“What?” I snapped.
“Fine. You don’t have to come with me.”
I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted to stay here, on this comfy bed, far from Mackiel. But I also wanted to know how this ended up. I wasn’t sure if it was merely curiosity or my long-delayed conscience emerging. Perhaps both.
But what if the palace did reward me? While I didn’t really need the money, there was something I desperately wanted. Needed. My family.
If the doctors were correct, then my father had weeks to live. I didn’t know much about the palace, only that they continued to deny access to HIDRA, despite my mother’s best efforts. Perhaps I could change that? I could barter the information on the assassin for a dose of HIDRA. If my father was revived, I might be able to forgive myself.
“For argument’s sake,” I said, twisting a lock of hair around my fingers, “if you were to go to the palace with the comm chips, what would you say?”
I thought I saw a hint of a smile, but then it was gone. “That I have evidence on who the murderer is,” he said.
“Really? I’ve seen the memories twice now, and I still have no idea.”
“What are you suggesting, then?”
I put a hand to my chest. “I don’t believe I was suggesting anything. I was merely inquiring about your plan.”
“All right, theoretically, then, what would you do if you were to go to the palace with this?” He held up a silver comm case.
“I wouldn’t.” I put my hand up as he opened his mouth to interrupt. “I’d gather more information first.” I smirked. “If I wanted a reward.”
“Okay.” He stepped toward me. “And how would you go about that?”
“You never steal from someone without knowing more about the situation and person—by watching them.” An early lesson from Mackiel.
“We’re not stealing from anyone.”
I waved a hand. “Same difference. As you said, we know one person who is involved—the person who was meant to receive the comm chips.” He nodded, encouraging me to continue. “If I were to do this, theoretically, then I would arrange to redeliver the comm chips in order to meet them. That way, I’d know who was pulling the strings. That would be valuable information to the palace.” Hopefully valuable enough to access HIDRA.
Varin nodded as if he was considering my plan, but the light behind his eyes told me he was impressed.
Not that I was trying to impress him.
“Okay,” he said. “I find out more information about the intended recipient of the comm chips and then take that information to the palace.”
“You need to make the delivery spot somewhere more public this time,” I said. “Safer.” Somewhere Mackiel wouldn’t be.
“Okay,” he said again, putting the new comm case with the chips into his messenger bag. “Thanks for your help.” He headed for the door.
“Wait!” I cried, jumping from the bed.
He stopped but didn’t turn around. “What is it?”
I’d hoped to be free of these memories once they were out of my head. I’d hoped I could forget what I’d seen. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t free. I was tied to these four dead queens, whether I liked it or not.
But now I had a plan. Not only a plan to help the palace, but to help my father and restore my family. I squeezed my eyes shut, imaging my mother’s arms around me, welcoming me home.
My heart fluttered inside my chest when I replied, “I’m coming with you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marguerite
Queen of Toria
Rule seven: A queen must produce an heir before the age of forty-five, to ensure her royal lineage.
Marguerite took a deep breath, waiting for the moment Iris would pass by.
Her body.
Her friend was gone.
Iris’s death procession would be the fourth Marguerite had attended since entering the palace. Usually, they would wait for the new queen to be in place upon her throne, but with the inspector’s plan to pull Iris apart for clues, they had moved ahead and set the ceremony for only twenty-four hours since she had been found dead.
Iris should’ve been then laid to rest within the palace tombs. Instead she would return to the inspector, and he’d poke and prod her with his implements in that cold and sterile infirmary of his. “She cannot rest,” he had said. “We cannot rest. Not until the assassin is found.”
And while Marguerite understood the need to find answers, she wished it did not cost Iris her final dignity.
The death procession was not complex. The body of the queen was to be placed in a glass coffin, adorned with what she loved, and then carried through the palace by her advisor, handmaidens and close staff. First, she would be moved through the Archian corridors, then the Torian corridors, and so forth through the different parts of the palace. She would then be returned to the infirmary, as promised to the inspector.
Marguerite shook, her fists clenched by her sides.
The palace was in chaos. Every conversation carried Iris’s name, every whisper spoke of her death. And there was the inspector, seemingly everywhere at once. Always with his questions, and yet no answers to Marguerite’s.
Marguerite had spent the morning reliving everything she could remember over the last few weeks for the inspector to record onto comm chips for later ingestion. Marguerite shivered at the thought of him watching her memories through her eyes. But she would do what she must to ensure the culprit was found.
Regardless that the queens had told the same story—they had last seen Iris in court that day, after she had declined the Archian governor’s request for electricity—the inspector continued to focus on the monarchs. His black eyes narrowed when they entered a room, his lengthy fingers twitching at his recorder whenever they spoke. Yet Marguerite knew they were without guilt. She could not imagine a queen carrying out such a monstrous act upon her own sister.
The swish of footsteps on the marble floor brought Marguerite’s attention back to the procession. The Archian advisor appeared first. Behind followed two of Iris’s handmaidens. They wore matching black dresses, skirts long to the floor, leaving a dark interweaving trail of material behind them. They carried the coffin as if it weighed nothing, and yet their faces were drawn in such grief, Marguerite worried they would collapse. When they neared, their eyes found the Torian queen and they tilted their heads in respect.
As in the infirmary, Iris appeared as though she were merely sleeping. She wore a white lace dress, hands placed on her stomach, cheeks dusted with pink. Her fair hair had been braided into a long plait and placed across her neck to hide the garish wound.
Iris would have hated her advisor deciding what she would wear and how she would look. Completely undignified, she would have said. I am queen. I decide what I wear and where I go!
Marguerite dabbed a handkerchief under her eye. She would miss the whirlwind force that was her friend.
Flowers and vines surrounded Iris’s body, her beloved garden to be part of her final resting place. On top of the glass were hundreds of burning candles; the dripping wax would seal the lid shut, although the inspector would reopen it shortly.
As Iris’s body passed, her voice sounded in Marguerite’s head. The last words she had spoken to her. “I’m tired of court,” she’d said. Her bright green eyes had flashed.
“You are always tired of court,” Marguerite had replied with a smile. “And yet you still bear it.”
“A foolish waste of our time.” Her fury didn’t flinch at Marguerite’s comment. “I have much more important things to do.”
“Such as?” Marguerite had been intrigued. As far as she was aware, there had been no major conflicts within Archia.
Iris had shaken her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Marguerite knew she did not mean to be cruel. Clearly, something had weighed heavily on Iris’s mind in her l
ast hours, although it would not have been the Archian governor who aggravated her so. It had to be something to do with her desire to change Queenly Law. Something that resonated more deeply. Personal.
And yet Queenly Law dictated the queens were not permitted a personal life, for fear it would detract from the duties to their quadrant. The original four queens of Quadara had thought their king’s attention was too divided. Not only across the quadrants but among the wives themselves. And the queens’ dissatisfaction with their husband affected their thoughts, diverting them from their duties. Preventing future queens from having such distractions was key to upholding peace in Quadara.
Years ago, Marguerite had thought a personal life was possible within the palace. During one of the matching balls, she’d met a suitor and fallen quickly for the man with fair curly hair and kind blue eyes. He was the first—and only—man to ever show her affection. And it had been intoxicating.
When Marguerite was a young girl, she was taller than she should’ve been, and all her features were hard angles. Scarecrow, the kids called her. Clothes hanger.
When she was brought to the palace as a young woman, everything shifted. The staff spoke of nothing but her stunning beauty. Her long legs, small but elongated frame, sharp cheekbones and prominent profile. What a beautiful queen she would be. Yet the years of being torn down and made to feel smaller than the rats that haunted the Jetée could not be undone. Marguerite’s past had made her who she was. When the staff called her striking, she heard severe, knowing her features were hard and sharp and not the typical Torian beauty.
So when Elias, son of a wealthy Torian banker, had attended the matching ball, she had no hope of rebuffing his affections. He was sweet and considerate and spoke of nothing but her beauty. For once she believed the words, for no man had ever uttered such compliments.
But marriage was forbidden by Queenly Law.
Marguerite had tried to reason with her advisor. She had wanted more with Elias than a matching to produce offspring. She wanted to share a life with him. She wanted to wake to his handsome face and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. She wanted to see him hold their child and help raise her together.
But her advisor would not yield. “If we cave on one rule,” Jenri had said to her, “then all others could be called under question. If we shatter Queenly Law, we could shatter Quadara’s stability.”
Marguerite had been heartbroken. Until she missed her monthly period. And the next. And the next. She was pregnant. And nothing would stand between her new, growing family. She would find a way to keep Elias within the palace, even if she could not call him husband.
Elias had been given a room until the child was born. A male offspring would be raised by relatives outside the palace or by the son’s father, with no claim to the throne. But the palace doctor had informed Marguerite that she was carrying a girl.
The day she ran to Elias’s rooms to tell him the news of her pregnancy, she could’ve been floating—her smile so wide it was painful. But she had never really known pain, not living in the wealthy part of Toria with her adoptive parents.
Until that day.
When she reached Elias’s bedroom, she opened the door without knocking, unable to contain her excitement. And there he was, his golden chest bare, his dark lashes resting against his prominent cheeks. Marguerite’s heart swelled, until she saw the naked girl beside him. She didn’t recognize her—her face was pressed into his side. It didn’t matter. Their entwined bodies told her everything she needed to know.
He had never loved her. He had come to the palace for the status, and for the payment of being matched with a queen.
She would not let him see her tears, and left before he realized she was even there. It did not matter anymore. His part in the matching process was complete.
From that day, Marguerite vowed to keep her baby from this treacherous place, ensuring she would never be seduced by the palace and the lure of the throne. Everyone’s motives became muddled when you were queen. Her daughter would be raised without any knowledge of her heritage, allowing for a simpler and, hopefully, happier life.
She told the palace doctor she’d lost the baby, and she hid the truth from her sister queens behind large billowing skirts. While Iris had not been in the palace when Marguerite had given birth to her daughter, as the two queens grew close over the years, Marguerite had told her the truth.
Marguerite had thought her stern sister queen would reprimand her for breaking such a vital law, but Iris had said, “You followed your heart, like we Archians do. You did what you thought was best for your daughter.”
“What about what’s best for my quadrant?” Marguerite had asked.
Iris had placed her pale hand on Marguerite’s. “You will make it up to them.”
And Marguerite had. Every day since, she devoted herself to her quadrant. Not only to Toria, but the nation as a whole. She learned everything she could, absorbed as much information as possible. Most nights she spent studying not only Quadara’s history, but the world’s.
Seeing Iris’s lifeless body pass, Marguerite was happy her daughter would never feel the pain of losing a sister queen.
The day after Marguerite’s daughter was born, she was smuggled out of the palace with the help of her loyal handmaiden, Lali. Upon Queen Marguerite’s instructions, her daughter had been given to a childhood friend in Toria—someone who had been kind when other children had called her names. Her friend had vowed to find a family unconnected to Marguerite, who would never speak of her true parentage.
The palace would be lost to her. And she would be free.
Marguerite spent most of her days trying not to think about her child. She would be seventeen this year. Seventeen—nearly the same age as Stessa. She could not help but compare her daughter to the young queen and wonder what she was like and where she was now. And Iris was no longer here to tell her the past was not worth dwelling upon.
Marguerite gave her lost friend one last long look, hoping she was happy in the next life. And knowing that, one day, they would meet again.
This thought had prevented Marguerite from reaching out to her daughter across the years. In the next life, they would meet, and Marguerite would explain why she had hidden her from the palace and the throne. She had done it out of love. And love was a powerful thing.
But as Marguerite knew, it could also be terribly painful.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Keralie
We left Varin’s apartment under a curtain of darkness. I wished we could’ve slept, but it was nearing morning and Varin’s new delivery time. As the sun rose behind the silver buildings, the light fractured into streams. I wondered if I’d ever see this stunning city again.
Once we’d taken our seats on the commuter, Varin used his backup comm line from his apartment to communicate with his boss. While Varin’s expression remained clear, he blinked rapidly.
“What did he say?” I asked once he ended the call.
“Our buyer will be there.” He averted his gaze and watched the buildings fly by.
“Is that all?”
“He’s already deducted yesterday’s cut from my wage and is considering letting me go.”
“Maybe it would help to speak face-to-face once this is all over? Explain what happened. You can even blame me.” I nudged him good-naturedly.
“That wouldn’t help”—he glanced over—“as I’ve never met him.”
“Huh?” How could you work for someone you’ve never met?
“We’re assigned our jobs once we graduate from school.” His broad shoulders slumped as though the reminder of his past weighed him down. “I was assigned work as a messenger. I check in with my boss each morning.” He tapped his ear. “And he informs me where to collect the comm case and where to deliver it. After a successful delivery, the payment is transferred into my account.”
“N
o co-workers, then?” I could do without working with dippers like Kyrin.
“I work alone.”
But it wasn’t only that. Varin did everything alone. For a quadrant so focused on community, I would’ve thought they’d encourage relationships.
“Did you ever want to do something else?” I asked. “Other than being a messenger?”
“When I was younger . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’re assigned our jobs based on our genetic makeup. I was always going to be a messenger.”
“But when you were younger?” I prompted. Surely he was allowed to dream of more?
There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “I wanted to be an artist.”
I’d never heard of any Eonist working on anything remotely creative. “What kind of art?”
“Landscapes, portraits, still lifes.” He shrugged slightly. “Anything, really. I want to capture everything while I can.”
“The paintings in your apartment,” I suddenly realized. “You painted them.” He nodded. I’d assumed he’d bought them from a Ludist artist. “They’re incredible, Varin. Really.”
“Thank you,” he said, short and sharp. But I could tell he wanted to say more, so for once, I remained quiet. “I like how art captures not only the exterior, but also the feeling and mood of the artist. Like a memory.” The smile on his lips was more obvious now.
“You paint what you see on those stolen chips,” I said.
“Yes.” His cheeks colored. “So no one will forget them.”
“And yet you paint the palace more than anything else.” I remembered the detailed brushstrokes and care he’d given the subject.
His pearlescent eyes locked on mine. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t want to forget it.”
I laughed. “You see it every day as a messenger when working in the Concord.”
“There’s a difference between being somewhere and really seeing it. My art helps me see behind the surface of things.”
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