Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Tuscany
Aged-six
Vows of a queen:
For The Cradle, I will submit my mind, heart, and body to the people of The Trade.
“Woah…” I say aloud as we’re ushered into the king’s grand Hall. Heavy velvet drapes frame each window, and paintings of The Cradle adorn most wallpapered walls.
One by one, in our finest dresses and smartest shirts, we line up like tin soldiers, shortest to tallest.
My heart races with excitement.
“Try to stay still, Tuscany,” Bled, my sort-of brother mutters to me. “And stop fidgeting if you can.”
Unlike the other children of the lords who stand still and proud, I bounce on my toes and peer down the line at Rome. I’m at one end, and Rome is at the far, far other.
Rome… tall, dark, handsome, facing forward and not indulging any of us. I like his arrogance. It makes me laugh. How can anyone be so serious? So, I decided long ago, when I was five, that it would be my mission to make him laugh.
My quest.
My destiny.
Every smile I get from him feels like an entire room of smiling faces, because his is worth more. He is my favourite from my Collective, and I just know, I know he is the heir. But, I dare not say it aloud.
We aren’t even meant to think about who might be Turin of The Strait’s heir. It’s not safe. Spies are everywhere, and a child is easy to assassinate, so it’s a big secret.
But I know.
I see a glow. The eagles like him almost as much as they like me but in a different way.
With me, they play; with him, they just stare and blink—eagles blink a lot—as if they are recognising something deep within him.
Looking through flesh to his blood, to his royal design, to the parts of him that are eagle.
“If you’re very good, then the queen might choose you for her Army,” Bled says, bumping my elbow playfully.
“I will be the queen,” I whisper, and the boys from my Collective—Turin Two, Darwin, and Medan all glance at me, along with Essen, who scrunches up her nose. I do warn her, that expression will stick if the Redwind shifts direction, but she still does it.
“You won’t be queen.” Essen hushes me. “You’re too small. A queen is tall and strong and quiet and…” Her eyes scan my rumpled dress. “Graceful. But don’t fret. I will pick you to be on my Army when I am queen.”
Being in the Queen’s Army is a privilege. They have freedoms not offered to other Royal Trades, like entire days of leisure. Far better than being a Watcher or Maid, so I wouldn’t mind. And I hear they receive as much dessert as they want, so…
“Enough!” Mother Lily, our Sired Mother cautions, and we all freeze. “This is highly inappropriate.”
I grin, feeling my cheeks bunch above my mouth. I am an eagle, too; I will be queen.
They’ll see.
With Mother Lily watching, we all behave, stand straight and wait to meet the king.
I have met him once, twice, three times, but I was too young to remember the first two.
I am dressed in white like the other girls in my collective, but my skirt flutters around my calves instead of my knees, showing only long frilly socks and my shoes.
“Let’s take a look at you.” I suddenly hear the booming voice of Sire, the king.
“Turin of The Strait,” a Guard introduces the massive Xin De king as he enters the Hall with a big presence.
I don’t know why they say his name before he walks into any room; we know who he is.
“The Cradle’s Monarch and Protector.” I don’t know why they say his entire name every time.
They say the whole title. That is a lot of words.
I look down and count on my fingers. One; Turin.
Two; of. Three; the. Four; Strait… Wait. How many am I up to?
“You must be Tuscany.”
“Oh!” I drop my hands and crane my neck to peer up into the stern gaze of the seven-foot-four King of The Cradle. Like Rome, there is something unwaveringly serious about him. And like Rome, I want to make him smile.
“Tuscany.” Bled bumps me again, and whispers from the corner of his mouth. “Bow. Tuscany. Bow.”
“Oh!” I pinch my skirt and curtsy but can’t tear my gaze away from the large man in front of me.
He’s wearing black leathers and a cape as heavy as the drapes, maybe they are made from the same fabric…
His arms and hands are covered in scars and ink as if his body were coated to withstand war, to protect us all, and I can almost feel the adoration radiating from me as I hold his gaze.
“Hello,” I peep. “Sire. Um, I saw a lizard once with markings that looked like he was wearing a tuxedo…” I trail off. “What I mean is, your scars and tattoos look like armour.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I blink at him. “Yet, I wouldn’t have scars if my skin were armour.”
“Oh… yeah.” I look down at my hands, thinking. That is true. “Was your cape made from the same fabric as the drapes?”
“Tuscany,” Mother Lily scolds, and I hear a deep, short chuckle come from one Guard flanking the king. I follow the sound to Kong— the king’s youngest Guardian. In his twenties, I think. So still really old.
He winks at me.
I beam and when I look back, Turin of The Strait, The Cradle’s Monarch and Protector smiles the smallest of smiles down on me and moves to greet Bled.
He smiled! Yes!
My cheeks flush with warmth as I gaze across at the Guards, one by one, standing behind him with their hands clasped at their backs and their chests puffed out like peacocks. I know them all. I am very good at memorising them. There’s Blunt, Crow, and the last one is Kong.
My winking buddy.
I try to wink at him, but I blink instead because I don’t know how to close just one eye. Kong smiles at my attempt before returning to his dutiful stance.
Over his shoulder, the black shape of a man standing in the open doorway catches my eye. He is watching. My breath hitches when I see what the Trade Master is staring at… me. He is staring straight. At. Me. My smile falls, and a chill skitters across my skin.
Why is he staring at me?
Shivering, I wrap my arms around my middle but hold his sharp gaze as if I’m glued to him. Frozen.
He is the opposite of Turin of The Strait, who is fierce, huge, scarred—a warlord.
Master Cairo is calculating and clean, with an angular face and short dark hair.
He is a politician. The king and the Trade Master are fire and ice.
Terror and control. The Trade Master is the first and last word in the regime.
I stare at him, my legs shuffling as if ants crawl on them. I like to make serious men smile, because a smile reveals truths, but I don’t like his smile. It doesn’t widen—it slithers into place. Smooth. Controlled. The Trade Master, Cairo’s, smile doesn’t reveal truths.
It hides them.
Then Kong moves into view, blocking Cairo standing between the iron doorframes.
My eyes widen as Kong mouths something to me. “Look away.”
From whom?
Master Cairo?
“Look away, little princess.”
I blink at Kong.
Then look at my shoes. They are bright and white and gold. So pretty. Like marble.
One day, I will be queen. There will be brownies and strawberry custard at my Rite. Everyone will gather—hundreds of smiling faces. I will take my vows and sleep beneath the same fancy drapes made from the same velvety fabric as Sire’s cape.
It will be wonderful.
And I won’t abide secret smiles.