Revenge of the child Snow White

The two horses sped away, a small blood-stain remaining on the floor behind them.  Although her body was gone, the girl's spirit remained, oblivious to the vice that had taken her brief and innocent life.
All that remained was blood and spirit, the body lost to oblivion.  A rose lay gleefully on the cold, frosted earth, the snow no longer pure, disturbed by the prints of horse and human alike. The raven cawed in the abyss, its manic cackle a reminder of its influence in the girl's creation.
The girl wandered aimlessly in her incorporeal form, helpless, confused.  Her tears seemed to solidify as they hit the ground, their ghostly warmth melting the snow.  Eventually her sorrow turned to rage, the injustice of her coming and going the fuel for the anger that burned in her eyes.
But it was no use to her now; the harbingers of her pain were too long gone, and her only company was the biting cold, and a hooded silhouette, that tailed behind her like a shadow, giving her the illusion of life in her ghostly state.
She spent the night tirelessly following the path out of the forest, following the tracks left behind by her creator's corpse. 
Her fury drew her further away from the place she fell, guiding her out of the forest.  She followed the road for another day, the shadow that tailed behind her coming and going at will.  There was a silent understanding between them – it would go about its business and then return to her once she dealt with hers.
A large estate grew before her as she walked in blissful ignorance of the cold.  The wind carried screams to her.  Not screams of pain or sorrow but outbursts of pleasure.
The ghost of the snow child crept up the stairs, blind in her curiosity.  The raven could be heard cawing outside, adding its voice to the winds howl and carried pleasure.  A blizzard had begun to form, adding fury to the snow that it released from the sky.
The shadow returned, more solid now than before, yet still a phantom to the eyes of even the ghost.  Its impression could be seen upon the door of the chamber where the blissful release of energy emanated.  Its figure was bony and hunched, carrying an object – a poisoned knife.
The door creaked open from the wind.  The snow child crept in.  The sight was of the Queen and her newest woe, their various limbs tangled upon each other in a frenzy of lust.
The phantom filled with anger.  Her time had been brief, the flame of life she had being snuffed out unfairly by the jealous wrath of the Queen, defiled by impure greed.
The window opened, snow filling the room.  The Queen and her toy froze in an instant. 

 The phantom that shadowed the snow child harvested them, tasting every sweet drop of revenge.