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THE king, of course, died.
King Willis married Clarion, and Cora was left to be another village girl. She felt no sadness at this, only fury. The years proved that there was not a single hope left for the villagers. There was not change coming in Fairendale. Queen Clarion was not the kind of queen Cora might have been. And this fueled the fury even more.
But there came a boy.
He was kind and tall and striking in his appearance. He was made for something more than a captain’s son, and yet that is precisely what he was. He had no magic, but he loved her.
She feigned disinterest at first, for the children of the village had only ever pushed her away, aware of her differences, though not aware at all, not entirely. So when the boy showed her interest, she did not believe it, sure it was a trick. She made the loving as difficult for him as she could, teasing him, ignoring his gifts, calling attention to the difference in their age, though it was not so very much—only one year and four months, to be precise.
She had seen so much. She had kept her secret for nearly twelve years, and she could not risk anyone knowing now, after she had the king’s death on her hands. If someone found out about the skin she wore at night, they would cast her out, for people in all the kingdoms were distrustful of shape shifters. And she was a blackbird, the very bird that had killed their king.
It was all of this that kept her from the boy.
Yet he continued his pursuit. He saw her for who she was. He loved her. She could tell.
So, little by little, she let him win her heart.
And then, one day, the king’s army came to town with the news of his father’s death, and suddenly this boy became a man and agreed to lead an army. He tried to make her understand, but she could not understand, you see. He would serve a king she was supposed to marry, a king who was no better than his father, and the hate was so large and black in her that she could do nothing but turn it on the very one she loved.
Her heart hardened.
Until one day her father came to her and said, “It is about time we found a man for you to marry.”
She did not argue. She knew that this was the way of things, that when a woman reached a certain age, she would not be seen fit to marry. She could tell her father had more he wanted to say.
“The sailor who lives at the edge of the village,” he said. “He is a good man. Handsome. Strong. Kind.”
And so he was.
But there was someone else she loved, though the love was hard to distinguish from the hate. She wanted to marry the boy who wore armor, who made his nightly rounds in the village and lingered at her window.
But she could not forgive him for serving the king.
So she married the sailor. They had a beautiful daughter with a gift of magic that nearly paralleled her own but for the missing dark parts.
She was called Mercy.