The trees around her were completely bare. She lay on a nest of brittle, gray leaves. Everything she touched crumbled to ash. She drew her cloak about her and shivered. Someone, somewhere was watching her. “Hello?” she called out into the gloom. “Your friends are not here,” came a low voice. There was a fluttering of wings, a soft, cold breeze against the queen’s skin. A crow landed on a nearby branch, its feathers as sharp as its black beak. The queen reached for the pocket where she kept the dagger. It was empty. The crow watched coldly. “What do you want?” asked the queen. “I want you to leave here,” replied the crow, “and never come back.” “Leave? Leave the Everwood?” The crow inclined its shining head. “But why? I am the queen.” “Queen?” The crow let out a small, rough laugh. “A crown does not make a queen.” “But they chose me.” “Who did? Your friends? Of course they did. They don’t know what you carry inside you.” The queen bristled.
