Fairest of All: A Tale of the Wicked Queen by Serena Valentino

Author:Serena Valentino [Valentino, Serena]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Fables, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Fiction, Folklore, Legends, Media Tie-In, Mythology, Young Adult
ISBN: 9781368011464
Google: IvJBMQAACAAJ
Amazon: 1368011462
Publisher: Disney Press
Published: 2017-07-31T23:00:00+00:00

As the days went on, the Queen would feel the King’s hand in hers as she slept. She sometimes heard his steps upon the stairs, or his rapping at her chamber door. Occasionally, she heard a laugh that she thought belonged to him. In these moments, she told herself that it had all been a terrible mistake and that he was home, alive, with her. But those moments quickly faded as the hazy cloud of despair dissipated and reality forced itself upon her.

She would make promises to the gods vowing to be a better wife if she could have her husband back. She felt wicked for shaming him at the winter solstice festival. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. He had to have known. She couldn’t stand the thought of him not knowing.

When the time came, she could not look upon his body. Instead, she asked Verona to do the deed for her. And she put off making the funerary arrangements for as long as she could. Days—or had it been weeks?—had passed since his death and the Queen was bombarded with requests for details about the funeral. They seemed to come by the quarter hour from all the lands, piles of them brought in on silver trays by women with swollen eyes, the entire household grieving, the castle haunted by attendants wearing black armbands, puffy white faces, and quiet dispositions.

Everyone tiptoed around the Queen as if she might break at any moment. Perhaps some of them wondered how she hadn’t done so already.

And all this time, the Slave in the mirror did not show his face. Strangely, she had begun to desire his presence. If he could see all in the kingdom, then why not beyond it? And beyond that to the great unknown? But now that she longed for his image to appear, he was nowhere to be seen.

Her longing—her agony—was so great, but only Verona saw her cry. The Queen would lock herself in the morning room looking out past the garden toward the courtyard and the well—just looking at the flowers stirring in the breeze—remembering her wedding day. A servant would bring a plate of sandwiches and tea, removing the untouched dishes only a short time later.

Sometimes she would think she saw the King walking his customary path back home to her. She would imagine herself running up to greet him, kissing his face as he lifted her into the air like a little girl. The piles of letters that continued to accumulate sat unopened in front of her.

“My poor girl.”

An older woman with bright silver hair pulled into two large buns on either side of her head was standing on the threshold of the morning room. Her hair glistened in the sunlight, her eyes twinkled with tears and kindness. Who was this woman? An angel, coming to claim the Queen?

Then a familiar face stepped up behind the woman—Uncle Marcus. The woman must have been Aunt Vivian.

The Queen stood to greet them, and Marcus pulled her close and embraced her.

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