Palace Walls

Part Eight

"...And when we are to die," said the skinny, gray-haired Lord Kingfisher, "Clotilda won't remember us, who conceived us, but the greedy fools who adopted her. Isn't that right, Cecilia?"

The fat Asian woman looked up with eyes glossy with tears, and a mouth shivering with a thousand stories. But all she could do was nod.

--from Baby Farmers: Old and New by Penelope Oltu

That night, the Queen called an emergency meeting in the Parlor Hall. Lady Salmon shuddered. Her Majesty had sobbed until her eyes burned red and gritty, retiring to bed without supper; it always made her heart race whenever the Queen showed this much emotion. She understood why, of course, Anyone would in such a horrendous circumstance— but she had grown accustomed to the flat glassy eyes, the unmoving brow, the mouth that never curved. The fact that Her Majesty was rising from bed to speak made her stomach churn. Maybe it soothes Her Majesty to be up and doing, she thought, Maybe— in some way —she hears her parents urging her on, as they always did. But something about this feels a bit like...she dug their graves with ancient gems.

 It wouldn't be easy. The Parlor Hall was a small, narrow room that the little people called "rustic"; it had crooked, dark-brown wooden walls and wooden floors that creaked with each footstep. Gold-framed oil portraits of ancient Kings and Queens rattled like ghosts, as flowing green-brown plants swayed with the maroon velvet curtains. An immense, rectangular window framed the head of the long table, so that the faint silvery moonlight gave the sitter an otherworldly glow. The attendants shuddered. When the Queen took her seat, her pale flesh was as bright as bones.

Lady Salmon watched her friend tremble, feeling a bit awkward about this predicament. On one hand, she still felt her insides burn with rage, but on the other, she never wished such a fate on anyone-- not even a Dodo. That is, any Dodo with a pulse. Ohhhh, Goddess, if only the fire would have hit my mother...!  Then again....She smirked. I hadn't the fortune of a "Mama."  That Great Spirit always aims right!

"My people!"

The Queen folded her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes, revealing the deep, blue-black circles that drooped beneath them. Tears trickled down her cheeks. For the first time in her reign, her scarlet nails chipped, her blush oozed into pink globs of birthday-cake icing, and her mascara ran in thick streams of black. She looked lost. She looked forgotten. She looked broken.

The Prince pulled a jade handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to his wife.

"Here, my pearl," he whispered.

"Th-Thank you," she sniffled, before blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. She kept at this for a few minutes, so that the attendants wondered if the meeting would ever begin.

"I-I assume you have received word," she spoke, "That a fire broke out in the North Tower, killing my beloved parents. I do not understand why or how...but the guards tell me it was most likely an accident."

"Are you sure it was accidental, Your Majesty?" Calliope asked.

   "Oh, my pearl, it must have been my fault, with that flame-spell...!" Keturah cried.

The Queen arched one eyebrow. 

"Don't say such things. Besides...." She blew her nose again. "They were wrapped in white bandages, yes, but 'tis a common anti-aging tactic-- especially when you smear pearl juice and snail slime on the underside. And my parents were very...youthful sorts." She paused. "I-I should have been there, in the North Tower, making sure they were well! I should have been...a better daughter!"