The Poisoned Princess: A Snow White Retelling (The Skazka Fairy Tales)
The Poisoned Princess: Chapter 17

DIMITRI

My head’s buzzing with a million thoughts, and I’m still processing what we learned at the trading passage when Ivanka comes back out of the bathroom. She’s cleaned up and is wearing a borrowed robe over the long shirt I gave her that first night. I still don’t know what possessed me to do such a thing, but it has served her well.

I’ve finished my dinner and cleaned up as well, but I’m still waiting for her to go up to the loft. She says good night to everyone individually, then picks up the basket with Kroshka inside and heads for the ladder. Every move she makes is so precise and graceful. I noticed it immediately when she arrived, but knowing what I now know, it seems obvious.

When we were talking about the princess, I watched her closely to see the way the news affected her, even as she tried to keep herself still. It was all the proof I needed, even though I’ve suspected it the moment the princess was mentioned.

Ivanka is the princess of Korolevstvo Tsvetov, the one I’ve been hoping to make an alliance with for months. It’s why nothing about her fit before. Not that it mattered, because she got under my skin anyway. How I could be suspicious of her and still replace her entirely too fascinating is not something I understand about myself. I wonder what she’ll say when she replaces out who I am. I wonder if she’ll still look at me the same way.

Even from down below, I hear the sharp intake of breath when she’s finally up in the loft. Giving the men a quick wave as they extinguish the lights, I head upstairs as well.

“What’s this?” Ivanka asks as I step onto the loft. She’s sitting on her bed, Kroshka in her lap, as she stares at the clothes folded neatly by her pillow.

“A change of clothes,” I say, tugging my tunic over my head, as I come forward. I slam my arm against the slanted ceiling, always forgetting that this space is not big enough for someone as tall as me. When I glance at Ivanka, she’s still watching me.

“Why is it on my bed?”

“Because I would look ridiculous wearing that.”

I begin to unbuckle my trousers next, and her gaze darts to my hands, before hastily turning around. The back of my neck heats up as I realize how comfortable I’ve gotten around her, and I hurry to take my belt off and climb into bed.

“All safe,” I say, but she continues to keep her back to me. She’s also not touching the clothes next to her. When I saw the woman selling the clothes near the pub, I didn’t even think about it before I bought them. Ivanka has been wearing the same dress for a month; it has definitely seen better days.

“Ivanka,” I speak softly, partially because I don’t want my voice to carry downstairs and partially because I’m trying not to spook her. “Your dress isn’t going to last forever, and none of our clothes will fit you comfortably. This is all I could replace. I’m just sorry we didn’t think of it earlier.”

She has never mentioned it or complained about her clothing, which is quite a contradiction to other royals. Ivanka has taken everything in stride, never once advocating for her needs. Thinking about it now, I realize it’s probably because she doesn’t know how, not if the queen has continuously suppressed that in her.

When I hear the little sniffle, I nearly jump up from my bed. Sitting up slowly, I lean forward trying to see Ivanka through the shadows of the poorly lit loft. She has placed Kroshka on the bed but is now moving the clothes to the floor at the foot of the bed. She’s still keeping her back to me.

She stands and when she does, I catch her by her wrist, stopping her before she can move away. There’s a second of hesitation between us both, and then I tug her to sit on the bed beside me.

I wasn’t hearing things—she’s crying. She ducks her head, but I’m already placing my hand against her cheek to keep her from looking away.

“Hey, what is it?”

My voice is soft, but I feel her shudder under my touch and more tears come through.

“Ivanka.”

“Don’t. Don’t say my name like that, and don’t be nice to me,” she mumbles over her tears. Something in me cracks. It takes every ounce of self-control I have left not to haul her against me and hold her as tight as I can.

But this doesn’t seem like the time for it. Whatever is going on in her head, I need to understand it. I drop my hand, curling it into the blanket beside me.

“I know I haven’t been the nicest to you in the past, and I’m not saying I’m always going to be nice to you in the future, but this was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she says, finally turning to look at me. I see the tears clinging to her eyelashes. The vulnerability in her gaze is nearly my undoing right here and now. “You have all shown me so much kindness, and you don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

She’s crying again, and I realize that I can tell her right now that I’ve figured it out. I know who she is, and I know what she’s running from. Maybe I can even tell her how fortunate it is that we’ve found each other. But I don’t. Because I don’t think either of us are ready for what that would mean for our future. I’ll need to replace the right time to tell her.

She’s folding in on herself, her arms wrapped around her middle. If I told her the truth now, it could ruin whatever it is that’s building between us. Because, somehow, I think she needs to be understood simply as Ivanka and not as the princess.

“I don’t need to know your past to know that you have a kind heart, that you’ve been going out of your way to take care of seven strangers the best way you know how, that you rescue wild—and probably also dangerous and magical—creatures from the forest, and you can beat Kostya in chess. I know who you are right here and right now, and I know that you needed a change of clothes that you’ve never even asked for.”

“You were already doing so much for me. I didn’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“Sorry to tell you this…Highness, but the best things in life often start out as inconveniences.”

Her soft gasp makes me smile, and I can tell my words have done the trick. She sits up a little straighter, wiping at her face. She’s gearing up to say something, but then decides against it at the last moment. She turns to me, looking me straight in the eyes,

“Spasibo, Dimitri.” She stands and hurries over to her own bed, climbing under the covers. I watch as Kroshka gives me one long look—one that that I think might finally be a look of approval, but I’m not holding my breath—before the bunny hops over to Ivanka and snuggles between her and the wall.

I extinguish the candle and lie back down, my mind filled with too many questions and not enough answers. One of the biggest being, what in the world am I going to do about Ivanka?

IVANKA

The men are all having some secret meeting in the woods this morning, and I’m not even upset about it because I think the time has finally come for me to wash my hair properly. Hygiene has been difficult out here, but I’m doing my best. However, my hair is in dire need of a deep clean. And while the men are whispering in the woods about who knows what, I can do that much for myself.

“What are you doing?”

I jump at the question, water splashing out of the bucket I’m carrying. With a huff, I turn to glance over my shoulder and replace Dimitri leaning against the tree, his face half hidden in the shadows.

“Trying not to die from a heart attack, apparently,” I reply, making sure to send him my deadliest glare, before I turn back to the bucket. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. I’d overfilled it, that’s for sure, but I don’t want to dump it on the ground, and I’m not carrying it back to the barrel.

Instead, I half-tug, half-carry it toward the firepit. Before I’ve taken three steps, a hand reaches past my shoulder and the bucket is being lifted out of my grasp. Dimitri walks past me, carrying it to the firepit and placing it over the grates. I don’t think he even used all of his fingers to hold the handle.

He turns then, giving me a smug smirk. Which makes my spine stand up straighter.

“What? No ‘thank you’?”

“Nyet.”

“And here I thought you had manners.”

“I do. They’re reserved for people I replace less annoying than you.”

“Very specific criteria.”

“I am a detail oriented person.”

We’re back to glaring at each other as if our lives depend on it. I thought we were past this, but apparently fighting with him is a hobby now. I have never had problems being nice to even the least likable staff at the palace. Yet, one word from Dimitri and, suddenly, all of my defenses are up, making me unrecognizable. He’s just so rude all the time, so I suppose this is normal for him.

But no, I can’t even say that, because I’ve seen the way he is when he thinks no one is paying attention. The way he always helps Yasha tie the shoelaces on his boots. How he buttons Pavel’s shirts, because the other man is notorious about buttoning them wrong in a hurry. How he scratches the top of Maxim’s head right before he goes to sleep, because it relaxes Maxim. How he held me cradled against him as if he could actually protect me from everything in the world.

That nagging sense that I’m missing something that’s staring me right in the face has only intensified with time, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. As much as Pavel can’t remember to button his shirts correctly, he cooks the most delicious meals—many of them the same meals that are typically served within the royal court. When Yasha isn’t making up his own songs, he hums and plays the traditional songs I’ve heard at balls. They’re all much more polished than ordinary traveling merchants and the contradictions are obvious.

After a month with them, I notice these things without thinking about them. But when it comes to me, I still can’t figure Dimitri out, even if my life depended on it.

“In your detail oriented plan, how did you foresee this going?” Dimitri’s question breaks through my thoughts, and I look up to see him motioning to the water that’s barely starting to steam.

He’s right, of course. I didn’t quite plan this through. But my hair is so gross I can’t stand it anymore. And washing it with cold water again is not something I can manage. Still, I can’t exactly admit to Dimitri that I was hoping I could handle all that water and then use it to soak in a bath.

“Some of the water will evaporate once it boils,” I say, raising my chin. “It’ll be easier to carry then.”

“Not that much is going to evaporate.”

“That’s fine. I will—”

“Burn yourself trying to get this to the bathroom?”

“I wouldn’t. I can figure it—”

“Or you could just—”

“Stop interrupting!” I snap, my tone firmer than I’ve ever used before. It stuns both of us at the same time. But I’m done with this. The water is beginning to boil, and I’m too worked up and I—

“I just want to wash my hair, okay? I know I didn’t think it through. I filled the bucket the way all of you fill the bucket, but clearly I’m not as strong as you. And then I felt bad wasting the water. And my hair is so tangled and gross, and I just—”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them away rapidly. I am not crying in front of this man again. He’s already seen too many of my vulnerable sides. “I just wanted to be able to do this for myself, but clearly I can’t, so go ahead. Tell me all the ways I messed up. Go ahead.”

I meet his gaze—those unwavering blue eyes that continue to watch me—as the water boils beside him.

Then, without a word, he grabs a potholder, takes the bucket off the grate, and heads toward the cottage. I watch him pass, and then he stops near the door, glancing back.

“Are you coming?”

He doesn’t wait for a response but steps inside. I stand there stunned, first at myself and then at his actions. Part of me wants to stay out here and stand my ground, but who am I kidding? I want that hot water so much more than my pride right now, so I head inside. Kroshka is lying in the middle of the couch. I don’t miss the way her eyes follow me, but for once she stays put.

When I step into the bathroom, I replace Dimitri filling up a smaller bucket with cold water.

“What are you doing? Are you—taking a bath?” Because he also brought out towels, and two small stools near the bathtub. He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.

“I’m helping you wash your hair.”

“What?” I don’t think I heard him correctly. He finished filling the small bucket and then adds the hot water to it, testing it with his hand. He then places a rolled up towel at the edge of the bathtub in front of the stool, and only then does he turn to me.

“I’ve helped the other men wash their hair. This is the best way, especially since yours is much longer than even Yasha’s. It’ll be easier this way.”

For a moment, I wonder if I’ve stepped through a portal to another realm where Dimitri is nice. But before I even consciously come to a decision, my feet are already moving toward him.

I take a seat on the stool, facing away from the bathtub, squeezing my hands together on my lap.

“You’ll have to lean back,” Dimitri says and then I feel his hand on my back, as his other reaches for my hair. It’s lifted, and draped over the side of the tub, just as I lean back. I think my body has decided to act on its own, because I can’t even fathom what I’m doing. I’m trusting him, without a thought. He guides me backward, until my head is resting on the edge of the bath, the rolled up towel under my neck, and my back against his knees. It’s a little awkward, but manageable.

“Here.” Dimitri’s hand has left my back, and I turn my head just in time to watch him reach for one of my hands. I jerk as his fingers graze my own, before he unclenches my fist and guides my hand to his knees. He drapes it over, so that I have something to lean on as I lie there.

“Hold on while I do this.”

He’s so close, I can feel his body heat. Then, ever so gently, his hand brushes against my forehead, pushing the hair back, and I think I forget how to breathe. His hands are rough, the type of hands that have seen hard work, that have done something meaningful. He runs those capable fingers over my head, ever so gently combing the strands off my face. I hear a ladle dunked in the bucket he prepared and feel water running over my scalp.

I catch my breath and hold it, because his fingers follow the path the water has taken, sending a million sensations over my skin. With gentleness I never would’ve imagined from him, he combs through the strands, tugging ever so carefully.

I turn my head just a little, my eyes replaceing his face. The look of concentration on it is nearly my undoing. There’s so much focus in each move, as if his whole life depends on it. My hand flexes on his knee, his eyes replace mine, and for the first time, there’s no suspicion there. It’s something else. It makes my whole body feel alive. I think the wall that has been cracking slowly the whole time I’ve been here has finally come down in one fell swoop.