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I know it’s a lot to ask of someone, so again, I hope one last time. For the same baby steps Ecaeris has been taking. It wasn’t too much for him, though it has taken a while to get to where we are.
I have faith Madigan will rise to the challenge.
If not for us or herself… Then out of spite. She has always loved proving people wrong.
* * *
Isolde glides around her sewing room as easily as water sliding over smooth river stones. I swear her feet never touch the ground as she tucks rolls of fabric into their rightful cabinets and fluffs the pillow on the armchair.
“You didn’t come all this way to stare, did you?”
“You’re snarky today,” I observe.
She delicately huffs as she puts her hands on her hips. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I was a little mad at you,” I admit. “You could have warned me that you were going to announce to the village that I would be the next queen.”
“Had I warned you, you wouldn’t have come to the announcement of your own will,” she states. “You would have forced me to have Ecaeris and Talodus drag you onto the platform, and that wouldn’t have looked good for either of us.”
I tip my head. “Fair. I wouldn’t have been happy either way.”
“What brings you here today, sweet girl?” Isolde asks, waving my confession away. “More sewing, or is there something on your mind?”
“There’s always something on my mind,” I mumble.
“Welcome to leadership,” she cheerfully proclaims, holding her skirt out as she curtsies.
I snort, then sigh. “There’s a rumor of a beast attack that happened yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard,” she tells me without concern.
“But no one has come forward,” I press.
“They won’t. If they got away without injury, then they’ll consider themselves lucky,” she explains. “They won’t speak of it for a while, Ada. The older generations instilled—what does William call it…”
I squint at her. “Superstitions?”
“Yes. That,” she acknowledges before continuing. “The older generation instilled superstitions in the village. To talk of the attack after a successful escape is like that story you told me of whispering that lord’s name.”
“What?”
“The one where they whisper his cursed name and he appears.”
“Oh. Lord Voldemort?”
Isolde gives me a half-shrug. “Sure.”
“So, they think if they speak of the attack, the beasts will... What?” I inquire. “Show up in their homes and finish the job?”
“Exactly.”
“What the fuck?” I murmur, mystified or astonished… Or… I’m not even sure how to describe what I’m feeling other than plain old confusion.
“Ah. Language,” she softly scolds.
I scratch at my scalp as I wonder aloud, “Who started that?”
“The queen before me,” Isolde answers. “She didn’t want her people so scared of the forest that they refused to trade with the other tribes. But she also didn’t want them believing they could escape without harm every time they ran into a beast. So they were ordered to not speak of almost attacks. Really, they didn’t speak of actual attacks either.”
