shoulders to cover up her rags; someone else stuck a very golden—and very heavy—diadem on her head. Her neck bent under its weight. A scepter was placed in her right hand.
Then she was shoved in front of a large window—the same window where she had last seen Maleficent, ordering her capture.
Horns sounded. The chaotic crowds below suddenly turned, almost as one, to look up at her.
Aurora stood as tall and erect as she could, trying not to gape like a goldfish. She was still sleepy, and her mind was clouded and the crown was heavy and the cape was hot. There were strands of hair in her face that were very tickly.
What should she say? What could she say to all of those expectant faces below?
What had happened, really?
She had fallen asleep…and then…Phillip said the fairies put everyone in the kingdom to sleep…and then they were ruled in the nightmare world by the undead Maleficent…and now they were free by means she didn’t understand. But their king and queen were dead—her mother and father, whom she had never known in either world.
Didn’t she get a moment to mourn that?
“Good people,” she tried to shout. It came out as an ugly, croaking whisper. “You are now free.”
Everyone looked expectant; a few people clapped.
Obviously, those who actually heard what she said knew that already.
“I am now your queen,” she strained to say as loudly as she could. “Your old king and queen, my parents…are…gone. I guess? I am your new queen. And I’ll try to do that to the best of my abilities. Being queen, I mean. From now on.”
There was scattered, confused applause.
The castellan pulled a hand over his face. Men around him in important floppy hats looked similarly disappointed.
“Come, there are other things to be done,” he said, trying to sound optimistic. “Much has fallen behind because of recent events.”
She was whisked away from the balcony and pulled back downstairs. No one took the scepter, crown, or cape away. She wished they would.
They spirited her into the private audience chamber, the one she had never entered when she lived with Maleficent. It was where the queen consulted with her closest advisors, where only the most serious claims were brought before her.
Aurora was plopped down in the large throne-like chair at the end of the room. The wood was hard and uncomfortable under her; she wished she could bunch up the cape and use it as a cushion.
This was also how she knew she was finally awake.
Men and women of all stations loitered at one end of the room, looking impatient and angry.
Another important-looking fellow immediately approached her. From his black velvet ensemble and pretty buttons that looked like coins, Aurora decided he was the treasurer.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “The emergency coffers are dangerously low. Should there be a blight this year, we have nothing left to rely on.”
“A blight?”
“Of wheat,” he said impatiently. “As there was a decade ago.”
“A wheat blight,” she said, still unsure what that meant.
“Your Majesty, what shall we do?” he pressed politely, if impatiently.
“What…protocol…does one normally follow in these cases?” she asked, wondering if she had a right to feel proud about how well she had phrased the question. Didn’t it sound regal?
“I recommend we raise taxes immediately,” he said with a shrug. “An emergency tax of an additional five percent multure, plus a geld of two and a half. That should cover it.”
“All right,” she said slowly. “Let’s do that….”
There were howls of fury and stomping. She jumped in her throne, shocked by the outburst. The treasurer rolled his eyes.
“What is wrong?”
“They don’t want to pay taxes,” the castellan explained from where he stood on the other side of the throne—with her in between him and the angry crowd. “They think running a kingdom is free.”
“What’s a tax?” Aurora whispered.
The castellan gaped at her. Then he shook his head and turned away.
She turned back to the treasurer.
“What’s a tax?” she repeated.
“Your Majesty,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now is not the time for a lesson in basic economics. Now is the time for swift, decisive leadership. We need a decision. Now.”
“I can’t without knowing what all this means!” she protested.
“What kind of queen is she?” a storm-faced, craggy old man with religious vestments spat. “What is this we’ve been left with?”
Aurora looked desperately through the crowd, hoping for a friendly face. But all of their expressions ranged from hate to confusion to disappointment. She wanted to run. She just wanted to get out of the