“Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped: a bloodstain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow: and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Countess had all her clothes again. With her long hand, she stroked her furs. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife: when she touched it, she dropped it.
‘It bites!’ she said.”

Angela Carter, ‘The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories’ (The Snow Child, (pg.106))