Four Dead Queens(29)

Marguerite and Iris were the closest in age and had spent the last twelve years ruling together. Marguerite did not know how to accept her friend’s death. Iris had been a flame, strong and bright, and now, snuffed out.

Marguerite wished she could be more involved in the investigation, but the inspector wouldn’t allow it. When she had offered to work by his side, he said it was better not to be tainted by her bias. Marguerite had scoffed at that. She’d spent the last twenty years in the palace. No one knew the place better than she.

“Which is the problem,” the inspector had said. “I need to remain impartial if I’m to uncover the culprit.”

The inspector’s presence had the palace in a spin. Perhaps it was his long fingers, or the way his eyes seemed to pierce through you, and to the truth. But his presence did not disturb Marguerite. There was something fascinating about him and the way he moved through the golden corridors with almost a mechanical determination. She’d sent her staff to tend to him overnight, ensuring he ate and drank, though she doubted he would rest. Perhaps he didn’t need to.

After her meal, Marguerite ran her hand along one of her favorite maps. It was an outline of Toria, depicting Central Toria, or the Skim—as some Torians called it—all the way down to the docks. Her fingertips lingered. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She imagined the smell of the sea, the squish of granules of sand beneath her feet and a sticky ice cream dripping in her hand. The dock hadn’t always been tarnished by the Jetée. When she was a child, it had been a getaway from the hubbub of crowded Central Toria, a weekend escape. But the darkness and squalor were spreading. Marguerite had to put a stop to that, or her home might be destroyed by a few criminals, deviants, and frauds. Torians were better than that.

A flap of Iris’s pale skin, leaking blood, flashed behind her lids.

Marguerite opened her eyes and sighed. Even the maps wouldn’t calm her mind tonight. She removed her mourning clothes hastily and climbed into bed. Though the sheets were crisp and cool, Marguerite flamed hot. The image of Iris’s cold, lifeless body once again floated behind her eyelids.

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.