitation had left in Mira’s heart, quickly replaced by a flood of fiery protectiveness.
Raven stopped tugging and was delighted to find herself quickly enveloped in Mother’s arms and placed upon her lap (and if Mira held Raven a little tighter… well, that’s none of your business). It was rare that Mother would hold her close outside of long and tedious meetings held with her Generals of Villainy that Mother insisted she attend so that she might ‘properly observe how an Evil Queendom is to be run’. Raven suspected that the real reason Mother wanted her there was so she had something to hold when her advisors drove her to the edge of her temper, someone to remind her to find just a little more patience (and who would not whimper but rather giggle when she finally did zap one for their incompetence – they made the silliest sounds!).
Instinctively, Raven reached for the bird skull brooch attached to Mother’s bodice, her fingers fidgeting restlessly as Mira rested her head against the crown of her head.
“This is going to be hard to hear, Birdie, but I want you to try to listen, yes?”
Raven nodded, but a quick glance at Mother’s sharply crooked eyebrow let her know that a verbal reply was expected of her.
“Yes.”
“Your father is – has always been – a Good man.” Raven pouted in confusion and Mira sighed softly – she knew this would not be easy. “There is a reason, darkling, that whenever we host guests they call Daddy the Good King.” She paused, stroking through her daughter’s hair with the same distracted softness she would her corvid counterpart. “There is also a reason why they call Mommy the Evil Queen.”
“Yes, because you poisoned Snow White with the apple!” Raven interrupted, voice alight with the joy of understanding and contributing.
“I wasn’t finished speaking yet, Raven.” Mother reprimanded gently. “Mommy did give Snow White the poison apple, but there is more to Good and Evil than just who poisons who. That was merely destiny – what I want to discuss with you is a more complicated problem.” She slid her hand from her daughter’s hair to encircle her waist and keep her close. Sharp eyes watched closely until they caught the full attention of the wide, uncertain, innocent eyes in front of her. Mira decided to begin again, her voice strengthened with conviction.
“Your father is a Good man. We – me and you, Birdie – are not. Your father has always been loved by everybody that has ever met him. There has never been any door closed to him: no friend that had called him mean names; no game he has been told he was not allowed to play. Daddy is a Charming and because of that his name is golden. Because of that he cannot understand you… not like I do.
“Daddy gets you presents like Prince Bun-Bun and the mutt and you like them because they are cute. They are sweet and sentimental and everything a pretty little princess such as you deserves. Things I wish I could let you have.” The weight of Mother’s attention made Raven squirm: there was something heavy lingering behind the measured words that made her chest ache for reasons unfathomable to herself. “But I cannot. And I know this makes me seem cruel to you, like I am being unnecessarily mean…” a bitter self-deprecating smile curved her lips “like I am Evil.” ( And curse be upon whichever demon that made her girl so sweet as to immediately cry out a defiant “No!” – Queen blood never stayed sweet for long. ) “But over time these gifts will soften you and if I will have failed in my duty as your mother if I send you out into the world incapable of dealing with the hatred the so-called Good will hurl your way, weak to the casual cruelty they will inflict just because you are a Queen. Because you are my daughter. And so I must be harsh with you. I need to make sure that when the day comes that we are to part that not only will you be prepared for the world, but that the world will not be prepared for you, my darkling.”
At last, Raven broke under the pressure of emotion and broke eye contact. Instead, she curled back into Mira’s neck and examined her favourite of her mother’s brooches out of the corner of her eye with an intensity that would suggest she had never seen the trinket before. Mira smiled. It seemed it was time to guide her corvid towards the second matter that needed addressing before she let her little one loose. Craning her neck, Mira rested her chin on the top of her princess’ head, whispering her next words into the crown of her head like a sacred promise.
“What, exactly, don’t you like about the bone rat?”
“It’s ugly.” Raven whispered back into the thick silence of the room, understanding that it would enclose and keep her confession with utmost solemnity.
“Just because something is ugly, my little raven, does not make it unimportant – they are as alive as the sweet birds who nest in apple trees, as the flowers that bloom in the spring… indeed, they are as alive as you and me.” Mother’s voice lilted in amusement, her voice low but no longer whispering, and she pinched the area just above Raven’s waist where she knew she was ticklish, eliciting a squeal from the girl, but was not enough to prompt her emergence from safety. In a moment, Mother became somber, and she carded her fingers soothingly through Raven’s hair as she might smooth the ruffled feathers of her namesake. “And yet the best that creatures such as the bone rats and the goblins and little black-plumed birdies can ask is to be ignored, because when they are not…” Mira knew she needed to push no further when Raven peeked bleary violet eyes over a red-knuckled fist pressed against her mouth (a habit Mother did not deem appropriate for a Big Girl, but there were more pressing lessons to be learned). “I know that the world can be unkind, that the world is unkind to you, my darkling, but you are not alone. There are others as lonely as you–” at this, the Evil Queen extended a hand for an inquisitive bone rat to begin to snuffle “–whose loyalty is easy to earn and hard to lose.”
Tentatively the bone rat crept forward until its forehead bumped the outstretched palm, allowing the Evil Queen to begin scratching between its ears. And whilst the piercing screech of contentment spooked Raven to hide her face for a moment in the safety of Mother’s cloak, she had to admit it was sort of… cute? Maybe. If she squinted her eyes just right…
Looking more closely, she realised its ears, whilst longer and pointier than a mouse’s, kind of resembled a faerie’s and Mother was always telling Raven there was really very little to fear from the fae. She had loved Prince’s bright curls and would miss how their silky ridges beneath her fingertips, but the coarse fur of the rat looked sturdy enough to withstand a blow from a blunt mace. It was practical; it was strong; it would not weep when the other children called it names or sung nasty rhymes. And its red eyes, no longer luminescent in the light, held no malice. They were just different, not unlike Raven’s own violet irises.
Tentatively, the princess unfurled her fingers, reaching out little by little at a very careful pace. Just when her hand was a few inches away from the bone rat’s face, it twitched back suddenly causing Raven’s fingers to recoil. But then its twitching nose came closer, sniffling and snuffling at the girl’s hand and bowed its head to receive a royal pat on the head which Raven was only too happy to oblige. Gently, she stroked the bone rat with the flat of her hand, smoothing fur as sharp as the quills of a Wonderlandian hedgehog.
Before she knew it, Raven was beaming, overjoyed to find that such a fearsome beast was actually a gentle sweetheart.
“Now,” Mira said, when Raven looked back for the third time to make sure she was watching. “Why don’t you run along and show Daddy your surprise?”