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The Fillorians had done their thing, wrapped the body (Alice, Margo reminded herself, Alice), in some kind of rough white material. Shrouds must transcend universes, she thought, as she stood to the side of the grove, hands clasped at her front in some kind of properly high queenish manner. She wished again for Eliot, but he had rushed off with the contingent taking Q to the centaurs, who were supposed to be the only people (beasts? whatthefuckever) who could heal that — that — thing going on with the upper half of his torso. Margo never shied away from, well, anything, really, but that was before Martin Chatwin chewed a hole in — let’s call it like it is here — one of the last people she’d fucked and his girlfriend had Niffined out. Then turned on her and would have ripped her head off slowly until Q somehow managed to loose his cacodemon and kill her. It. What the fuck was a niffin, anyway?
Well, this one was dead.
Margo felt it, again, that visceral roll somewhere in the mid-section that usually only accompanied the high drop of a roller coaster. This was going to kill Q. If he wasn’t dead already.
That roll again.
Where the fuck was Eliot? The centaurs couldn’t be that fucking far away.
“My queen,” one of the Fillorians burbled. The fat, officious one who was always sporting armpit sweat on his tunic-thing. She couldn’t remember his name. “Queen Alice is ready to return to Whitespire.”
He paused. He looked at her. Fuck me, Margo thought. He’s waiting for me to say something.
“Thank you,” she said. “We are grateful for your aid in our time of grief.” Suitably queenly.
Two of the guys in those immaculate white uniforms were — what the fuck were they doing? No fucking way. They were holding the door to the hearse open like someone was supposed to get inside. Like she was supposed to get inside. “When a monarch of Fillory is - um, shall we say, deceased? The other monarchs traditionally escort the body. And since you’re the only monarch available …” He trailed off.
Margo swept towards the carriage, twigs snarling her hair but crown straight. She ignored the hands offered to help her step up into carriage. Never let the fuckers see you blink, she thought. She sat herself on the cushioned bench and looked down the length of the hearse to see whatever was left of Q’s girlfriend. Her body, she reminded herself fiercely. You are looking at Alice and she is dead and it is time to move the fuck on. The hearse jerked and then moved forward with the regular hard rhythm of hooves on packed dirt. Mournful bells tolled on the horses’ harnesses. Margo turned deliberately from Alice and devoted all her attention to the mess of her hair.
***
Apparently there was a full protocol to follow. It was comforting, in a way, this strange Fillorian rhythm of duty and grief. Stick the body in the throne room, all cleaned up and neat (both body and throne room). Shove all the candles in there — the good beeswax ones, not the other smoky kind. Let the people come and pay their respects. Stick an honor guard at her (its) head and change them every two hours. This was supposed to last three days. Then the funeral.
Unfortunately, the details of the funeral were left up to the other reigning monarchs. With Q in centaur hospice, that meant her and Eliot, who’d been reluctantly dragged from his side.
First, they locked the doors to the high king’s hastily cleaned bedroom. They sent all the hovering servants away with some desperate pleas about needing to grieve in private (Eliot even managed a few kingly tears. Margo chalked them up to his tenure in high school theater).
Then they proceeded to get roaring drunk.
“Well, it’s not like we can just dump her in the ground,” Margo said. “We need a fucking plan, El.”
“Well, what’s a royal funeral in Fillory supposed to look like?” he asked, reasonably enough for someone well on his way to getting as drunk as he was getting, and with purpose. “God. Gods. This wine sucks.”
“Well, it gets the job done.” Margo took another swig. “I looked over some documents. Because one of us fucking had to. There’s a lot of commendations to Ember and Umber and all that.”
“Do Fillorians believe in an afterlife?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Well, Umber’s dead and Ember’s living in a sex hovel and ranting about little cakes, so let’s leave them out of it.”
“Let’s.” Margo crossed her legs and propped them in Eliot’s lap. “And let’s keep it brief. It’s not like she was queen for some long-ass time or something.”
“She saved us from the Beast, Bambi,” Eliot said quietly.
Margo’s stomach rolled again.
***
In the end, they buried her in the garden. Eliot picked the spot, near some Fillorian flower that looked something like lilacs, which he claimed he once heard Alice telling Q always reminded her of spring. Margo didn’t argue. Just like he didn’t argue — much — with her choice of music.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Listen, Tinkerbell. You didn’t room next to her. If she wasn’t studying, which was admittedly only about 2% of the time, she was playing him. And while “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” might have been her favorite song, I don’t think it’s real appropriate? You know, for a fucking funeral?”
“A: how do you know it was her favorite song, and B: “Mary Jane” may be the most appropriate, given that the music video features Tom Petty dancing with a dead girl.”
“My bathroom shared a wall with hers. She always sang “Mary Jane” in the shower. And there are no music videos in Fillory.”
“There is no Tom Petty in Fillory.”
“El?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The Fillorians lowered Alice’s casket into the ground. Six feet under, the universal leveler, Margo thought. She stood at the head of the grave site, resplendent in the black dress six Fillorian seamstresses had labored over for three frantic days. Her crown shined. Eliot stood at her side. In the end, they’d said the words. They’d spoken incantations to soothe her spirit or whatever they were supposed to do, because the spells made no sense, wove in and out of each other and canceled each other out and basically just sounded pretty for the crowds and gave the magician monarchy something to look impressive about. Alice’s casket hit the bottom of the grave. El kicked her shin discreetly. “It’s now or never, sister,” he hissed without moving his mouth.
So Margo opened hers. A childhood in LA meant nothing if not years and years of voice lessons.
You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free.
The Fillorians stopped. They stared. Apparently queens didn’t sing, or something.
She cut the second verse about “finding you a lover”. She gave El that much: it wasn’t really thematically appropriate here.
You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
You belong with your love on your arm
You belong somewhere you feel free
El must have subtly amplified her voice. The birds in the trees had stopped singing.
You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worry
Her voice teetered slightly. Just slightly enough that only El noticed, and she saw his fingers moving in a spell behind her back. It came back strong and whatever tears had threatened retreated.
You belong somewhere you feel free
You belong somewhere you feel free
The Fillorians were silent. Margo stepped back beside Eliot and modestly lowered her head. It was a strange moment; no one moved until Eliot picked up a golden shovel and lifted the first full of earth, flung it into the grave. Over her. Over Alice.
“She wasn’t our friend,” Margo said later. “She was a package deal. She came with Q.”
But she was something else. Margo wasn’t quite sure what. But she lifted her chin, took Eliot’s arm, and watched every single shoveful cover Alice. She owed the strange, sad girl. She owed her that much, and more.