Four Dead Queens(45)

“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.”

“No 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.”