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Arrabel and Maily
“But…” He paused, mouth open. “Wait. I’m to rule this kingdom?”
“Under my guidance.”
“But you’ll be at home?”
“Yes.”
Dark brows drew in. “And I’ll be here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” His smile showed perfect teeth and an enchanting dimple. “Well, that’s different then.”
His mother placed her hand in the center of the princess’ back and gently pushed her forward. The girl was wearing some kind of harness under her sweater that probably held at least one weapon. “You will rule Mecada with Maily
“As you say, Mother.” Danyel bent and kissed the princess’ hand. “I want an enormous wedding,” he a
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. You don’t bankrupt a county that’s recently lost a war just so you can have a party. Wallace.”
“Majesty?”
“We’ll need someplace central with good security but high visibility.”
“And somewhere we can release a hundred white doves!”
“Doves aren’t really relevant right now, Danyel.”
“The surviving nobility that served my father should be there,” Maily
Arrabel turned a maternal smile on the girl. “That’s not really relevant either, dear.”
The wedding was short but beautiful. As a wedding present, Arrabel left a regiment of the Queen’s Tabards in Mecada to help keep the peace. Her new daughter-in-law narrowed her eyes but accepted the gift graciously.
Because there was correspondence to go over, Wallace rode with her in the carriage on the way home.
“Wallace?”
“Yes, Majesty?”
“How long do you figure Danyel will last?”
“Majesty?”
“I expect she’ll keep him around until she has an heir. And I expect that will happen as soon as possible.”
“But Majesty…”
“As much as he adored me, he was becoming a distraction. Mother this and Mother that and eventually he’d distract me at a bad time. This girl was a good choice, Wallace, I won’t live forever and I’d like to think-on that very distant day-that I was leaving my people in good hands. Hands that wouldn’t undo all the work I’ve done.”
“She does remind me a little of you, Majesty.”
“Yes.” Arrabel picked up the wrapped slice of wedding cake from the seat beside her and tossed it out the window. “She does, doesn’t she?”
TO SIT IN DARKNESS HERE, HATCHING VAIN EMPIRES by Steven A. Roman
I poisoned my niece today.
Just turned six, and still wondering why her mother-my younger sister, Sie
It’s heartrending to watch a child try to come to terms with something they may never understand, try to find the logic in an illogical situation. They’ll work on the problem, attempt to examine it from every angle, rack their brains trying to recall the precise moment, the one event, when everything in their young life started to come apart. And finally, when no answer presents itself, they reach the only conclusion their young minds can comprehend: Something bad happened, and it was all their fault.
What, exactly, that “bad thing” might be they can’t put into words because, really, they don’t know themselves. But experience has taught them that adults can be rude and angry and abusive; that adults don’t always have a logical reason to be mad at someone; that adults can often take out their frustrations on their children. And if an adult, especially a parent, stops talking to you, stops coming to see you, then you must have done something so unbelievably terrible that they never want to see you again.
But now she won’t have to trouble herself with such thoughts. Gillian is, as the old saying goes, in a far better place than this… although considering the state of the world today, that really isn’t saying much. Heaven, hell, purgatory, the void-any place would be better than here. All I sought to do was end her suffering (well, hers and mine). And if I were the type who believed in God, I might be able to console myself with the image of a mother and her daughter reunited for eternity in the afterlife.
No, her mother hadn’t stopped loving her; of that I have no doubts. And I had no trouble in telling her she wasn’t the one responsible for Mommy’s absence because she had done nothing to anger my sister. What proved difficult for me was in trying to explain the real reason for the disturbing lack of motherly attention. Gillian was meant to visit me for a weekend; after a year, I’d run out of excuses for why Sie
Yes, I suppose I could have just told her the truth, but I never did. I never could. Perhaps it was out of some ridiculous notion that I was protecting her in some way-from what, exactly, I haven’t a clue. Or maybe it was sheer cowardice that stilled my tongue-fear of how negatively she might have reacted were I to tell her everything. (Although why I should have been bothered by the thought of a child directing her hatred at me, when I’d spent a lifetime accumulating enemies who wanted me dead, still escapes me. No doubt it had something to do with our familial co
I mean, how do you explain to a child that you murdered an entire world, even if it was by accident?
There was still a hint of December in the April winds that afternoon when everything went so horribly wrong: the sort of temperate breeze that made it too chilly for T-shirts, yet too warm for winter coats. That didn’t keep the multitudes indoors for long, however-with the first sign in weeks that winter had finally started to relax its five-month grip on the city, the lunchtime streets of Amicus were fairly overflowing with humanity. Secretaries and bike messengers, businessmen in shirtsleeves and mothers with their infants, the first ice cream truck of the year parked at the curb in front of the park-was there any better proof that spring was fast approaching? And the beautiful young women passing by in short skirts and tight jeans, their blouses filled to bursting… my God, they were everywhere, it seemed. Like sleek-limbed gazelles prancing across the veldt, eyed hungrily by the young cubs sprawled on the grass.
Truly, it was the sort of day when, as a far better poet than I once put it, “a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.” But all I could think of was, It’s almost a pity they’re all going to die…
Now, when I rose from bed the day before, formulating a plan that might result in the deaths of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of i