Four Dead Queens(2)

The messenger hesitated at the bottom of the House of Concord stairs, rearranging something in his bag. Now was my chance. That old man had given me inspiration.

I dashed toward the polished slate stairs, fixing my eyes on the palace with my best imitation of awe—or rather slack-jawed stupidity—on my face, my four fingers nearing my lips. Approaching the messenger, I snagged my toe in a gap between two tiles and pitched forward like a rag doll. Inelegant, but it would do the job. I’d learned the hard way that any pretense could easily be spotted. And I was nothing if not committed.

“Ah!” I cried as I crashed into the boy. The rotten part of me enjoyed the thwack as he hit the stones. I landed on top of him, my hands moving to his bag.

The messenger recovered quickly, pushing me away, his right hand tightly twisted around the bag. Perhaps this wasn’t his first encounter with Mackiel’s dippers. I stopped myself from shooting Mackiel a glare, knowing he’d be watching eagerly from the rooftop.

He was always watching.

Changing tactics, I rolled, purposely skinning my knee on the stone ground. I whimpered like the innocent Torian girl I pretended to be. I lifted my head to show my face from under my hat to take him in.

He had that Eonist look, evenly spaced eyes, full lips, high defined cheekbones and a proud jaw. The look they were engineered for. Curls of black hair framed his tan face. His skin was delicate, but hardy. Not at all like my pale creamy skin, which flaked and chapped in the winter wind and burned in the blistering summer sun. His eyes were on me. They were light, almost colorless, not the standard Eonist brown, which guarded against the sun’s glare. Did it help him see in the dark?

“Are you all right?” he asked, his face giving nothing away. Eonists’ expressions were generally frozen, like the majority of their quadrant.

I nodded. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he said, but his hand was still at his bag; I wasn’t done with this charade just yet.

He glanced at my black boot, which had scuffed where my toe had caught between the stones, then to my knee cradled in my hands. “You’re bleeding,” he said in surprise. He did indeed think this was a ploy for his belongings.

I looked at my white skirt. A blotch of red had spread through my undergarments and was blooming across my knee.

“Oh my!” I swooned a little. I looked up into the bright sun until tears prickled behind my eyes, then turned back to him.

“Here.” He grabbed a handkerchief from his bag and handed it to me.

I bit my lip to hide a grin. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was distracted by the palace.”

The messenger’s strange pale eyes flicked to the golden dome behind us. His face betrayed no emotion. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “The way the sun illuminates the dome, it’s as though it were alive.”

I frowned. Eonists didn’t appreciate beauty. It wasn’t something they valued, which was ironic, considering how generically attractive they all were.

I bunched the hem of my skirt in my hands and began pulling it up over my knee.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I swallowed down a laugh. “I was checking to see how bad it is.” I pretended I only then remembered where he was from. “Oh!” I rearranged my skirt to cover my legs. “How inappropriate of me.” Intimacy was as foreign as emotions in Eonia.

“That’s all right.” But he turned his face away.

“Can you help me up?” I asked. “I think I’ve twisted my ankle.”

He held out his hands awkwardly before deciding it was safer to grip my covered elbows. I leaned heavily against him, to ensure he didn’t feel any shift in weight as I slipped a hand inside his bag. My fingers grasped something cool and smooth, about the size of my palm. The comm case. I slid it out and into a hidden pocket in my skirt. As soon as he had me on my feet, he released me as though he’d touched a month-old fish.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asked.

I nodded but swayed side to side. Novice dippers gave themselves away by dropping the act too soon after retrieving their prize. And my knee did hurt.

“I don’t think so.” My voice was light and breathy.

“Where can I take you?”

“Over there.” I pointed to an empty chair and table in front of a café.

He held on to my elbow as he guided me over, using his broad shoulders to navigate the crowd. I fell into the chair and pressed the handkerchief to my knee. “Thank you.” I tipped my head down, hoping he’d leave.

“Will you be okay?” he asked. “You’re not alone, are you?”

I knew Mackiel would be watching from somewhere close by.

“No, I’m not alone.” I put some indignation into my voice. “I’m with my father. He’s doing business over there.” I waved a hand vaguely at the surrounding shops.

The messenger crouched to look under the brim of my hat. I flinched. There was something unsettling about his eyes up close. Almost like mirrors. Yet, under his gaze, I felt like the girl I was pretending to be. A girl who spent her day at the Concord with her family to enjoy the spoils of the other quadrants. A girl whose family was whole. A girl who hadn’t shattered her happiness.

That moment passed.

Something flickered behind his expression. “Are you sure?” he asked. Was that real concern?