Four Dead Queens(94)

He glanced away. “I can’t.”

And although I understood why—he was Eonist, led to believe in truth and logic—my heart fractured at his words. I’d thought he was more than that. But he still hadn’t learned to use his heart over his head.

“Here.” He pushed something between the bars.

“What is it?” I asked, picking up a scrunched piece of paper from the ground. I didn’t know what to expect, but I gasped when I flattened it to reveal an intricate pencil sketch. “It’s me.” My eyes reflected back at me, a sly smile upon my face. “When did you do this?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” He studied his feet, his shoulders drooping forward. “It’s a lie. Everything was a lie. You can add it to your collection.”

Fat tears fell from my eyes, blotting the paper. I wiped them away, not wanting to ruin the drawing further. I looked happy. I looked beautiful. I looked like a good person. I looked like someone who had her whole life in front of her.

It was a lie.

“Why give this to me now?” I asked, wishing my voice sounded stronger.

“I don’t need it.” He didn’t even want to remember me.

I swallowed down my tears. “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

“I won’t break you out of here.”

“Not that.” I took in a shuddering breath and let it out. “Find my parents—my mother.” My father would be dead in weeks. “Tell her what happened. Tell her I was trying to make things right.” Now I never would. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “I will.”

“Please don’t tell her what you believe about me.” I still couldn’t put assassin, the queens, and me in a sentence together. It was too ludicrous. “They’ll probably hear it from the Queenly Reports anyway.”

He picked up the lantern, then headed for the stairs. Hesitating at the top, he glanced back one last time. “I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, that I hadn’t seen what I thought I had. But—”

“You don’t trust me. You never did.”

“That’s not it. I do—I did. I trusted you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. More than I will let myself trust anyone ever again.” His eyes glimmered with sadness.

What had he seen that had made him doubt me? How could he be so wrong?

“I’m sorry,” I said. Even if it changed nothing, even if I was still to go to the gallows, I wanted him on my side. I wanted him to believe in us. I needed that perfect moment in the sewing room to carry me through to the end. I wanted to believe in the boy who’d drawn this beautiful picture of me. “I’m sorry I hurt you. But I didn’t kill the queens. I swear it.”

He let out a heated breath. “The more you deny it, the worse it is. It’s like you don’t even know what you did. You believe in your lies so much they’ve become your reality.”

Was that true? Was I in denial? No. I didn’t do this. Mackiel did. The henchmen did. I was set up to take their fall.

I dipped my head, unable to watch him leave. “Good-bye, Varin,” I whispered.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO





Arebella



Finally, the day of Arebella’s coronation had arrived.

She had visualized this day more than any other moment in her life. To her, it marked the real change. Not the moment her mother died, or when she entered the palace, but the moment she was assigned the Torian throne and acquired the power of all the Torian queens who’d come before her.

With the assassin in prison and her execution date set for later that evening, it was time. Time the advisors moved on from their grief and embraced their new queen, for Quadara needed her. Now more than ever. The Quadarian public had yet to be notified of the queens’ murders, but would be, as soon as Arebella was on the throne. That way, there would be no mass panic.

She couldn’t wait to record her first Queenly Report for the entire nation to see.

The palace seamstresses had made her an exquisite gown, tailored to Arebella’s every curve. She wondered if she would wear it again. Perhaps she could wear it every day? Or would that be too much? Or did she care? She was about to become queen, above all judgment.

She tried not to overthink it, and stepped into the dress as if stepping into another life—her real self emerging.

The dress was ice white, with lace from her neck down to her waist, where it met a large silk sash. When she turned and looked in the mirror, she saw the back of the dress gaped open, exposing her milky-white skin. The skirt fell to the floor with a long train behind her, which would run the distance from her rooms to the Torian throne—a coronation tradition representing where the queen had come from and where she was headed.

Arebella gave one final look at her reflection, tucking a strand of auburn hair under her golden crown, before setting out.

The palace staff greeted her as she walked the hallway, and the sun shone down from the dome above her, tinting her white gown gold. Jenri had invited the entire palace to participate.

“They need levity at this time,” he’d said. “They need to celebrate.”

They need to move on, Arebella had thought.

The staff sang the coronation tune: a combination of only four notes, sung in various patterns. Four notes to symbolize the four quadrants. And four queens.