NIX AND ALBA

by LEILA MURTON POOLE

My name is Nix and I bleed white. Sticky sweetness bursts from my flesh as I’m torn apart. My twin sister, Alba, tastes bitter. Still delicious, we’ve heard, but sharper; you wince before you smile. We’re grown by our Queen and keeper, who stamps us with her mark—a crown branded on our skins. A reminder that we belong to her, no matter whose mouth we end up in.After all, we were once herdaughters.

The Queen liked us when we were small enough to be controlled with dainty dresses and plaited hair. But the older we grew, the less we fit into her perfect Princess-shaped molds. We stole kiss kisses with servants and maids in castle towers.We hacked off each other’s hair with knives and slipped into town unnoticed. We rode the wind on bare horseback—the same wind that blew whispers of the wild Princesses around the Kingdom. The Queen raged at the rumors, wilting in the shame we’d wrought upon her name. She sought comfort in her omniscient magical mirror, ordering it to show our every move—if she couldn’t control us, then she would watch us. Transfixed on her mirror, she grew angrier with each unruly act, smashing its surface with anything she could get her hands on. Our father ignored the fire that burned inside his Queen as he watched the mirror heal its cracks each time. He knew the embers lay within her, we had simply re-ignited them, and he hoped that time would quell themagain.Buthopeisadangerousthing.

One morning, shortly after our eighteenth birthday, Alba could no longer hide her stomach that bulged with new life. She took my hand and pressed it to her growing bump. She didn’t know whose it was, but it didn’t matter; she was planning to elope with her loyal maid, and they’d raise the child together. But our spying mother had other ideas. Allergic to love that was for anyone but herself, she swappedourdrinksatdinnerforoneofherpotions.Darkmagiccoursedthroughourveinsandfrozeour muscles as we slept that night. Locked inside our mother’s curse, unable to move, she dragged us to the Castle’s cropland where chain-like roots shackled us to the earth. Bark wrapped itself tightly around our bodies, binding us to our new life as prisoners. From our fingertips, branches spread like a web, leaving us caught in the middle. Like our namesake, our leaves grew as white as the purest snow, blossoming from our smooth branches. By morning, we had grown into beautiful trees, abundant with fruit.Afruit with crisp white flesh covered in thin white skin.You could only tell us apart by the slight protrusion in Alba’strunk,whereherbabylay,trappedintime.

Soon after, the Queen visited to survey her work, taking a bite from our delicious flesh. Much better, she sneered. Much, much better. Cackling, she tore off leaves and twigs from our branches to build a fire. She warmed her food stamp like a hot poker and marked each of our fruits with her crown emblem, securing her ownership with the hiss of hot metal against our cool skin. We were now hers, completely and forever; a beauty she could control and grow.The Castle cropland became renowned for themostdeliciousfruitinalltheKingdom.

The Queen told our father that we’d run away, ashamed of our heritage, and it broke him. He rarely left the castle walls other than to shelter under our branches, as if he could sense we were near. He’dweepsoftlywhileAlbadrapedherlowerbranchacrosshisshouldersincomfort.

As the Queen aged, her obsession turned inwards. She no longer had unruly Princesses to control, only a broken King that she deemed unworthy of fixing. When she picked our fruits each morning, she’d admire her reflection in the nearby pond, scowling at our beautiful foliage towering behind her. More and more, she relied on her trusty mirror to assure her that she was the fairest of them all. Time changed us too. Once hopeful, we were now filled with a deep simmering resentment. Underground, our roots cradled each other—with just a touch, I knew what Alba thought. We both agreeditwastimetobreakourcurseandridusofourevilQueen.Wethoughtthedarkestofthoughtsas a thunderstorm raged through the Kingdom. Alba’s still-tiny bump fueled my anger as rain seeped throughus.Betweenoursnow-whiteleaves,wegrewanew,blood-redfruit,filledwithhateandpoison.

The next morning, the Queen picked one of Alba’s perfectly round fruits and brought it to her lips.But, lips. But, just before her teeth pierced the skin, she stopped and sniffed. She knew—a master of potions andpoisonsherself.HerthinlipscurledintoanevilsmileasshecalledouttotheKing,admiringherself inthefruit’sglassysurface.AlbashookherbranchesinwarningwhentheKingarrived,herwhiteleaves falling like snow. But the King’s eyes remained downcast as he shuffled forward and took the fruit. We heard the deafening crunch. The clear juice trickling down his chin quickly turned to white froth. Gagging,heclutchedhisthroat,reachingouttohisQueen.Butshesimplytookthebittenfruitashefell, examining its juicy flesh. Clever girls, she said. Clever, clever girls. Finally, she was proud. Gently, we wrappedourrootsaroundourdearfatherandbroughthimunderground. Now, poisoned fruit is all we grow.We’re too embittered, just like our creator. For the first time in years, the whitest snow fell over our Kingdom, and brought news that the Queen had married another King in a faraway land.That her new daughter was truly the fairest of them all: a NixAlba. But I know my mother. I’m sure her beautiful stepdaughter will enjoy a bite of our delicious fruit. And I hate to admitit,butthepowerfeelsgood.Thepowertodestroyalifeasoursremainunlived. Perhapstheappledoesn’tfallfarfromthetreeafterall. s.But,