Four Dead Queens(46)

“There’s a difference between being somewhere and really seeing it. My art helps me see behind the surface of things.”

Paintings were all about the surface, and yet, I understood what he meant. His artwork appeared to be much more than something to decorate the walls. They were a part of him, laid bare on the canvas. Now I wished I could go back and study them again to understand him more.

“But none of that matters,” he said, his handsome face clouding.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re talented?”

“Eonia doesn’t value art.” He studied his hands. “I am, and only will ever be, a messenger.”

I didn’t know what to say. He seemed defeated. Then I remembered his hidden compartment. Was he ashamed of what he’d created? Or was he concerned about being found out as different from other Eonists? Eonia didn’t like different.

“What did you want to be when you were younger?” he asked, looking at his hands.

“A thief.”

He let out a breath through his teeth. “Why do you always lie?”

“I’m not lying.” And I wasn’t. “I’ve tried to be other things. I failed.” Spectacularly.

My parents had never understood why I hated sailing so much. And I had never understood why they loved it. Their shipping business caused much grief and cost so much time and money, but they wouldn’t let it go, even as it was dragging them under. Even when I would return home with a handful of quartiers from a night at the auction house. It was like the boat was a part of my grandfather, which my father refused to let go, as long as it existed.

“Would you try again?” Varin asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

“No.” And I’d had enough of this conversation. “Sometimes we fail because we’re not meant to succeed.”

“Sometimes failure is the beginning of success.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Queen Corra, during one of her broadcasted speeches.”

I swallowed, unable to stop Corra’s screaming, blistering face from appearing in my mind. “She was a good queen.” I didn’t pay attention to Quadarian politics, but she seemed to be generally liked by her people. At least, they weren’t rebelling against her. Unlike Queen Marguerite. The workers of the Jetée were sick of her meddling, of her trying to erase their existence. Could they have been involved in her death?

“I can’t believe she’s dead,” Varin said. “I can’t believe they’re all dead.” Did the images haunt him as they haunted me? When would they begin to fade?

I shook my head. Neither of us had time to allow the reality to sink in. I hadn’t even considered how this would affect Quadara.

“We won’t fail, Varin. We’ll find out who did this.”

We got off the commuter at the Eonist gateway. At this early hour of the morning, the House of Concord was silent and still. Only a few Quadarian guards stood by, ready to check permits at the quadrant gates.

Soon the House of Concord would fill with people. Would they sense something sizeable had shifted within Quadara?

In the low light, the palace dome appeared to glow like a muted gas lamp. It was the illuminated heart of Quadara; extinguish it, and the entire nation would fade.

“We’re running late,” Varin said with a pointed look at my elaborate Ludist shoes as though they were the reason.

I slipped them off my feet to keep up with him. “Will your boss really kill you for failing to deliver the comm case?”

He focused straight ahead, his strides purposeful. “He won’t kill me, but he’ll fire me, and if I don’t have a job, my death date will be reset.”

“Death date?” He’d mentioned something about that back at the auction house. “What is that exactly?”

“Every Eonist has one. It’s set at your birth date.”

“When you’re born?”

He stopped, and I jolted to a halt beside him. “Eonia is concerned about overpopulation. More than anything else. Over sickness. Over progress.”

“What does that have to do with death?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back a dark lock from his face. “As soon as we’re born, Eonist geneticists run tests to see how healthy we are, determining our susceptibility to certain diseases and conditions. Our results are compared to the children born in the same generation. And from that, our death date is determined.”

“Right,” I said, though I didn’t quite understand how that related to his job.

Talking about his death date had changed his expression—almost as if he felt something. But he started moving again before I could pinpoint what.

“I don’t get it.” I wished he’d slow down. “How exactly can they determine what you’ll die of and when?”

This time when he stopped, I nearly flew into him. His hand settled on my elbow to prevent me from tripping. “No.” His lip curled slightly. “They don’t determine when we’ll die. We’re told when we’ll die. It’s not a predicted fortune, it’s an order. The test determines how long we’ll remain healthy for, and from that, they set our expiry date.”

A gasp lodged in my chest. “They kill you?”

He nodded once, short and sharp, then continued moving again as if we’d never spoken.