Within her rooms she paced and fumed. 

It had taken almost too much energy to get her message through to the priestess. Now she waited for what seemed like an eternity for contact to be made between the priestess and Muerta—and for the Queen to be called to talk through the goddess. It had happened, from time to time—the Mighty Dead were allowed to get messages back to the living. No one had ever told her how damned hard it would be.  

She’d spent too many years in the Underworld without doing anything, feeling helpless to watch as her daughter ruined her country. 

Yarrow should have been born first. Zameera had always known that—could see early on that Zardria had inherited too much of Maurice ever to become a good ruler. Had she not been so shortsighted, so foolish, she would have lived long enough to groom her second daughter to challenge Zardria legally when the time came. 

But the little cat killed me before I had a chance. Damn the clarity the afterlife gave her! Clarity and no power. 

Almost no power. She could still make contact with the priestess. She hoped. 

She kept pacing, waiting for Muerta to call her.

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