They went into the castle stronghold. It was dark and damp, but there was no evidence there to suggest that the queen had died.
He felt the need to do something fitting. But Leslie was not here to tell him what it was.
The anger which had possessed him yesterday flared up again. Leslie. I'm just a dumb dodo, and you know it!
What am I supposed to do? The coldness inside of him had moved upward into his throat constricting it.
He swallowed several times. It occurred to him that he probably had cancer of the throat.
Wasn't that one of the seven deadly signs? Difficulty in swallowing.
He began to sweat. He didn't want to die. Lord, he was just ten years old.
He had hardly begun to live. Leslie, were you scared? Did you know you were dying? Were you scared like me?
A picture of Leslie being sucked into the cold water flashed across his brain.
“C'mon, Prince Terrien,” he said quite loudly. “We must make a funeral wreath for the queen.”
He sat in the clear space between the bank and the first line of trees and bent a pine bough into a circle,
tying it with a piece of wet string from the castle.
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