The Unready Queen, стр. 11
Light danced off the tree trunks ahead in glittering waves. The queen glanced up. She swallowed. Just past a curtain of leaves, the pond awaited. She had not meant to come here—but here she was.
The spring was crystal clear, as always, its surface rippling gently in the breeze. A wispy willow stretched its limbs over the water on the far side. There, in the opposite corner of the pool, tucked in the shadow of the tree, a pair of emerald eyes shone.
“Hello, Kallra,” said the queen.
The girl’s face rose, droplets of water running down blue-green cheeks. She looked no older than Fable, but the queen knew better.
“It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the queen. “I could use some reassuring right about now.”
Kallra turned her head ever so slightly to one side. Her skin glistened.
“I think,” the queen went on, “that I might need to look forward.”
Kallra nodded solemnly, and began to slip back under the surface.
“It’s about Fable—”
But before she could finish, the girl had vanished. The queen stepped to the edge of the pond and peered in.
For several moments there was nothing but the chirping of birds and the hum of insects. Gradually, the ripples faded and the water’s surface became like mirrored glass.
And there she was. The queen stared at the image as it coalesced. Her daughter’s hair was its usual mess, and she was wearing the dress that Annie Burton had made for her. It was Fable, no mistake—except that everything was wrong.
The queen’s breath caught in her throat.
Her daughter’s cheeks and clothes were covered in ashes and caked in something darkly red. Her hazel eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, were hollow, haunted, and streaming with heavy tears. As the queen looked on, Fable’s lips parted in a wretched scream.
BOOM!
The crash was distant—miles away, perhaps—but it echoed around the hills and set a handful of birds fluttering and squawking from their perches.
The queen’s eyes flicked toward Endsborough. Dust and smoke were rising from somewhere on the edge of town. Nowhere near the Burtons’, she reassured herself, but her heart was racing.
She looked back to the pool. The horrible vision of Fable had vanished. Her own reflection was all that stared back at her now, worry etched in her brow like deep runes. The surface stirred as Kallra slowly rose.
The queen swallowed. “What was that?” she said. “What did you just show me? What’s going to happen?”
Kallra pursed her lips.
“Please.”
For a long moment, Kallra said nothing. The spirit of the spring owed her gifts to no one, and the queen knew it. The spirit’s emerald eyes watched the queen with aching pity for several seconds—and then she drew a deep, slow breath. When she spoke, it was in a soft whisper, as silky as a stream trickling over river rocks.
“Your daughter’s reign I have foreseen,
a broken and unready queen.
Crowned by blood and burning grass,
and a single shot of lead and brass.”
Kallra delivered each word delicately, as if they were shards of glass that cut her tongue as she spoke them. As soon as she was done, the spirit slid away again, sinking remorsefully beneath the surface of the pool.
The queen watched numbly as a graceful blue-green bullfrog dove down under the water until it burrowed itself into the mud at the bottom of the pond.
A dull, cold lump was growing in her chest. “That, old friend,” she managed, “was not reassuring.”
SIX
The air was still thick with dust and smoke as the children crowded in to join the throng of townsfolk ogling the destruction. The inn at the forest’s edge was missing a wall, and the plume of dark smoke rose high into the air.
“Whoa!” Tinn was standing on his toes to peer over the shoulders of the milling crowd. Mrs. Silva had given up trying to order the children back inside the school two blocks back, but she insisted they stay a safe distance from the accident.
“What do you see?” asked Evie.
“The wood along this side of the inn is all broken and twisted up,” said Tinn. “Crazy. It’s like the whole side of the building was a piece of chewing gum and it popped. Let’s try to get closer.”
“The people village is even more exciting than I imagined,” Fable whispered as they squeezed in between the adults. “Can all the buildings do that?”
“I sure hope not,” said Cole.
The inn’s groundskeeper was relating his story for the fifth time as they emerged at the front of the group. “Scared me half to death,” the man said. “The whole side of the building just threw itself at me while I was pruning. Grazed my knee real bad, but I dove out of the way in the nick of time.”
“Any casualties, Burt?” somebody asked.
“Only my rhododendrons,” he said. “Gloria got a group of volunteers together right away to check all the rooms. Looks like everyone got out okay. Fella in number nine got the worst of it, I think, but he was walkin’ and talkin’ when they hauled him out.”
“Evie? Boys?” The kids turned at the sound of Annie’s voice. “What on earth are you doing here—Fable?”
“Hi, Annie Burton!” said Fable. “I did school today!”
Annie shook her head and sighed. “Well, it’s dangerous here, so stay with me, all of you. Don’t get any closer.”
“Dad!” Evie yelled and took off across the dusty street.
“Wait!” called Tinn and hurried after her.
“What did I just say?” Annie took a deep breath and marched after them.
Oliver Warner stood on the sidewalk in front of the inn. Beside him was seated a hunched figure—the former occupant of the ill-fated room number nine.
“Isn’t that Mr. Hill?” said Tinn as they neared.
Jacob Hill was swaying and coughing as Mr. Warner put a hand on his shoulder to