When she entered the reception room and found only one man, she nearly turned on her heel. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it. Where was the rest of her royal staff?
When a queen died, a convoy of palace staff and guards was supposed to journey through the main streets of Toria, ending at the palace. An announcement should’ve gone out on the latest Queenly Reports, informing the quadrant of where and when they could catch a glimpse of their soon-to-be Torian queen. It was tradition. And she had dressed for the part, knowing Mackiel would be waiting for her carriage to pass—to signal the next stage in their plan. She’d have to send him a message instead.
The man in front of her was younger than she’d expected. She had imagined what her advisor might be like. Perhaps she would be motherly and Arebella would befriend her instantly, taking her hand in a gentle, but firm, grasp. Or perhaps he’d be stoic, a father figure whom she’d win over with her ambition and intelligence.
Arebella blinked, but the scene didn’t fade from her eyes. She couldn’t control this. This was real.
“Lady Arebella,” the tall, thin man said, then bowed when she made eye contact.
Lady? Although it wasn’t Queen Arebella, not yet, she quite liked the sound of it.
“I apologize for calling on you at this hour,” the man said. “My name is Jenri.”
Would he still play the role of the stoic advisor? Arebella was thrown for a moment, her mind scrambling to reimagine her future.
“Good morning,” she replied. “How may I help you?”
This would be the hardest part—pretending she didn’t know who she really was. As far as she should be concerned, a visit from the palace was a grand and enjoyable occasion—at any hour. And so Arebella smiled widely.
Jenri swallowed audibly before stepping forward. “I’m the advisor for Toria.”
“Oh?” Arebella placed a gloved hand to her chest; her heart banged wildly beneath her fingers. “How fascinating! What brings you to my home?”
Jenri’s discomfort made Arebella buoyant; she was succeeding in fooling him. She hadn’t been sure she could deceive someone from the palace—someone trained to detect deceptions—until this very moment. She wished Mackiel were here to see her succeed.
“I’m afraid I have some difficult news,” Jenri said, his face twisting. “You may want to sit, Lady Arebella.”
She clenched her teeth in response. No one told her what to do. And soon she would be ordering him around. “I’m fine standing.” She couldn’t deny Mackiel’s brashness had rubbed off on her. “Thank you,” she added at the last minute.
Jenri nodded. “I’ve been told you are aware you are adopted?”
“Yes.” This is it, she thought. But don’t smile. Look slightly concerned. Confused. “But my adoptive mother died a few years ago. I inherited this home once she passed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Arebella nodded glumly. “But what does that have to do with the palace?”
“Quite a bit.” Jenri cleared his throat. “I wish there was an easier way to say this. However—”
“You can tell me.” Arebella stepped forward, her palms faceup. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”
Would the words fall easily from his mouth, or would he struggle to spit them out? And how would he word it, exactly? Arebella bit the inside of her mouth. Focus. Be in the moment. Remember everything. Every word.
He smiled at her. “No, I don’t suppose you are. It’s in your blood to be strong.”
“My blood?” Arebella was sure he could hear her pulse.
“Yes.” He glanced to the floor for a moment before continuing. “You see, your birth mother, well, she was the reigning queen of Toria.”
Arebella let out a well-timed gasp. “Queen Marguerite?” A smile spread across her face. “Truly?”
He nodded shortly. “I’m afraid the woman who took you from the palace did not inform you of your heritage due to her personal beliefs against the thrones.”
Arebella swallowed a huff. He was going to blame Mrs. Delore for not informing her and pretend Marguerite had wanted her to inherit the throne? She wasn’t sure if the deception made her like Jenri more or less. Would it be in her best interests to distrust him? Or rely on him? She’d have to mull it over tonight while everyone else slept. Her first night in the palace, how thrilling!
Focus, she admonished herself.
“That’s surprising news,” Arebella said after a moment of planned reflection. “I had no idea I came from a royal line. How exciting! Oh!” She scrunched her dark brows into a frown. “But with you here . . . Doesn’t that mean . . . that she—” Her voice shook with excitement, although it could have easily been misread as fear. “You said ‘was.’”
“Yes. I’m afraid Queen Marguerite has passed,” he said, lowering his head. “I came as soon as I could.”
She’d imagined those words countless times. She thought she might still be imagining them, but he hadn’t worded it exactly right. Not how she wanted him to. She’d thought there would be more drama, more flair. More crying. And more people. But it was only this one advisor. How disappointing.
He awaited her response.
She dug her painted fingernails into her palms to prevent herself from drowning in thoughts. A technique Mackiel had taught her. Pain is reality, he liked to say.
“That’s dreadful,” she said finally. She went with dreadful over horrible, as horrible sounded too distant and dreadful was close to dead—the poetry pleased her.
“I’m sorry to inform you of this,” he said, his face drawn with emotion and fatigue. “Usually the queens are raised with the knowledge of their ancestry and are prepared for how difficult this day will be.”
A war went on inside her. Should she cry? Was that too much? She’d never met the woman, and supposedly had only now found out she was related to her. What was the appropriate reaction to someone passing if you were related but had never met? Someone you would only ever meet face-to-face when they were already dead?
Still, the woman had brought her into this world, which deserved some acknowledgment. She sniffled, then asked, “What happened?”
Yes, that was a good one. Much better than Oh, queens above! Not my poor mother! which had been her preference over the last few months. Sometimes simplicity was best.
“She was poisoned,” Jenri replied, his lip quivering. “The doctors did their best to save her, but they were too late. I’m very sorry, my lady.” How interesting. She hadn’t known how the queens would be murdered, only that they would be taken care of and that her mother’s death would be slow enough to allow for her admission. It was safer not to know. That way Arebella’s responses would be more genuine.
Jenri stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm, wrinkles gathering around his eyes as he took her in. He was emotional. Warm. Soft.
Easy.
“I’m sure you did all you could,” she whispered, deciding to mimic his softness in the hope that it would connect them. Find something they want, Mackiel would say, then give it to them, and they’ll be yours for the taking.
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” he said.
“No?” She could hardly contain her excitement. He was about to name her queen of all of Quadara.
“The other queens are also dead.” He cleared his throat. “Murdered.”
Arebella shifted her shoulders up and down to appear as though she was breathing raggedly. “How is that possible?”
“We don’t know all the facts yet, but you can be assured that you will be safe with me.”
Arebella nearly laughed. Of course she would be safe. This was all her doing.
Her mother couldn’t control her life from behind the scenes now. Arebella would finally get everything she ever wanted, and was owed. And Quadara would gain its best queen.
“Can I still s
ee my mother?” she asked. “Just once?” It seemed like the right thing to ask, to allow Arebella to say good-bye. Such a strange Quadarian tradition—the day you were to meet your birth mother was the day you would say your farewells. Perhaps it was a Queenly Law she could change? She didn’t want her own child to meet her on her deathbed.
Will I have children? Arebella wondered. Do I want children? She supposed she could change that law too, if she wished. Once she was queen.
“Yes, my lady,” Jenri said, breaking her from her tangled thoughts. “She is presentable.”
Arebella pursed her lips at the description of her mother’s corpse as presentable. From what she knew of death, it was ugly, and ladies like herself should turn their faces away. Not that she planned to, but it was always good to know what ladies like herself should do.
“I will require you to come to the palace at once,” he continued. “We can send for your belongings once you’ve arrived.”
“I’m going to live in the palace?” Her voice was buoyant.
“You will be Toria’s next queen.” He gave her a small smile. “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful queen, and I’ll be by your side every step of the way, as I promised your mother.” His voice lowered. “As I was for your mother.”
Hopefully not every step, she thought.
“Thank you.” She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed happy tears. Let him think they’re from grief. “Take me there now. I’m ready.”
And she was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Keralie
A few hours later, I woke to the last of the stars twinkling through the glass dome. Another day starting and the beginning of my third day in the palace, four since I’d stolen Varin’s comm case, and I was no closer to finding the assassin. We were no closer.
I turned and found myself curled on a dusty rug. I held back a sneeze to not wake Varin and sat upright. I finally took in our hiding place: the walls were covered in rolls of fabric, and on two long tables in the middle of the room sat several sewing machines and half-made dresses.
The palace’s sewing room.
It looked like the seamstresses had left in a hurry, their machines’ needles still pressed into lengths of material. No doubt they’d been running from the hordes of angry and confused palace visitors flooding the corridors, or because they’d smelled the smoke. No one cared about dresses while queens were being slain in the corridors.
I had to find Queen Marguerite before the assassin did. At this point, I didn’t care if I was arrested. As long as she would hear me out—long enough not to eat or drink anything without it being tested first. The assassin wouldn’t win. I would do what I should’ve from the beginning. I’d tell the palace everything I knew.
I turned back to my resting place to wake Varin, but he wasn’t there, and the space beside me was cold. Where had he gone? He wouldn’t have abandoned me, but the sight of an empty rug made my stomach clench.
Had he been captured? Perhaps the inspector had found us in here and pulled him from the room. Had the assassin? Why hadn’t he taken me as well? Was Mackiel still playing with me?
I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. But I hadn’t had a full night’s rest in days.
I dusted myself down and pushed the door open a crack to see if anyone was passing by. Once convinced it was clear, I shifted into the hallway.
Why was it so quiet? Where was everyone? I squeezed my hands into fists.
Varin will be fine. Everything will be fine. Find Queen Marguerite. Stop this mess. Find Varin later.
I headed toward Queen Marguerite’s rooms. On the way, I passed by the infirmary. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed the door open, then halted in the doorway. Four bodies lay on metal gurneys, sheets pulled high to cover their faces.
Four—four queens. All of them dead.
“No,” I whispered.
My legs went weak, and I collapsed. Strong arms caught me from behind, propping me up.
“Varin,” I breathed. “We’re too late.”
“It’s not Varin,” a gentle voice said.
I looked down. Strange long fingers splayed around my waist from where he’d caught me.
The inspector.
I shoved him off and scurried into the infirmary, weaving in and around the gurneys and toward the back wall. But there was nowhere to go; the inspector was blocking the only way out.
“Back so soon?” he asked, seemingly unsurprised to find me there.
“I’m helping Queen Marguerite,” I said, repeating the lie we’d told Christon. “I’m trying to help uncover the assassin.”
“Is that so?” He tilted his head, studying me.
I couldn’t help but flick my eyes over to the fourth gurney. I’d failed her.
The inspector looped his comm line around his ear to capture our conversation.
Where was Varin? He could get me out of this mess.
“Yes,” I said.
“And yesterday when you were listening in on my autopsy report, that was to help Queen Marguerite?”
He knew we were there?
“Oh, yes,” he said, reading my confusion. “I’ve known you were in the palace for a while.” He gave a little whistle, then smiled. “The only question remaining is why you’re here.”
“Why are you here?” I countered. “You were in the palace before Queen Iris died. Why would you be here before there were any murders to investigate?”
“That is untrue,” he said. “I arrived after Queen Iris was slain.”
“Your name wasn’t on the visitors list!”
“Authorities are not required to sign in.”
No. No. It couldn’t be that simple.
“But you were here,” he said with a frown. He opened a silver comm case from his waist and fluttered his fingers across the hundreds of comm chips. He must’ve asked Queen Marguerite to recall all the court interactions that day and recorded her memories. He selected one, closed his eyes and placed the chip on his tongue to ingest the memory.
When he opened his eyes, they were steely. “Yes, you were here from the beginning. You gave information on a wanted criminal called Mackiel. This was before Queen Iris was slain.”
“Don’t turn this around on me!” I pointed at him. “I was trying to help!”
The inspector looked at the covered bodies. “And did you?”
“This is not my fault!” Where’s Varin? If anything had happened to him, I would never forgive myself.
“That has yet to be determined,” he replied.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. While the inspector glanced out the doorway, I grabbed the nearest and sharpest scalpel.
“Hello,” the inspector called out to whoever was walking by. “You’re just in time. I believe I’ve found your Keralie.”
I nearly dropped the scalpel in shock when Varin walked in, followed by several palace guards.
No! “Let him go!” I cried.
Varin’s face was blank as he nodded to me. “Yes. That’s her.”
Before I had time to react, the guards surrounded me. One jerked my hands behind my back and clamped shackles around my wrists. I hid the scalpel up the sleeve of my dermasuit.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “What’s going on, Varin?”
He shook his head, unwilling to speak, his expression heavy with emotion. Emotion he shouldn’t feel.
“Keralie Corrington of Toria,” one of the guards said. “We are arresting you for the assassination of Queen Iris, Queen Stessa, Queen Corra and Queen Marguerite. Your sentence will be determined at a later date.”
“What?” I shrieked, whirling around, pulling against my shackles. “I haven’t hurt anyone!”
“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?” a familiar voice asked.
Mackiel walked into the room and stood beside the
inspector. Although I’d known he was involved, my heart skittered in my chest like a frightened rodent. I wanted to flee. I wanted to scream. And I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Mackiel and I both within the palace, like in our childhood games. But there was nothing childlike in his expression.
His brow was heavy over his kohl-lined eyes, his gaze piercing. The smoky smell was evident even through his bandages.
I swallowed. “Okay, I admit I hurt him”—and he deserved it—“but I didn’t kill the queens.” I jerked my chin at Mackiel. “He’s your assassin!”
The inspector shook his head. “Mackiel only arrived early this morning. The queens were already dead.”
That couldn’t be true. Mackiel had to be behind this. Where were his henchmen? Gone now that the deadly deeds were done?
“But you said yourself he’s a wanted criminal!” I said. Mackiel always said the palace knew his face and name. That was why he made me steal for him whenever we were near the Concord.
“You said that,” the inspector replied. “After you made claims against him to Queen Marguerite, I requested he come to the palace. He has been very helpful, and he has cleared his name.”
Of course! Another lie. Another game. The palace knew nothing about Mackiel. But why did he pretend they did? Was it merely to make me do his bidding?
Mackiel quirked an eyebrow, a twist at the edges of his full lips. “I wish I could say it’s good to see you, darlin’, but under these circumstances”—he lifted a narrow shoulder—“it’s rather a shock to hear what you’ve done in my absence.”
“What I’ve done?”
“Why don’t you tell Keralie what you told me,” the inspector said to Varin, who hadn’t moved from the doorway.
My legs trembled. No. It’s not possible. Not Varin.
“I have proof,” Varin said, avoiding my eyes.
“Proof?” I asked. “What are you talking about? The rerecorded comm chips?” Someone tugged at my wrist.
“I’ve got it,” the guard said from behind me.
I twisted around to see he’d pulled my dipper bracelet from my wrist. He handed it over to the inspector, who broke one of the lockets free. It was the charm Mackiel had given me when I’d successfully broken into the home of the Torian governor, who claimed to be above the Jetée and the pleasures it had to offer but was known to spend all his spare time drinking and gambling. It was the job I’d done two weeks before Mackiel had asked me to steal the comm case from Varin.
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