Marguerite had been the unfortunate person to identify her. She could not bear to think of Stessa witnessing something that horrid, and Corra had disappeared to her rooms shortly after the first meeting with the inspector.
A sheet had been pulled up to Iris’s chin to conceal the wound, her purple lids covering her vivid green eyes. Marguerite had imagined she was merely sleeping and at any moment she would wake and demand to know why she was in the infirmary, covered only by a sheet.
Fatigue now tugged at Marguerite’s body and mind. And although she did not wish to admit it, she felt old—much older than her years.
She could not fathom why anyone would kill Iris. Yes, the woman was stern, but she was a true and loyal friend. Marguerite had always found her presence reassuring. Her strength tangible. Inspiring. Iris had been there for Marguerite in the hardest of times. She had a determination and a passion for life that Marguerite had never seen in anyone else.
Many of Marguerite’s favorite memories within the palace were with Iris. They shared afternoon teas in Marguerite’s chambers. Even with Iris’s Archian distrust for machinery and travel, she loved to hear about how teenage Marguerite had joined her parents to tour the coast of Quadara to draw new maps. In turn, Iris would tell Marguerite about life in Archia and what it was like to breathe unpolluted air, wake to birds chirping and ride horses along undulating landscapes. Marguerite drank in Iris’s words, always asking for more stories, more details.
Over the last few years, their relationship had begun to weaken. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but Iris began missing more and more of Marguerite’s afternoon teas. Iris was still as lively and present as ever, but there was a distance between the two women, one that Marguerite couldn’t close.
She had wanted to ask what was wrong and why they’d drifted apart, but Iris wasn’t known for opening up, and Marguerite worried she’d push her friend further away.
Had the Archian queen been hiding something from her? Something that led to her death? And if Marguerite had asked what it was, would Iris still be alive?
For the first time in her life, Marguerite found herself thinking vile, furious thoughts. Thoughts that were not logical and sound of mind.
She wanted the assassin hanged. She wanted to watch the life drain from his body until he was merely a shell, as Iris was now. Fury was a peculiar and overwhelming feeling, but something to focus on. Something other than the hideousness of Iris’s death.
* * *
—
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Marguerite spread her hands on the table opposite the inspector. “Despite what you may have heard from Queen Stessa,” she said, “Queen Iris had no more adversaries than the rest of us. I’ve made a list.” She pulled a journal out from her dress pocket. “They’re mostly people who have quarreled with Iris’s decisions, but there is no one, I believe, who matches your description of a trained assassin. Archia is a peaceful quadrant.”
“May I see it?” the inspector asked.
Marguerite nodded, sliding the book across the table. The inspector flipped through the numerous pages of names she had collated overnight. No matter how hard she willed it, she could not maintain the deep unconsciousness that she desired fiercely—a break from the sorrow. Her mind wouldn’t stop running through Iris’s murder over and over.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will compare these notes to the testimonies I have recorded thus far.” He tapped the silver comm case clipped into his dermasuit at the waist. Marguerite knew Queen Corra recorded her memories of court onto comm chips, in case she needed to refer to them at a later date. She wondered what it would be like to have such easy access to your memories and whether you could get lost in the past.
She mentally shook herself. Now was not the time for such thoughts.
“While it is true Queen Iris was blunt and often harsh,” Marguerite said, “she was a good queen to her people. No”—she shook her head—“a great queen. Perhaps the best of us.”
He tilted his head to the side. “How so?”
Marguerite wondered if he was appalled she had not named Queen Corra—his queen—as the best. She doubted it; being appalled would require emotion.
“Her focus was on maintaining Archia’s culture,” Marguerite replied. “It’s tempting to want to share more across the quadrants, to help each other. And sometimes we do . . .” She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “But Archia’s culture and history was Iris’s primary focus, ensuring her people continued to work without the aid of technology, to protect the fruitful land. She did not always make the easiest decisions, but she made the right ones for her quadrant.”
“And yet she wished to change Queenly Law,” he said, his mouth close to the recording device.
“I’m sorry?” Marguerite startled. “What do you mean?”
The inspector pressed his lips together, as though he didn’t care to share more information.
Marguerite pulled her black veil back to reveal her resolute expression. “We need to work together, Inspector.” She leaned forward, her hands encroaching his space on the table. He probably thought she was simply being a nosy Torian, but this was Iris. Her friend. Marguerite would have done anything to learn the truth and have her sister queen avenged. “Let us help one another. We have the same goal.”
The inspector leaned back but nodded. She let out a sigh of disappointment, wanting more of a reaction from him. Just like Corra, always maintaining a distance. “I spoke with the Archian advisor late last night. Queen Iris had scheduled a meeting in court to discuss Queenly Law. That meeting would’ve been held today. All queens were to be in attendance,” he said.
Marguerite shook her head. “There must be some mistake. There was no queen more steadfast in Queenly Law than Iris.” In fact, Marguerite had often argued with the Archian queen, suggesting their two quadrants have a more symbiotic relationship. Iris had firmly rejected Marguerite’s suggestions.
“I believe my sources speak the truth,” the inspector said. “Do you not know your agenda for court in advance?”
“No.” Jenri hadn’t mentioned anything this morning; the advisors’ minds were still locked on the sudden, and shocking, death of Iris. “It changes often. We’re usually informed of our schedule by our advisor on the morning of the meeting when we wake and are preparing for the day.” Marguerite thought back to Iris’s increasing aloofness. “I can’t believe she didn’t discuss her plans with me.”
“You were close to her,” the inspector remarked, holding the recording device nearer to his mouth. “You were friends.”
She laughed. “You sound surprised, Inspector.”
“Comparing the narrow-mindedness of Archians to Torians’ desire to conquer all, then yes, I am surprised.”
“Archians are not narrow-minded.” She didn’t bother trying to correct him about Toria. There was no love lost between Eonists and Torians ever since the Quadrant Wars, when Toria refused to offer Eonia access to their land and forced them to be landlocked onto a region surrounded by snow and ice. “And Iris was misunderstood.” Marguerite chuckled at the thought of Iris hearing herself being called that. She would have threatened violence at such insolence. “Or maybe not, but I always appreciate her honesty and integrity.” Appreciated, she corrected. That was going to take some getting used to. Iris was so present, so active, so alive—to think of her as anything else tilted Marguerite’s world askew.
She clasped her hands together. “Integrity is a rare quality in this world, Inspector.”
He studied her for a moment with his black eyes. A small shudder ran down her spine. Perhaps he affected her more than she realized.
“Even in Toria?” he asked.
She knew he was referring to the Jetée and how it polluted the otherwise virtuous quadrant. She was tempted to tell him of her plans to tear the place down, to prove her quadrant wasn’t spoiled by a few rotten fish in a bar
rel. Instead, she merely raised an eyebrow. Iris had often remarked on Marguerite’s ability to say more without using words.
“Do you think her honesty is what got her killed?” he asked after she didn’t reply.
Marguerite thought of the way Iris had spoken to the Archian governor on the day she’d died, but he would not have killed her for it. No, it was something else.
“I don’t think so,” Marguerite responded. “She was as good at keeping secrets as the rest of us. As I said, she was a great queen. No one was more earnest in her position. Being queen was her sole purpose in life.”
Marguerite often tried to imagine what that would be like—the throne her only concern. While Marguerite’s queenly duties were her top priority, her mind often flittered. Beyond the throne. Beyond the palace. And to her past.
Iris had known Marguerite’s secrets and told her it was natural to think of her past—the what-ifs—but they were not worth dwelling upon. Iris was good at that. She placed her concerns in a box and shut the lid.
But what if her past had returned and demanded to be addressed? Was that what this meeting was supposed to be about? Change Queenly Law to allow Iris to return to Archia and reconnect with her past? Her family?
The inspector stilled, the recorder hovering in front of his lips. “Queen Marguerite,” he prompted. “You mentioned secrets. What kind of secrets?”
Had she? It must’ve slipped out without her meaning it to. Marguerite didn’t elaborate.
“You must tell me, Queen Marguerite,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You said we were to help one another.”
“They are the palace’s secrets, not yours.” And some are not mine. She shook her head, her auburn curls sweeping across her cheek. “I cannot tell you any more than I could tell my subjects.”
“Then we may never uncover Queen Iris’s assassin.” His tone was annoyingly complacent. Anger boiled through Marguerite’s blood.
“You will,” she commanded. When the inspector did not reply, she pointed at him. “It’s your job. Can you imagine the chaos if the Archians hear of the passing of their dear queen and the person responsible is still roaming the streets, a free man?”
Fury burned across her cheeks and bubbled on her lips as she spoke more quickly. “Iris had no children. Not yet. Her advisor is searching for any female blood relatives to inherit the throne. But if Alissa cannot . . .” A breath shuddered through her. “If she cannot locate a female relative . . .”
Marguerite leaned back into her chair, not knowing how to finish that sentence. There had always been a descendant for each throne. It was Queenly Law. But Iris was stubborn. She had refused to have a child with any of the suitors presented to her across the years.
“Iris claimed to have a niece,” the inspector said. Marguerite had yet to find her voice. She nodded in reply. “So far the advisors have yet to find any evidence of said niece.”
“We should display a message on the Queenly Reports, asking for anyone with information to come forward. Information on the assassin or about Queen Iris’s relatives. We need all the help we can get.”
“No,” the inspector said calmly. “No one outside the palace must know of Queen Iris’s death. We cannot afford the risk of mass panic.”
“We cannot afford not to!” Marguerite waved her hands wildly as she spoke. “Iris is dead! A queen, murdered. We must find the culprit, whatever the cost!” The inspector’s stillness only seemed to anger her more.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Queen Marguerite.” And though he evidently detected her emotion, his tone and expression remained Eonist, detached. “This must be difficult for you. Not only do you have to come to terms with Queen Iris’s death, but that she was murdered and the assassin is still within these walls.”
Marguerite’s hands dropped to the table with a thwack. “What?”
The inspector’s expression remained unchanged.
She gulped at the air, the room suddenly stifling. Her corset was too tight, the layers of her dress weighing heavily upon her, her crown heavy on her head. She wished to tear off the veil and throw it across the room.
“The assassin?” she managed to get out. “You believe they are still in the palace?”
“Yes,” the inspector said. “The palace was closed as soon as the body—” He cleared his throat. “That is, as soon as Queen Iris was found, the guards closed the entrance, and everyone has been detained in the processing room. And she was found not long after her death.”
Her blood still warm. Marguerite remembered the inspector passing on this gory detail in yesterday’s meeting. “Then you know who it is,” Marguerite said. “You’ve captured the killer?”
Please let this be over.
“We hope so. Everyone who was visiting the palace at the time of the murder has been apprehended until I can determine their innocence.” He paused, and Marguerite felt that strange unfamiliar flare of anger heat her chest once more.
Why was he drawing this out? An Eonist should not be this cruel. Or perhaps he was that unfeeling; he did not realize the pain she was in and how every silence caused further ache to her heart.
“No one has left the palace,” he said, finally. “I will find the perpetrator. They will not escape.”
It was as though she had swallowed glass. The pressure in her chest moved, pricking the back of her throat.
“We should gather the queens.” She rose from her chair. “We need to stay together. I must protect them.” With the assassin sharing the same walls, the same air . . . they could be in danger.
“No, Queen Marguerite.” The inspector shook his head once. Sharply. “That is not a good idea.”
“No?” If Iris had been here, she would have had a fit. No one told her no. Especially not a man.
“I’m afraid not.” An expression crossed his face that looked almost like discomfort.
The anger was like acid burning holes inside her chest. “And why not?” she demanded.
“As you said, we must protect the queens. I can’t allow you all to be in the same room until I determine none of you are responsible for Queen Iris’s death and a danger to the others.”
She gripped the table before her. “That’s not possible. All three of us were in court when Iris was killed.”
The inspector nodded. “While a queen may not have held the dagger, it is possible she arranged the assassination. Until I can determine your innocence, the queens are my top suspects.”
Marguerite was not a fainting woman, but right then, she swayed a little.
CHAPTER TEN
Keralie
The House of Concord stole the air from my lungs. I’d never seen this much gold; my fingers itched to savor everything. And break off a bit for later. Within the House of Concord, you could see the start of the palace’s golden dome and the dark structure behind the amber glass. I knew what lay inside: a palace awash in gold and death.
“Come on,” Varin said, pulling my attention away. “We don’t have time for this.”
I shook my head, dislodging the bloody images from my mind.
With the Concord stores now shut, most people had already headed home to their quadrant. The gateway to Eonia was a sleek commuter platform leading toward a tunnel. I’d never crossed quadrants, and the thought filled me with excitement.
An Eonist guard stood at the entrance to the platform, destabilizer hanging from his belt.
“Permit?” he asked as Varin and I approached. I shrunk back behind Varin’s broad frame, hoping to disappear into the background. Perhaps Varin had been right about my outfit.
“I’m recording a message for my employer from Ludia.” He nodded to me, then handed over a translucent square the size of a playing card. As the guard scanned it, the square turned solid, displaying Varin’s picture and his job title below it.
The guard handed it back, and Varin’s picture
faded from view. “Go on,” he said, inclining his head as an electronic whine echoed down the tunnel.
That was easier than I thought. He didn’t even question Varin.
“Stand close and step in time with me,” Varin said as we neared the commuter track.
“Step in time?” I looked around. The few travelers at this late hour stood stationary like part of the building. They stared straight ahead, while I watched the commuter appear from the darkness.
As soon as the doors opened, everyone stepped forward. At the exact same time.
I grabbed onto Varin’s arm to ensure I wasn’t left behind. He didn’t shrug me off.
* * *
—
ALL EONIST EYES WERE ON ME. Or rather, my outfit. They thought I was Ludist, and the mere sight of me outraged them. I flashed a wide smile. Let them think I was Ludist. It was safer that way. Mackiel had no connections with Ludia. Hopefully I’d be lost to him.
The commuter picked up speed in the tunnel. Somewhere above us, my father lay unconscious within the Eonist Medical Facility, my mother hovering over his still form, hoping he’d wake. The expansive building connected out from the palace and spread for miles before reaching the research precinct.
When the commuter exited the tunnel, I saw the beginnings of the great sprawling capital of Eonia, extending as far as the eye could see. The illuminated silver buildings blurred past the window, as though I was swimming through a silvery lake. I knew I looked like a slack-jawed gawker, unable to tear my eyes, or hands, from the glass, but I’d never seen buildings as high, or as thin. The structures in the distance looked like needles, poised to blow over in the wind. I wanted to ask Varin how they managed to stay upright at such a height, but his face was turned away as he stared out the other window. I thought he was warming up to me, but perhaps warmth was not an Eonist concept. I’d yet to see any flicker behind his eyes.
While the Eonists didn’t appreciate my presence, no one dared to approach me. Nor did they speak to those around them. It was as though they were traveling alone, completely disconnected from each other. They stared straight ahead, while a few spoke softly into their comm lines.
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