‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who is the greatest wicked queen of all?’

It was then though, that her faithful servant came squeaking—instead of creeping—up behind her.
‘He hasn‘t even bothered to oil his armor,’ she thought in disdain as the mirror revealed a scene she had often seen and knew off by heart. But this was tradition, so she pretended not to hear him. Yes, this was tradition, so she even pretended to be surprised on seeing him, screaming on cue as he lifted the sword. It was her show after all, her final act, which, if it worked, would be remembered.

This was tradition, so she did her best… and died.

***

‘That’s it, then,’ she said, and smiled as the tall figure with the scythe approached and cut off her ghost’s head. ‘Was that necessary?’ she asked, but the tall dark figure made no reply and theatrically wiped his scythe clean. ‘You didn’t by any chance catch what the mirror said, did you?’ but again, there was no reply. ‘Ah, well, we’ll just have to wait and see… I suppose.’

Time passed. Two hundred years, to be exact.