To Marry a Dragon

19. Like a Princess

De'Briavel mausoleum chilled Elvira to the bone, yet she prostrated herself on the gravestones, hands outstretched to hug each twin buried beneath. Her loose hair brushed the stone of the stillborn infant that carried away her mother. Her mother's and father's effigies looked on, white marble figures from sarcophagus as she cried.

She cried because she didn't see Eugene and Clarice for over a year and now she would never see them again. She cried because they died so fast and so young. She cried because she was so utterly alone.

Alas, she couldn't afford to cry much longer.

"So strange." Cerne's voice echoed under the moisture-weeping ceiling. "You put the dead into the ground, but they don't sprout into new humans."

"No, they don't," Elvira said morosely and caught herself wishing they did. Her sleeve scratched instead of dabbing away the tears. "But the other living things grow on the graves, when they are laid to rest outside. I want to be buried outside, in bright sunshine."

The dryad's voice turned small. "Can't blame you." She looked around, rubbing her shoulders and yawning. An acorn form transformation was due, Elvira guessed, and her eyes welled up with tears again. Transformation. Ferrante... more than ever she needed the camaraderie they shared, his sturdy shoulders to prop her forehead on.

"Ferrante? What's that about Ferrante?" Cerne asked, huddled in the patch of the light-giving light let into the crypt by a single window.

His name must have escaped her lips, and no wonder. She was missing him so much!

"I wish to share the burden of solitude with Ferrante," Elvira explained. "Alas, to live up to my family name, as the last de'Briavel, I cannot make him my husband. My parents' death, my siblings' death. This leaves me a sole heir to Gallicia's throne and the barons would not accept him as their King. I must marry—"

"Sigvart?" Cerne offered helpfully.

Elvira shrugged. "It doesn't look like it. Lord Eldwin shall brief me on the most urgent needs of the realm. It would determine the choice of my husband. I suspect he wishes me to wed on the day of coronation to calm the people, give them the stability of assured succession. A young Queen, a King from a powerful family with a promise of children to continue the line."

"Mmgh," Cerne said. "I am getting a little sleepy."

Despite the ominous cloud over her heart, Elvira smiled a little, catching the acorn. Cerne couldn't stand human politics. With the acorn clutched in her hand, Elvira knelt and pressed her burning forehead to the marble likeness of her mother. The mourning dress she was wearing was one of hers... Even the perfume her mother favored still lingered in the folds of the black lace.

Mother, what must I do?

And her eyes fell on the family's device above the grave.

I must do what I must. Not what I want, but what I must. Always.

A sigh didn't warm the marble hands. She must meet with Lord Eldwin at breakfast, then appear before the court for a welcoming ceremony—every rat in the palace being aware of her return by now—and meet with the Order of Verity's Commander to discuss her release from the Order due to the exceptional circumstances. If she were to do all the things she must do on the morrow, she must go to bed immediately.

She walked down the aisle between the graves of her ancestors, without bothering to lighten her steps. The footfalls echoed, as if her doom walked with her.

Sir Theophil knelt outside the mausoleum's entrance in prayer. He pushed to his feet with a murmured, 'my Lady' and led the way.

For now, she was not Her Highness or Her Majesty, and one knight was a sufficient escort. Soon, she wouldn't be able to retire without a dozen ladies to attend to her evening toilette under the Mistress of Queen's Bedchamber supervision.