Snow let those words settle on her, let them melt on her skin and sink in slowly.

She thought of Mrs. H, and the young Mrs. H in the mirror who had been punished by her own mother or stepmother or who-the-fuck-ever. The further away Snow got from that house, the more she understood that this was where it had all come from. The hitting, the starvation, the slights, the endless cleaning, the milk baths. It had never had anything to do with Snow's Indian blood. She would have done that to any stepdaughter. The brown was just an excuse.

Poison and pain.

Slowly, Snow nodded her understanding.