Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I go over to where it all begins. There’s a gleaming white metropolis, set close to a brilliant blue ocean, and surrounded by verdant fields full of flowers. The next frame is of what must be this hall, and there are people lined up with their arms outstretched … toward a woman in royal regalia who sits upon—
“That throne,” I say aloud as I glance back at the ornate chair.
The Queen bears a heavy red and gold crown on her head, and she is addressing her citizenry, one arm outstretched with a bejeweled staff, the other settled in her lap, bearing an orb. She is young and very beautiful, with deeply colored skin and black hair, both of which are set off by her red robes, and the jewels that hang from her neck and her wrists. She’s smiling serenely, as if she knows well her position and wields her authority with grace and fairness, as a mother would watch over her family.
But the next compartment of images is dire. There’s darkness in this hall, everything empty, the Queen and her people gone.
“A tragedy.” I keep my voice at a whisper as I reach up and run my fingers over this part of the painted scene. “Never to be the same again.”
Except it doesn’t detail anything about what happened.
I continue along, and see the Queen taking to her quarters, and crops that fail, and some kind of massacre happening in a wooded glen. Though the city’s life seems to continue, none of it is the same. Time passes, as suggested by a pinwheel of seasons, the spring, summer, fall, and winter all represented with the Queen’s closed door in a palace suggesting she stays hidden.
And then the next panel is curious. We’re once again in this great hall, with an army of statues as they appear now, the only difference being that there is a single figure standing down by the throne—
I stumble back.
There’s a squeak as I hit the dais and bump the back legs of the heavy throne, knocking it out of its precise alignment on the podium. Dimly, I rub my shoulder from the impact and cannot take my eyes off the painting before me.
Surely this cannot be true. And yet my eyes do not lie.
There is the great hall, and the whole of the stone army, and the vacant throne. The figure, though, tucked away in the back … behind the throne … the one that is facing away from the viewer because the person is looking at the mural …
Is a red-cloaked woman with long, colorless hair.
I put my hand up to the crown of my head, and bring some of the waves that fall past my shoulders forward. And then I glance down at the felt skirt that I have fastened around my neck.
The depiction of me. As I appear right now.
Numbly, I look to the final image that has been painted.
The Queen is once again seated on her throne, with her citizenry rejoicing, the statues removed from the hall, the sun shining outside on crops that thrive.
I look back at the depiction of the red-cloaked figure, then I rush over to the left and start the sequence all over again, lingering at the dark moment and then comparing it with the final square in the sequence. Something changes between the two compositions, and not just with the disappearance of the Queen and her people and the appearance of the army of statues. I don’t know what, though.
I have to go through the narrative a number of times before I spot the difference between the first painting of the Queen and the one where the red-cloaked figure is standing … right where I am standing, now.
Stumbling around, I circle in front of the throne, and look up to the high back of the golden chair, following the curlicues in the metal, and the winking, twinkling faces of the gems—
To the gaping hole at the apex of the top.
My eyes shoot back to the mural, and I see that what rests upon the Queen’s head is not a crown with a massive ruby, but rather a golden crown … in front of a ruby set into the flourished top of the throne she sits on.
A noise catches my attention.
Abruptly, I crane my head back so that I can look up, way up.
Above the mural, nearly at the top of the wall where it meets the ceiling, there’s an oculus. The aperture is covered with a mesh curtain, and the subtle undulations in the metal links give it away.
“You, up there,” I call out. “I see you.”
The curtain stills. But whoever is behind it remains. I can see their outline as a shadow on the far side of the mesh.
A strange calmness goes through me. “You are the Queen … who sees no one.”