Four Dead Queens(82)
I couldn’t watch her die. Not again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Arebella
He was here.
The thought sent a flurry of excitement through Arebella’s veins even though she knew it wasn’t the moment she’d been waiting for—for he wouldn’t be the one to deliver the news.
Arebella’s staff had informed her that he awaited her arrival in the main reception room. As she flew down the stairs, her questioning mind began to imagine why he was here and what he had to say.
There were many options—many different paths her plan could take. And he was a part of that plan. An integral part. She understood most people focused on what was in front of them, but Arebella thought of the past, present and future—all at once. It was often exhausting.
She’d first met him when he visited the house with his mother. His mother used to visit every few years. Arebella thought the woman was simply a friend of her mother’s. She enjoyed the woman’s company as she told her tales of her kind and intelligent mother, who had supposedly died in childbirth. On one particular visit, she’d dragged her son along. He was initially sullen and rude, refusing to play with ten-year-old Arebella.
When Arebella had called him an ignorant Jetée rat, an insult she’d heard her adoptive mother once use, he’d snapped and said, “At least I know where I’m from.”
Arebella had been struck silent, her mind whirling through the possibilities of what he’d meant. She changed tactics then, deciding to befriend the boy rather than antagonize him. It took a few months, but eventually he told her.
Arebella was the daughter of Queen Marguerite.
He’d learned the truth while he was practicing sneaking through people’s belongings and had found a letter from the queen herself hidden in one of his mother’s locked drawers. The letter spoke of Queen Marguerite’s daughter, named Arebella, who needed a home outside the palace and a parent who would never know of Arebella’s claim to the throne.
While Arebella had thrown a fit, furious her mother had hidden the truth from her, he suggested she do something about it.
“Dream bigger,” he’d said. “Want more. Don’t ask. Take it.”
Back then, he was all arms and legs with a hawklike stare. He took in everything, especially Arebella. In the years since, he’d grown into a charming young man, sharply dressed and immaculately presented. Arebella found herself longing for his visits, not only to discuss their plans to destroy Queen Marguerite’s rule, but to see his face and hear his melodic voice. But his reputation proceeded him. She promised herself she’d guard her heart, yet as they’d grown closer and their friendship shifted toward the physical, she forgot that promise she’d made to herself. Her heart was no longer hers.
Before every meeting, she pictured what she would wear, what he would wear, and what they’d say. She mostly guessed correctly how people would respond, for she ran through countless possibilities, and one was bound to be correct. But not him. He always left her guessing. And that made it interesting.
Often, she wondered if he felt the same way about her. She thought he must, for why would he stick by her side and risk his life to enact their plans if he didn’t care deeply? If his affection was only a game?
As she neared the main reception room, she wondered if today was the day he’d profess his love for her. Was that why he couldn’t wait till the queens were all dead before seeing her again?
When she entered the room, she placed her hands within the folds of her skirt to hide her shaking. Most people saw trembling as a sign of weakness, but Arebella shook out of anticipation.
She no longer cared why he was here. She wanted news. Any news.
He had his back to her, but he wasn’t facing the fire. His body was angled away from the flames. This was different. He always waited, his face open and receptive. Already this was more interesting than she’d imagined.
“Tell me,” she said, unable to keep her voice from sounding shrill. “Is it done?”
“Not yet.” He didn’t turn around. “But I believe you will be summoned to the palace any day now.”
She rubbed a hand across her mouth. “Excellent, then everything is going to plan.” Why was he here? They’d agreed not to see each other until she was in the palace.
“Not everything, darlin’,” he said, finally turning to face her.
Arebella gasped. “What happened to your hands?” They were blistered and blackened. Burnt. Now she understood his distance from the flames, though he still needed warmth in the chilly room. Since Arebella’s adoptive mother had died, and left little wealth behind, she needed to conserve money. Soon those worries would be behind her and she could enjoy the constant warmth of the palace, conducted from the sun’s rays that hit the golden dome. She would wear her favorite dress even in the middle of winter, the one with the short sleeves and the deep-cut—
“The plan hasn’t been derailed,” Mackiel said, bringing her back to the room. “But I need your help.”
She glided toward him, her arms outstretched. “Who did this to you?” she asked.
“Keralie. But don’t worry, she’ll get what she deserves. In the end.”
“Are you in pain?” She ran her fingers across his smooth jaw. How would his injury change the narrative? Would he still want to lie with her? She’d worn her best undergarments in preparation, as always.