Apple of her eye

A cauldron boiled on the fire. Grimhilde stirred the coals sending blue sparks dancing up the chimney. Noxious fumes from the pot filled the cabin forcing her to open the front door to let in fresh air.

When she couldn’t find some recipe ingredients she made substitutions. That’s when her plans started to go south, and quickly.

This was supposed to be simple. Stew up a pot of bitter brew, add some fruit, then pass it off to that unholy brat, perfect princess Snow White.

Darn that lovesick huntsman! If he had done his job, she wouldn’t need poison apples.