All That Burns by Ryan Graudin Page B

heavy with its magic: wet dog, hissing coals, and rain-flecked evenings. It soaks through my shock.
    That’s when I see it. Placed on the only cushion which hasn’t been torn to shreds. It’s in the center—where Richard’s royal crest is embroidered into the velvet—just between the lion’s paws and the unicorn’s hooves.
    A single, yellow flower.
    It’s a perfect specimen, petals fresh and unbruised. As if it had just been plucked. The color of sunshine. Beautiful poison.
    Not just a warning this time.
    Outside Blæc keeps howling. Ferrin keeps shouting questions I can’t hear. I stare at the birdsfoot trefoil. Try to understand why it’s here and Richard isn’t.
    “Lady Emrys!!” Ferrin pulls in front of me so that her wide blue eyes are the only thing I see. “The king! Where is he?”
    “Gone.” One word is all it takes to realize and cementthe truth. Richard is gone. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.
    The Black Dog is closer now, just outside the window. The carriage shudders against its howling spells. The flower tumbles off the cushion.
    “We have to get out of here. Now.” The Fae’s fingers tighten around my wrist. Pull.
    I stumble forward, crush the birdsfoot trefoil under my heel. The carriage lurches just when we reach the door, leap out.
    There’s an earth-shattering crash as the carriage keels onto the road. I look over my shoulder and see the Black Dog writhing on top of what used to be the Gold State Coach. The soul feeder twists and flails over the coronation carriage—all magic and weight. Crushing it the same way my heel just demolished the flower.
    How easy it is for beautiful things to be destroyed.
    We run until my high heels snap and my feet bleed. It doesn’t matter how far we go: Blæc’s howls still cling to my ears. Visions of black masks and white terrycloth crowd my mind. And through it all, one awful, horrifying thought.
    Richard is gone. Gone. Gonegonegone.
    Suddenly I’m not running anymore. I’m leaning into Ferrin’s sharp shoulder, staring through the wide arch of Westminster Abbey’s west doors. Thousands of eyes stare back. Cameras flash and click. The Abbey comes alive with gasps, whispers.
    We shouldn’t have come here. I want to turn and tell the youngling this, but it’s too late. We’re here and the cameras are flashing—capturing every detail of my broken heels, this shattered day.
    “Your Majesty!” Ferrin’s call arcs into the vaulted ceiling, slices through the slants of colored window light.
    Titania stands. And Anabelle with her. It’s like a dream, the way they turn and walk the wrong way down the aisle. Their steps are measured, silent against the crimson carpet runner. The whole world watches them pass.
    Richard’s mother follows them both, her lips and steps both tighter than a letterpress. Embedded with deeply written panic. The same anxiety lurks under Anabelle’s face—novels of it scrawled under pristine makeup. The princess stares at me with pleading eyes, and it’s like I’m back in Herne’s wood—with the damp leaves and Breena’s shattered body and Anabelle asking me over and over where her brother is. And me: not knowing. Not being able to voice the horrible truth.
    Gone.
    This time, I have to tell her.
    Ever since I unveiled to the mortals, Richard’s mother has made it a point not to acknowledge my existence, much less my relationship status with her son. For months I’ve stood in the same room as Queen Cecilia without so much as a glance. But she’s staring now, and her eyes are nuclear.
    “What did you do to my son?” The church snatches and radiates her words—a fallout for the whole crowd to hear.
    “Mum.” Anabelle’s voice is low, as solid as the stone pillars which brace the Abbey’s roof. “Not here.”
    “Come, we’ll speak in private.” Titania turns and starts walking. We follow the wake of her gossamer gown like ducklings. Along the back wall, through a series of corners and doors