Excerpt: The Patchwork Princess

The funeral was a quieter affair than anyone would have thought, as few could brave the wicked weather to attend. It was unusual to have a funeral in winter at all, but my father could not bear for my mother’s corpse, looking merely asleep, to remain laying in our home just to receive a fairy’s blessing on her as was custom. Thus, three men spent the better part of two days hacking at the ice-hard ground with heavy axes to make a passable grave.

I had the children gathered under my cloak, shielding them from the worst of the wind and the staring. They were not yet schooled in comporting themselves in public, and their tears were not the dignified tears of monarchs, but the unrestrained tears of a child who has lost their mother.

My face was dry right up until the moment when they began to shovel dirt and snow upon the beautiful wooden coffin. No flowers were thrown on top. There were none to throw. No spring blessing for my mother. No fairy promise of a peaceful afterlife for her.

Tears began hot and turned quickly to drops of ice water on my cheeks and chin.

Let it freeze my heart. Let me feel nothing. Blessed numbness of soul would be such a relief.

Much like the wind, my heart did not relent, and I had no older sibling to shelter me from the bitterness. My father stood apart from us, locked in his own grief. Despite his harsh demeanor, he had loved my mother with the tenderness of a spring sun.

I could not feel for him. I had no room for another’s grief, and I ached for comfort he had no room in his own heart to give.

Words were spoken for her, speaking of duty to kingdom and throne, whipping away from frozen ears to the trees, where even sparrows were too tucked away to hear them. I didn’t mind not hearing. The words were not for us. No one else mourned the loss of Mother’s hands on their brow. No mention was made of spinning room chases and prizes given by her fair hand.

My mother was gone, and her place would be empty inside me forever.

The outbreaks had stopped just as mysteriously as they had started, the very day my mother died. Whispers around me were blessedly covered by the wind, but I knew what they said. Only women had fallen, and no more fell after my mother. The illness had served whatever purpose it was intended, or whatever magic ran its evil engine had wiped itself out. Was it simply bad luck that the last had been the Queen, or was some deeper, dire purpose at hand? I could not bring myself to finish my line of thought, and I had none of my mother’s sensible talk to distract me from it.

A glove touched my shoulder, and I turned to see one of my father’s advisors, reluctant to approach him yet in need of some decision. I looked at my father’s back, turned away from us all. He had become broken in a way I could not fathom in the past few days, and I could see what effect it had on all those around us. The advisor would find no help there.

I saw the faces of the few people around me turned to me in expectation. They needed strength now. I could not smile for them now, but I could hold my head up as I met their gaze. Their faces eased, even if their sorrow didn’t. It was at that moment that I first knew the taste of the bittersweet power of a ruler’s will. I was saddened to realize I did not enjoy it a whit.

Magda came forward, eyes, cheeks, and nose all raw from sobbing, and took the children from me. I gathered my cloak about me, more from habit than in fear of the cold, and followed the weary man in need of help to the hall. A poor princess I might be, but I was all my people had left.