Page 115 of Cursed Crowns

“Theeere once was a man called Ned Dupree,

Who took a barrel of rum to sea,

He left his wife in their little town,

Then drank that barrel all the way dooooown.”

Wren swished her skirts as she sang, coaxing a smile from the dowager queen. She started to prance around the atrium.

“Weeeeeeeeell, poor Ned’s head began to spin

He caught a carp and kissed its fin,

He danced until his heart was full

Then went and fought a seagull.”

The queen burst into laughter, the sound tinkling through the atrium like a bell. Wren grinned at her over her shoulder. “I could use some musical accompaniment for the next verse. If you’re feeling up to it?”

The queen turned back to the piano. Wren hummed her tune, rustling her skirts as she went. “Da-da-da-da da-da-da da da-da-da-da-da-da-daaaaaaa.”

The queen pressed down on the keys, a single chord erupting like an aria. A nearby soldier poked his head out of an alcove, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Queen Valeska chased that first chord with another, and then a third, her hands quickening to match Wren, as she leaped into the next verse with gusto.

“When morning came, Ned’s head did ache,

He rolled from bed, still half awake,

Went up to deck to walk about,

Aaaaaaaand spewed that rum back out!”

The queen threw her head back and laughed, and this time even some of the soldiers joined in. Wren danced a jig around the atrium, bringing the shanty to a close with the help of Valeska’s nimble playing. She was still giggling when the song ended. “That really was quite something!”

Wren sketched a bow. “Thank you for elevating it.”

The queen stared at the piano. “I thought music had left me, but perhaps it was simply hiding all along.”

Wren sat down on the bottom step of the grand staircase. “Can you play something else for me?”

“Nothing that would rival your wonderful sea shanty.”

“Any kind of music will do,” prompted Wren. “And besides, sea shanties are a bit like rum. If you have too much, you’ll get sick.”

The queen chuckled. And then, to Wren’s surprise, she turned back to the piano, squaring herself to the keys, like they were a mountain she was about to climb. And so she did. Queen Valeska poured a melody so beautiful into the room that tears pricked the back of Wren’s eyes. The notes soared, like a storm cloud swelling in the sky, the crescendo building until it became the thrumming of thunder. Wren’s heart beat faster in her chest. The melody turned once more, falling like the first drops of summer rain.

And then it was over, and Wren—to her horror—was crying. She scrubbed her cheeks with her sleeve.

The queen was smiling. “Careful. Or you’ll ruin that beautiful dress.”

“It’s not mine,” said Wren.

“I know,” said Valeska. “They were meant to be for Ansel’s bride...” She trailed off, her face falling. “But it seems that was not to be.”

Wren dropped her hand.

Valeska misread the horror on her face. “It’s hard to believe, I suppose. A queen designing dresses. But that was my life once, long before I met Soren.” She smiled, ruefully. “After my husband died, Alarik encouraged me to return to my passion. He thought it might keep my mind busy. My heart, too.”