At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver of the queenly form, and that would be the end.

The physicians and the authorities would come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, and there would be masses sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace.
Her soul?
In peace?
Unorna stood still.

Was that to be all her vengeance upon the woman who stood between her and happiness?
Was there to be nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young spirit from earth to heaven?
Was no one to suffer for all Unorna's pain?
It was not enough.

There must be more than that.

And yet, what more?
That was the question.