The queen bade him to slay the princess and bring back her human heart. “For,” she said, “I know you will not kill your own kind, and the chit was born, not made.”
The woodsman nodded gravely with a slow, inexorable tick of clockwork, shading his eyes with their smoked-glass inner lids before the queen. She dazzled his mechanically optimized eyes as she dazzled everyone's, for her outer cladding was white gold and germanium; but through his shaded lenses he could see how the streaks of blood-red rust decorated her, and knew as few could know that the plating was thin, for the metal beneath was base in nature, and the fresh coats she demanded ever more often could only slow the wearing and tarnishing. Perhaps, in her youth, this was why the automaton lady had adopted the name Rose Red, so that she might brashly claim the rust was only her true mechanical blood showing through, but this was when she was a bolder woman and before she had fallen in love with the king.