Four Dead Queens(44)

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 last 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.”