(“You?” Conor asked.) (Me, the monster said. But also only part of me.)
(I can take any form of any size, but the yew tree is a shape most comfortable.)
The prince and the farmer’s daughter held each other close in the growing dawn.
They had vowed to be chaste until they were able to marry in the next kingdom,
but their passions got the better of them, and it was not long before they were asleep and naked in each other’s arms.
They slept through the day in the shadows of my branches and night fell once again.
The prince woke. “Arise, my beloved,” he whispered to the farmer’s daughter, “for we ride to the day where we will be man and wife.”
But his beloved did not wake. He shook her, and it was only as she slumped back in the moonlight that he noticed the blood staining the ground.
(“Blood?” Conor said, but the monster kept talking.)
The prince also had blood covering his own hands, and he saw a bloodied knife on the grass beside them, resting against the roots of the tree.
Someone had murdered his beloved and done so in a way that made it look like the prince had committed the crime.
“The queen!” cried the prince. “The queen is responsible for this treachery!”
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