LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
It was sleeting the day they buried the King.
Hundreds came out to gawp and stare—and some to even sincerely mourn. The board of directors. Lifelong employees. The household staff. Ordinary people with too much time to waste. Journalists with flashbulbs and yellow notepads. They jostled and murmured in hushed tones that could not entirely mask their curiosity as the pallbearers lowered the black and gold coffin into the cold, hard earth.
But their eyes were not on the coffin, not on the mortal shell of what had been the most powerful man in the city, the man many said had built the city, had made it the metropolis it was. Arthur "King" White was gone, and had been for some days. And with the King dead, the spotlight was now on the new Queen. The daughter left behind to fill the sudden vacuum, very young and very unprepared.
Or so the analysts, the stockbrokers, the cabbies, the waiters, the hairdressers said.
Fresh from boarding school, she had only been home for a few scant weeks. Had barely had any time to reconnect with her absent, powerful father. Stood now all in black, hand-in-hand beside the sister who was only spoken of in whispers, porcelain and ebony next to cream and cherries.
An unlikely pair. Snow: so quiet and unknown. Rose: sharp as a razor's edge and twice as cutting. The first a mystery, the latter a scandal.
One raised in her father's image, carefully tutored and bred for leadership, fully aware of the weight being placed on her shoulders, the responsibilities that would be hers in time. The heir, the chosen one, the prodigal.
And the other an acknowledged mistake, unintended. A bastard in the traditional sense, lately come to the fold following her mother's long illness and decline. Known to be wild and more than a little mad. Violent with words and looks and deeds. And yet utterly devoted to the King and his princess, the sister who had always been better loved and better favored.
There had been stories not so long ago of a young man who had presumed to impose on Snow White's company. And of how he had later been found, not wholly a man and long past caring about it. Blood in the water and sand in his mouth; and a dainty dagger fit for a lady fitted neatly in the grooves between his ribs.
And that was why there was only whispering. It didn't do to attract the attention of Rose Red.
The priest finished his prayer. Stepped back with a polite nod to the pair standing closest to the grave. Snow took a deep, visible breath and leaned forward, her free hand stretching out to drop a single red rose onto the coffin. And with that, as if it had been previously agreed upon as the signal, the long line of mourners began to file past. Other flowers joined the first. Hands reached out to clasp shoulders, pat arms, squeeze fingers in gentle reassurance. The parade of apologies and condolences and solemn well wishes became an almost soothing susurration in the ears, blending together into a vast sea of murmurs. The newly-crowned queen nodded and smiled blankly, her eyes skittering across earnest and masked faces alike.
"Everything has its time," a voice said, the tone cutting through the white noise. Snow White's gaze focused on a sharp face framing dark eyes. They were not kind eyes, too hard and unapologetic with their interest. But the light in them was magnetic. Undeniable. She felt her breath catch in the curve of her throat. "Pain is a momentary thing—you should relish it, while it lasts. Pain brings truth and knowledge with it."
The black dress was perfectly tailored to fit the curves and slopes of her body. The veil of her hat did not hide those striking eyes, nor the dusky brown complexion of her skin. A red carnation at the buttonhole of her jacket was almost too bright, too vivid, against the otherwise unrelieved black of her clothes and the gray of the chilled sky.
Snow had never met this woman, but she felt as if she already knew her in some vital way. She recognized wealth and power when she saw it, the confidence that came with control and respect. The large men standing behind each shoulder could have worn labels reading BODYGUARD, with their posture, jutting brows, and jackets that strained at the seams. This woman was like the Seven who sat on the board of directors—but with a whisper of something else around her, invisible yet very present. Snow could not place it…
"You have a strange way of offering condolences, Miss…"
"My name is Regine. I knew your father, well enough to know he was a hard man. Hard to love as well, I suspect. And I am sorry," she said in a quieter voice, tilting her head and leaning closer. "Sorry that you must throw away your roses on a corpse."
She felt the heat rush up her neck, through her cheeks, and she bit the inside of her cheek sharply. "I loved my father dearly," she said, swallowing blood. "My heart broke the night he died."
"A shame and a pity. We must find a way to stitch that heart back together."
And she was gone, slipping through the tombstones on elegant legs smooth as satin in the splintered light.