Iron Hearted Violet by Kelly Barnhill

bit longer? And do try to keep your big mouth shut.”
    The very young—and very
small
—man shoved his hands deep into his pockets before disappearing into the tall yellow grass and following Violet inside. The old man and thewoman watched the empty grass for a long time as the shadows deepened and the world grew dark. Auntie reached over and rested her hand on Moth’s shoulder.
    “Come, Moth,” she said briskly. “We have work to do.” And they turned their faces into the sighing wind and vanished in the gloom.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
    The nation mourned for twenty-two settings of the Greater Sun, as was proper and expected for a Queen—both beloved and loved, both good and wise—cut down too soon. The castle walls had become littered with flowers—new flowers, wilting flowers, flowers collapsing to rot—as well as hand-drawn likenesses of the Queen.
    Soon, though, the memorials spoiled in the sun and had to be gathered, swept, and hauled away. And we had to resume our lives, all cognizant of a loss, a gap, something that
should
be there but
wasn’t
.
    It took a good deal of time for the hunting party to arrive with the transport vehicle and the dragon. They moved slowly, carefully, afraid of hurting the creature inside. The dragon shook and trembled in its prison; it wept, huge dragonish tears splashing onto the floor and leaking out of the corners.
    Violet stood on the northern wall, watching the transport approach. The book was in her satchel—it was always in her satchel—but she hadn’t looked at it for eight settings of the Greater Sun.
Not yet
, she told herself,
not yet
. Whenever she walked near the entrances to the Hidden Folk’s corridors, she could feel her skin shudder and crawl. The painting was calling to her. Or
something
was calling to her.
    NOW , she could feel it whisper. NOW, NOW, NOW. A desperate recitation. Though now,
what
, exactly, she couldn’t be sure.
    An invitation?
    An accusation?
    A warning?
    Violet did not know. She had the book, and that’s what mattered. She had no reason to return to the library. Instead, she let her fingers graze on the book’s edges, over and over again, reminding herself that it was still there, comforting herself with its presence.
    The wind blew hard from the north, and the castle wall where Violet stood was damp and cold. She shivered. Her eyes stayed pinned on the wooden transport approaching the stone enclosure where the dragon was to live, a short walk from the castle. She hated the dragon.
    Hated
it.
    Her hatred for the creature pierced her heart like a needle, over and over again. She winced, patted the hidden book with her fingers, and buttoned her satchel closed.
    She wanted to see the dragon. She wanted it to
feel
her contempt. She wanted it to know just how much it was hated. She wanted to look into its heartless face and peer into its heartless eyes and spit. But not yet. There were too many soldiers, too many opportunities to be caught. Violet would bide her time.
    Besides. She wanted Demetrius to come with her.

    The King began dividing his days in half, spending the mornings attending to matters of state—or pretending he did. In truth, the King sat as still as a corpse at his desk while his council and advisers and magicians and scholars attempted to turn his thinking away from grief and towardthe more pertinent matters involving the state of the castle (strangely wobbly, people said, with a proliferation of cracks and gaps the likes of which no one had ever seen), or the state of the nation (oddly restless, people said, with more than the usual amount of grumbling).
    Meanwhile, the Mountain King had flown into a rage. The wealth of the Andulan Realms—its rich farmland and fat animals and abundant trade—had been in his grasp! And now, thanks to the treachery of the Lowland rats and the ineptitude of his guards, his opportunity was lost. Lost! Rumor had it that a whole forest had been laid low to feed his weapons forges. There were