It is months later, whispered Lionheart’s heart. The starflowers have ceased to blossom. And your father is dead.
It’s just a few flowers! Maybe they withered early this year. Because of the dragon smoke, his brain replied, angry now.
The roads near the house were more crowded still, and Lionheart was obliged to walk in the dirt and grass, for there was no room for him among the carriages and horses and beautifully dressed men and women. Entourages bearing the standards of every barony in the kingdom glittered past, heralded by trumpets or criers as they drew near the House gates. He saw the flash of a flag from Milden, glimpsed the livery of powerful Shippening lords, and . . . light of Lumé above! Was that coach approaching from the Eldest’s City sporting the royal insignia of Parumvir?
They wouldn’t come so far, said Lionheart’s heart. Not King Fidel, nor even Prince Felix. They wouldn’t come so far for a wedding.
But they might for a funeral.
No! Lionheart’s brain immediately countered. Not a funeral! Besides, the flags aren’t at half-mast.
In the bustle and to-do, it took very little effort to slip around through the back ways, cross the kitchen gardens, and enter the Eldest’s House by way of the scullery door. Here he was assaulted by an army of smells: everything from the fresh blood of slaughtered animals, to heady spices of various chutneys and deviled vegetables, to the sweet tangs of candied fruits, and the warmth of creamy sauces. Kitchen hands glared his way, and one of the minor cooks brandished a skewer so threateningly that Lionheart (who had been stabbed by a unicorn and lived to tell the tale) leapt back in horror and made a hasty retreat.
He escaped the kitchens into the servants’ passage and climbed up to the main house. All the while, his heart was saying, They’re preparing a feast. You know what that means.
A feast, I’ll grant you! his brain replied. But not for a funeral. These are preparations for celebration, not mourning. And the dragon-eaten flags are not at dragon-eaten half-mast!
Then suddenly, on a narrow stair in the shadowy space between the sundered worlds of the servants and nobles, Lionheart stopped and pressed his back to the wall.
“My father is dead,” he said, and both his heart and his brain understood it for truth.
He knew now why the barons, lords, and even kings of distant nations were gathering in the Eldest’s House. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He whispered one word into the dark: “Coronation.”
The Baroness of Middlecrescent was a simple woman. This isn’t to say she was stupid or even especially foolish, though it might seem so to some unsympathetic observers. She merely held an uncomplicated view of the world and the order of things, held it with a grasp that had only tightened as the years slipped by. She clung to the perspective that people, on the whole, were generally good sorts with good hearts who wanted good things for the good people around them. Not even five years of dragon smoke had been able to shake this perspective. Indeed, in the surrounding darkness, the baroness had found it more vital than ever to cling to what she believed she knew (which isn’t at all the same as actually knowing).
But now she sat in a quiet, unfamiliar room, listening to the sounds of bustle downstairs, and she wept into her handkerchief. Her simple perspective on the world was being rather roughly handled these days, and it hurt her heart. So she sat and she sobbed, and she could not bring herself to summon her maid as she knew she ought.
The dear, dear Baron would be angry. Oh, he would be livid! He had ordered her to make herself fine and fancy, and to present herself a good quarter of an hour ago, accompanied by heralds and ladies and sounds of trumpets. But . . . well, how could he expect such things of her? It seemed—and she hated to admit it, even down in the very depths of her throbbing heart—it seemed cruel !
So she sobbed all by herself, wondering vaguely if she hadn’t ought to summon one of her ladies only for the company (for one does hate to sob by oneself at such times). She hadn’t quite made up her mind one way or the other, however, when she heard the door opening behind her. “Oh, Dovetree, I was just going to ring for you,” said the baroness, turning.
Then she screamed.
Lionheart was across the room in an instant, clamping his hand over the baroness’s mouth and, as gently as he could under the circumstances, pushing her back into her chair and pinning her. She was not a strong woman, but she wriggled in such a flurry of lacy dressing gown that he was hard-pressed to keep her in place. But he managed it, holding on and stifling the squeals she made until at last she ran out of air and blinked up helplessly at him.