The Queen of Sorrow.
The throne was framed with engravings, some that Shew had known of and knew how to read, and some written in the same undecipherable language Loki’s necklace was written in. Few of the readable names Shew could read now were Mircalla, Carmilla, and Ayesha, all among a number of other name that didn’t mean anything to Shew.
Looking at Carmilla, Shew thought her mother was born to be a queen, unlike her who never felt she fit the role of a princess.
Carmilla’s golden, voluminous hair trailed down her shoulders. Part of her hair was braided into a headband at the top. Of course, it was also attached by a braid to her thin crown on her head, except that this time the hair waved like an Uraues poisonous snake, protecting the crown from harm as if it would lash out and bite whoever dared to take the crown from her.
Everything was so vividly detailed in this part of the dream, Shew couldn’t take her eyes off her mother. Carmilla had icy blue, cat eyes; devilishly innocent, seductive, and smart. Thin eyebrows crowned her majesty’s eyes. Her eyelashes, black like raven feathers, were so beautiful they looked fake—they weren’t.
Carmilla had her hands rested upon the sides of the throne and two panthers with green eyes slept at her feet. The panthers weren’t sedated. They behaved out of fearing the Queen of Sorrow.
The Queen’s favorite mirror stood at her side, along with a thin old woman with milk-white hair at the other.
In front of the panthers, three steps down, stood Shew’s birthday cake, three feet high, all white like a wedding cake, topped with dark chocolate with red cherries scattered on top.
On both sides of the red carpet leading to the throne, stood a number of peasant girls. They were young, ripe, and beautiful.
The girls were the first to break the tension and welcome Shew with their eyes, standing firm in their place, somehow afraid to move because of Carmilla. They had their hands laced behind their backs and heads bowed down a little, wearing their own poor dresses.
Immediately, Shew scanned the girls, looking to see if Cerené was among them. A sigh of relief escaped her when she didn’t find her. It made sense. The Queen wouldn’t sacrifice the Phoenix’s blood, no matter what.
Shew knew all these girls were going to be slaughtered and the Queen was going to swim in their blood. Finally, Shew broke the tense silence by stepping into the chamber.
The girls started clapping and Sirenia Lark, the Queen’s favorite singer, started humming while playing her magical harp. Sirenia was a siren who Carmilla had met on her journey with Angel, escaping Night Sorrow. She used to lure men with her voice and eat their flesh. The Queen liked that.
Shew walked among the girls, tenderly glancing at them one by one.
You have to save those girls, Shew.
When she reached the three steps before the panthers, Carmilla signaled for her to stop. The Queen stood up slowly, and the girls held their breath, pulling their feet together and adjusting their dresses.
Carmilla’s presence sucked the air out of the room; even Sirenia held her breath and stopped playing the harp. The two panthers jumped up straight from their eternal sleep and padded slowly next to the Queen as she descended from her throne.
Carmilla walked as if she were a panther herself. Even the sunshine disappeared where she laid her foot on the floor, pretending a horde of clouds had blocked its path, leaving the candlesticks to provide the light.
Carmilla’s hair floated over her shoulders as she walked. She stopped before Shew.
“You’re a princess now,” Carmilla said in a voice submerged in womanhood. “Being sixteen,” Carmilla followed, not bowing down to face her daughter. “It’s a special day for you, Shew,” she stretched her long arms to hold Shew by the shoulders, then hesitantly knelt down and hugged her. “But before celebrating, we need to weigh your heart one more time. Dame Gothel!” She summoned the woman with milk-white hair.
“Majesty,” Dame Gothel paid her respects.
“Did you weigh all the girls’ hearts?” Carmilla asked.
“All but one, majesty,” Dame Gothel said.
“Then weigh it here in front of us before we weigh Shew’s heart,” Carmilla demanded and returned to her throne.
Shew heard the girls whisper something so she took some steps back, trying to listen. She heard them mention that in order for the Queen to swim in a girl’s blood and benefit from it, the peasant’s heart had to weigh twenty-one grams. This, or the Queen wouldn’t slaughter the girl but would keep her for later.
So that’s why she wants to weigh my heart. Unless mine is twenty-one grams, it’s no use to her. Why twenty one grams?