Page 48 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

The Funeral

The sun rose cold and bright on the morning of Anya Argen’s funeral.

Twelve hours had passed. They had had only twelve hours to wait, one for each year of her life, before they dressed her and laid out her body.

They had summoned the mourners. The word went forth, by human hand and by creatures’ flight, that the moon-haired princess, the girl who had run all her life through the forest and castle surrounded by the gold-beaked birds, was dead.

The Amber Hall was draped in white silk along the walls; white, for the death of a child.

The chamber was large enough to seat five hundred, but the crowds were too numerous for the space, and they pressed in, standing at the back.

The news had spread fast: the princess was dead of heart failure, brought on by the shock of the news that her father was to be executed.

Many wept; for the child, and for what she had stood for: for the world before this recent tumult.

A few had muttered that surely it was not likely that so young a girl would die so suddenly.

One had said it openly, outside a late-night tavern, in the hearing of a soldier. He had not been seen since.

Trumpets sounded, and a muffled drum beat time. The crowd shook now with sobs; the dressers, the cooks, the duchesses, and the diplomats. Their loss filled the room. Only the soldiers in their silver braid stood out amid the sea of mourners, lining the walls, unmoved.

Down the aisle of the great hall came the bearers of the body. Anya Argen’s hair lay fanned out around her face, and a hush fell as she passed.

Anya was laid not in a coffin but on a carved wooden stretcher, surrounded by flowers, so that her face could be seen.

Claude Argen had ordered that it be so. There must be no doubt that the heir was dead.

Her face was pale and her lips were bloodless.

She was dressed in a white gown, and they had laid her out in her jewels: moonstones in her hair, rubies at her wrists, and the loquillan resting on her unmoving chest.

They did not see the miniature dragon, hidden in her hair. He had refused to leave her side.

At the far end of the room was a raised dais. The throne had been moved back, and in its place a marble table, bedecked with white flowers, waited to receive her. Her uncle stood next to it, where a priest might stand, as they set down her body.

Claude stood, his face tight with emotion, before the people. His people now.

“Our beloved princess is dead,” he said.

A wave of grief moved over the room.

“It is a tragedy. Her heart was weak. When the princess heard that her father was sentenced to death, it was too much for her delicate body to bear. The shock of it killed her.” He breathed deeply. “It is possible that it is better this way: she has gone where there are no more sorrows.”

There was a crash at the back of the room. The doors burst open.

“Whereas your sorrows,” said a voice, “are just beginning.”