Once upon a time, she said. As he ran, the iron crown began to burn in his hands with a dull red heat. The king’s daughter leaped to her feet to stare at the golden key hanging in midair, inches from her eyes. As he dug at the oak’s roots, breathless for fear of the giant’s return, the silver shovel struck with the clang of a bell. The children crept toward the black castle until the youngest girl stumbled over a thighbone caked with gingerbread. The wolf sat back on his haunches to regard the ragged boy with scorn. The peasant girl looked curiously at the blood-red apple, shrugged, and bit. The eldest son peered through the trees at the iron drawbridge, his heart pounding like a sword on a shield. The cat dropped onto the princess’ shoulder, purring so loudly that she almost missed the jeweled dagger’s flash. The prince fell to his knees, his hands reaching up too late to protect his eyes. The witch slowly crossed the room and, chanting strange words, leveled a bony finger at the small girl. And this is the moral of the story:
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