Four Dead Queens(91)

She nodded to the inspector. “I’m ready.”

He lifted the sheet.

A cry escaped her. Mackiel had advised Arebella never to venture to the Concord to see the Queenly Reports, for fear someone would recognize her. Now she knew why. Her mother had the same long auburn hair, sharp jaw and dimpled chin. But her mother’s brows were lighter, her nose longer.

“She looks like me!” she exclaimed. She covered her face with her hands. Something stirred within. And it wasn’t bitterness.

A hand touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my lady,” Jenri said.

That was all she’d heard today. I’m sorry for your loss, my lady. My condolences, my lady. How are you feeling, my lady? How can I help, my lady?

She was tired of it. When would they dry their tears and name her queen?

Arebella dropped her hands and looked upon her mother once more, letting a breath slowly escape her lips. “I’m fine. It’s merely a shock to see someone passed.” She had never seen her adopted mother in death.

She tried to convince herself that was true. A shock to see she looked similar to her mother. A shock that in death, she looked alive. She convinced herself it wasn’t guilt—why would she feel guilt for someone she’d never met? Blood was simply blood. While it linked them, it meant nothing. Her mother had taught her that. She’d cast Arebella away, depriving her of her birthright. Clearly, their blood ties had meant nothing to her. After all, everyone bled, everyone died. Arebella had just made sure it happened at the right time. Her mother’s death had been meaningful, allowing Arebella to ascend the throne, and that should count for something. Death was often meaningless.

“We’ll give you a moment,” Jenri said, nodding to the inspector.

Once they were gone, Arebella took the time to really look at her mother. She wondered what it would’ve been like to live under her love. It was not a scenario she’d played in her mind before. Marguerite had been a great queen—so she had heard from Jenri for the entire carriage journey to the palace.

The strongest, kindest and wisest queen.

Words that were meant to have brought peace to Arebella—so while her mother was gone, she’d made the most of her time upon the Torian throne. Yet the words brought an ache. An ache Arebella had never felt before.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Arebella whispered. She felt silly, but there was something about Queen Marguerite’s expression in death that made her want to cut open her heart and spill her darkest desires. And this would be her one chance before the death processional. With the assassin arrested, the queens would soon be laid to rest in the underbelly of the palace, never to be seen again.

“I hope you didn’t suffer too much,” she said. She thought poison seemed like a simple way to die, but from the sound of it, it had been the most drawn out and painful. And for that, Arebella was sorry.

“I want you to know this wasn’t personal,” she continued, waving her hands to her mother’s still body. “Your death was not in vain. One day, in the quadrant without borders, we’ll meet and I’ll explain why I did this. I’ll explain why you had to die for me to truly live.”

Words swirled through her mind, words that might’ve sounded better, more meaningful, but there wasn’t time for a second chance. As there were none offered in life.

She shook her head to clear her mind.

“Good-bye, Mother.”

The woman who lay on the table with chalked lips and lavender lids was nothing to her now.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE





Keralie



My cell was twice the size of the cave I’d been stuck in six months ago. I knew this because I’d spent four days examining every rock and crevasse. I knew how far I could stretch out my arms before I hit the walls. I compared the cell to the cave over and over, until I couldn’t tell the difference between memory and reality. I was plagued by darkness and blood and darkness and blood, with only myself for company. I never would’ve imagined I’d want to be back in the cave, my father unconscious by my side, but it was better than this alternative. The tightness in my chest was the only reminder that I was still here. Still alive.

It felt as though weeks had passed since I descended into the darkness. Weeks since I’d seen Varin. Since he’d betrayed me. I still couldn’t fathom the reason. Unless they’d offered him HIDRA to turn me in and cover for Mackiel and the henchmen. And yet, Varin had said he would offer my father the dose of HIDRA over using it himself. Was that a lie? Had I taught him too well?

I should’ve known better than to trust him. And I hated him for it. I’d let my guard down and had been betrayed, again.

Where was Mackiel now? What about the henchmen? Had Mackiel convinced the inspector of their innocence as well? Were they now sitting upon the queens’ thrones, their gray, decaying hands gripping the mahogany wood?

While it had felt like weeks, it had only been two days. I knew this because of the six meals they’d offered me since my arrival. Tasteless gruel for what I could only assume was the morning, stale bread at midday and bland stew in the evening.

The cell reeked of sick—my sick. Only minutes after being thrown into the small room, the little amount of food and water in my stomach had propelled its way out of my body to coat the floor. They’d ripped Queen Corra’s dermasuit from me, dressing me in rags from unfinished palace dresses. I had nothing to prevent the burning fear from surging through me, and the rags were constantly damp from sweat.