Iron Hearted Violet by Kelly Barnhill Page A

whispers that all the villagers on the mountain slopes—from the littlest children to the oldest men and women—had been conscripted into military service and were, even now, practicing drills and swordplay and perfecting the art of killing.
    Only rumors
, the councillors said in public, but behind closed doors they worried and fussed. Every morning they presented their reports to the King. Every morning they debated and fretted and argued. They begged the King to engage, but he barely acknowledged them.
    “Your Highness,” they said. “A decision. You must make a decision on how to respond.”
    But poor Randall cared only for the dragon.
His
dragon. He kept his notebooks on his lap, and his ancient manuscripts open across the desk and on the floor. If he had noticed that any ledgers were missing, he did not mention it. With each passing day, he worried less and less about the threat of war and more and more about the dragon.
If I cannot save it, then the death of the Queen will be in vain
, he told himself as he pretended to listen to his advisers.
There must be a way. There must be a way. I will—I must—save it. I promise.
    The meetings ended at the midday meal with no decisions made, our nation one day closer to war. The King’s afternoons were dedicated entirely to the care and study of the dragon.
    It was not as though the King intentionally ignored the Princess, nor she him. But both, in the days following the funeral, were loath to weep and reluctant to witness weeping by the other. And so they gave each other a wide berth, regarding both father and daughter at times as strangers—affectionate strangers and loving strangers, but strangers all the same.
    Violet didn’t mind. It saved her the bother of lying. In any case, she was ready to pay the dragon a visit, and she was ready to see Demetrius.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
    Demetrius, his wounds now almost fully healed, woke early one morning to find Violet standing outside his window. Her exhausted face was as pale as milk, the spangle of freckles as bright and sharp as pinpricks. Her blue and gray eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, with darkened smudges underneath. She looked as though she had not slept—and would not sleep. Not for days. In truth, Demetrius looked the same way. Ever since his injury, he had been weak and wan—a shadow of himself. He attempted a thin smile.
    “Are you awake finally?” she said. She did not mentionher absence. She did not explain herself. Though she did find that she was—quite unexpectedly—tearful. Biting back her frustration, she wiped at her tears with the heel of her hand.
    “How long have you been out there?” Demetrius asked. He didn’t ask what he wanted to ask.
Where have you been?
Or,
Why have you not come to see me?
Or,
Are you all right?
    “Forever,” she said. “I thought you’d never get up. Come on. Put on your coat.”
    “Where are we going?” Demetrius said, hunting around for his shoes.
    “Where do you think?” She turned on her heel and started walking away. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you. I won’t. Not ever.”
    “I know,” Demetrius said. “And I’m sorry, Violet. But it wasn’t the cause—” His voice broke. “I mean… it didn’t—”
    “I know,” Violet said, and she kept walking. Demetrius followed close behind, and the weight of Violet’s grief and the memory of her mother pressed heavily on their grim, silent mouths.

    The Lesser Sun was now fully risen, but the Greater Sun would not emerge for another hour or more. They walkeddown the stony trail in silence, Violet wrapping her arms around her middle and clutching it tight, and Demetrius shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as far as they would go. His father had told him that now that both had lost their mothers, he and Violet would need each other more than ever. That Demetrius’s words would be exactly what Violet needed to hear.
    But he had no words. And in the face of his friend’s grief, his tongue