The King found the Queen in the Royal Garden supervising the uprooting of roses and lilacs in favor of turnips and carrots. He brushed the dust from the hunt off his trousers by slapping them with his gloves. "Any luck, my dear?" asked the Queen. She brushed the snow white hair from in front of her eyes with the back of a hand that was black as pitch from contact with the night soil she was using to plant vegetables. "Not a hind nor hare in sight. And the dogs would not have been able to give chase if there was one, they are so poor." The King sat down on a garden bench. A servant handed him a slightly dirty, wet rag to wash his face and hands. "I gave orders for the dogs to be portioned out, except for our breeders. It pained me so." The Queen waved her hand at the handiwork of the gardeners, "Any more than this does to me? I think not. We are all making our sacrifices." The King nodded his head. His face was haggard; the weight of concern for his people had etched itself in wrinkles along his brow and under his bloodshot eyes....