Epilogue

Saianha: Two years later

 

The bone-thin woman swathed in snowy blankets on the veranda stared straight ahead. Her face was heavily scarred, and small patches on her head were shiny where new hair refused to grow. She was ugly now, shriveled and skeletal in appearance. She didn’t speak and had to be spoon-fed. She never turned her head to see the splendor of her house, so lovingly restored by Cato with the handful of diamonds he’d taken from the vinegar cask.

Cato was in her line of vision, but Amalie gave no sign that she was aware of him. Soon there would be a fresh vase of flowers next to her chair—flowers she neither saw nor smelled.

Amalie Suub Alvarez existed; she no longer lived.

“You said you were going to open the trunk today, Cato,” Clara said anxiously. “You said when the plantation was restored to its original splendor you would open it for Amalie. I had the servants bring it to the veranda. Perhaps the contents will evoke some response in her. Shall we do it now?” she asked as she linked her arm with Cato’s.

Clara was heavy with child, his child. His prince or princess, he thought happily. “Yes, let’s open it now,” he said, helping his wife up the wide veranda steps.

The trunk was old, the makeshift lock older and made to last an eternity, Cato thought as he pounded at it with an iron bar. He looked at Amalie to see if there was any sign of recognition. She continued to stare ahead, her gaze unblinking. It took both Cato and Clara to lift the heavy lid.

“My God!” Cato whispered as he stared down at a king’s ransom in jewels and gold coins. He filled his hands and offered them to Amalie. “It was all for nothing, Amalie,” he cried. “You were richer than any queen and you didn’t know it. You could be wearing these now, dressed in the finest gowns. You would truly be a queen. It was all for nothing.” His shoulders slumped when he remembered the back breaking months and years of work it took to bring all the pillaged booty from the caves back to Amalie’s kingdom.

Amalie’s black eyes glittered malevolently as she stared at Cato’s hands. His head was bowed, his eyes downcast, when she brought both of her clenched fists down on his neck. He died instantly.

Stunned, Clara could only stare at her husband’s body with fear-filled eyes. She never saw Amalie’s foot about to strike her in the throat until it was too late.

Cato’s child was born within the hour, a handsome blond-haired male child.

“You will be king,” Amalie proclaimed, her mad eyes devouring the child. “All these riches will be yours. I will be your queen!” Her shrill, evil laughter wafted through the trees, carrying to the four corners of her plantation.

There was none who voiced an objection to her proclamation.

“Long live the queen!” she cackled.