Snow White Visits Her Stepmother in Prison

Granny Smith’s her go to, for baking. Last week she made a strudel. The wardens told her they’d had to throw it away — she’d refused to eat it. Wouldn’t even take a bite.

There are apple trees in the palace courtyard. They used to pick from there as children, fruit that was ruby red, blood red. She can picture her stepmother’s hand reaching for some, can picture her delight now at Snow’s sweet concoction of nostalgia and hate.

The crumble has been packed neatly into a little container — it rests upon her lap. It is slightly warm, still. The wardens stare at her, annoyance in their eyes. More food waste. 

Finally, they let her in. Her step mother seems comfortable — as comfortable as one can be, in a cell. Her mirror's still there. They see it as punishment enough — the constant reminder that you’re no good.

“Does it say I’m the fairest baker in all the land, now, too?” Snow asks sweetly. It is the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

Her stepmother’s only response is irritation. And then —

“What is it this time?”

“Crumble. Apple, naturally.”

Her stepmotherʼs face splits into a sickening smile: “My favourite.”

There is a question in Snow White’s eyes: So you’ll eat it, this time?

A reply in the ex-queen’s grin: Not yet.

The wardens look on and sigh. The stench of apples becomes more potent with every visit.