Saints, I wish I was better at this.
“Snow,” I said again, while the girl punched ineffectually at the air, “where did you get this?”
“It’s mine! You can’t have it!”
“Snow…” I heaved a sigh and examined the apple, waiting for Snow to wear herself out. It had always taken Catherine a few minutes, too.
It was immediately obvious that this was no ordinary apple. The skin was silvery and so polished that it looked almost metallic, the flesh within as white as bone. I could think of several metals that might give the skin such a shine, none of which would be healthy to ingest.White arsenic? Antimony? Quicksilver? No, quicksilver usually passes right through, but it could be some other preparation of mercury… or the skin could be painted with a solution to give it that look, which might include any number of other things…
Snow had finally fallen into a mutinous silence, cut with sniffles. I released her and the girl stomped a few feet away, arms locked around her middle, refusing to look in my direction.
“Snow,” I said, “did someone give you this apple?”
More silence.
“It’s very important that you tell me where you got it.”
Another pointed sniffle.
“Snow—”
“I hate you,” Snow said in a low voice. “You’re worse than the doctors were. They bled me and blistered my feet, and it was horrible, but at least they didn’t go through everything I owned and see that I don’t get a scrap of privacy and have me watched everyminute—”
I felt suddenly very tired. “Snow, I’m trying to save your life. I know this isn’t pleasant, but it’s not much fun for me either. The sooner we find out what’s causing your symptoms, the sooner you’ll be rid of me. Now please tell me where you got this apple.”
“Why don’t you just chain me up in my room?” Snow spat, and stomped away, her feet crunching on the gravel path of the garden.
Well. That could have gone better.
I thought about following her but decided against it. The confrontation had not gone so swimmingly that I had any desire to repeat it.
A moment later, as I stood there with the apple, one of her maids appeared, holding a parasol. She looked around, puzzled. “Pardon,” she said to me, “but have you seen the princess?”
“She went that way,” I said, pointing.
The maid grumbled as she passed. “Forgot her parasol and sent me off to fetch it, then wandered off without it, and if she burns to a crisp, it’smewho’ll get the blame…”
Clever,I thought, watching the maid leave.That’s one way to get a few moments of privacy. But why would she use that to eat this apple? And why was it so important that she tried to cram as much in her mouth as she could before I got to it?
It couldn’t be the only such thing she’d eaten. But hopefully, with enough tests, I could figure out what was in the apple and if it was the source of all our woes.
And the saints help me if it isn’t and I’ve just manhandled the king’s daughter over nothing.
No. This has to be it. I’m sure of it.
Eight hours later, I wasn’t quite as sure.
None of my reagents, applied to the peel or the flesh, turned up any sign of poison. Granted that didn’t necessarilymeananything—there were still many poisons that no one could test for, arsenic among them. Still, it would have been nice if it was easy.
I sighed and cut a quarter of the apple loose, wrapping it in wax paper for later. Then I set about poisoning the rooster.
The rooster was surprisingly wary of the apple. He pecked it once, then shook himself, his neck feathers flaring up, as if it had an unexpected taste. I leaned forward, my pen poised. Was there some odd flavor? Something that alerted him that this apple wasn’t quite right?
After a minute or two, nothing had happened except that a blob of ink had fallen on my page. The rooster took a turn around his cage, noticed the apple again, and tried another experimental peck. This time, apparently, it passed muster. He ate up every bit of flesh and then pecked happily at the core. I sat down to watch him and take notes.
By that evening, he was bored by his confinement and had demolished the apple core, but he otherwise seemed healthy. I was ready to tear my hair out by the roots.
For a few glorious moments, I thought that maybe he was getting listless. Then I realized that night had fallen and he was going to sleep. I propped lanterns up near the cage, which woke him up again, but he still wasn’t doing anything suspicious, unless you counted trying to repeatedly jam himself between the bars as suspicious.
