Three old women stood on the soft earth. Mist billowed around them forming ghostly animals of tigers, owls, and foxes before vanishing into the air. The eldest of the three hunched and shriveled beneath her ragged cloak bit her thumbs and snarled at the bitter chill.

"By the moon does madness make, and the sun does joyous bake. Be this not summer and cold winds shake. Reveal the error that this season is fake."

The middle aged witch trudged through the muck to the spot where their old fire once burned. Time had ravished the circular outline with only the black stain of soot as a reminder to its past. She rubbed her fingers through the ash.

"It is unnatural to bend time sixteen years and travel three crones to the present age. So where magic breaks nature's gears, nature will surely respond with rage. Soon ye shall feel the cold will fade to heat, and our presence here become as it were, unspoiled and neat. Yet what leads me to shutter so with unnerving woe is not the air and its chills but the babe we blessed sixteen years ago." The witch waved her arms at the youngest of the three. "Fire! Build me a fire As high as can be seen. I must know what has become of the young princess and her mother, the queen."

The youngest filled her arms with sticks and twigs. She bundled them together with thick twine. "Here, sister, wood for the fire, worthy of any funeral pyre." She placed three large bundles in the bare circle of dirt.

"Excellent, sister, now watch the flame and see your champion enter the frame." The middle witch snapped her fingers over the sticks. They ignited into a raging inferno. "Oh flames, oh troubled flames, hear me seek a doe. Find me the child who has grown with lips red as blood and skin fair as snow." The flames shifted showing a young beautiful girl with shining black hair.

The youngest pointed gleefully.

"Ah, I see my babe. A young woman she has grown. So fine and so full as her mother. Who could have ever known? She might put shame to beauty if not careful of her fragile disguise. Aphrodite would grovel at her feet should the sight befall the Goddess's eyes."

"Then you are pleased with my craft?" stated the middle witch. "Did I not mold the child to your liking?"

"Don't be so daft," said the youngest witch. "You made her all so striking."

"Charm will not win any wars," said the eldest, jabbing her cane into the soil. "Love and beauty breaks all men's hearts and is the catalyst for violent toils. Your youth undos you, sister dear, and will continue to blind you 'till nothing is clear."

"I do jest!" said the youngest. "What does thou know of love and beauty best? Thou art old and haggard! A wrinkled snake! A shriveled worm torn up by a farmer's rake."

"Sisters, sisters," said the middle one. "The game has only begun. Why trade bitter words when we can trade clever actions and have fun. There is still one more champion yet to be revealed. Patience. Thy moment is nigh when all the players are on the wheel." The witch waved her hands and swished her arms over the fire. "Now cease the hassle and observe to Windsor Castle."

Young Margarete of sixteen dashed about the castle courtyard. Her playful smile matched her jubilant cries as her elderly teacher and worn nurse chased her about.

"Please, child," pleaded the nurse, her breath displaced and arms sinking by her sides, "thou must cease this foolishness and finish thy lesson."

"Oh, good nurse!" cried Margarete poking her head around a stone column. "I would rather sing to the birds and dance in the bushes than place pin to paper again."

"But your grace," said the scholar tripping on the stone laid path. "A woman of divine education is sure to find an impetuous husband. Dost thou not wish to be happily married?"

"I will never marry," snapped Margarete. She evaded the nurse's outstretched arm. "And what point is there of a lady learning about language and politics when wit takes you far and men control your world?"

"A princess will become queen," said the nurse, lifting up her dress and rushing up to Margarete. "And a queen must be able to rule with her king." She reached out again, missing Margarete as she hurried across the lawn.

"Then marry me to my God," huffed Margarete, balancing on the edge of the courtyard's fountain. "And let my God be my king and my guide."

"The princess has gone mad with trivial thought, Lord Aldwin," said the nurse, placing her hands on her hips. She leaned against the courtyard's famed cherry tree, the flowers blooming and the bees buzzing overhead. "I've grown too old for this candor and childish display."

From across the way, the old cook entered the courtyard. In her arms she held a freshly baked cherry pie. The steam rising from a cut in its top. The cook wandered over to the exhausted pair.

"No need to exacerbate your situation," said the cook. "You two need to learn that the sweet cherry taste brings the princess to motivation of whatever you deem necessary. Oh, Princess Margarete!"

"Not now, good cook, can't you see I'm teetering on the edge." She placed one foot in front of the other as she circled the fountain's ledge.

"I've got a fresh baked cherry pie, ripe for eager hands."

Margarete looked up for a second. "A pie you say!" Suddenly she lost her footing and tumbled into the water. The group gasped, but Margarete was unharmed. She plopped her head out of the fountain dripping and laughing.

"Oh now you've done it," cried the nurse rushing to the princess's side. "Should your mother see your ruined dress and right before the parade, she might have our heads." The nurse and Aldwin reached and pulled Margarete out of the water. Her dress was soaked and formed against her body. It flopped to the ground, splashing the pair.

"Come," said the cook. "Bring her to the fire."

"I'm sorry, goodie friends," apologized Margarete now understanding her foolishness.

"A foolish child," said the nurse, aiding the princess across the courtyard to the warm inside. "You will catch a death of cold before ever you will have any chance at marriage. Come, let us clean you up quick."

Far above from a window overlooking the courtyard, Queen Orphillia observed her daughter. A look of utter disdain beheld her scowl. Her jewel covered hands curled angrily over the windowsill.

"What curse was I given to be graced with such a disheveled daughter. A witch's curse likely. One to deride me at every age of my life. To grow so beautiful with such red lips, black hair, and fair of face as her, must be a sign of mockery by God to things that once were mine alone."

A sly voice echoed from behind her. A short man with two colored eyes peeked in from the dark corner of the room.

"Do not let the princess dissuade you, your majesty, to such idle thoughts. She is but a child. You are a queen, a beautiful and mighty queen, whom no man can shake and no nation would dare challenge. Beloved by all the realm, you are the fairest of them all."

"Thou art my mirror," said the queen, smiling. "Without thee Abel, I would have no stability in this castle, no less the realm."

The man bowed. His beard reaching his waist.

"I am here to serve, my queen, always and forever. Let no force tear me from you and no decree of thoust left undone."

"Prepare the escorts for the parade," said the queen in brighter spirits. "And be sure that child of mine is in attendance wearing but the heaviest and hottest dress one may find. And if one is not suitable, weigh its pockets with stones so her walk is that much harder."

With a brisk pace, the queen left the room and wandered down the hall. Abel rubbed his hands joyfully.

"My queen is a brutish beauty if ever I saw one."