Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tuscany
After hours of bathing, pruning, preparing, and dressing, crown-light comes quickly, and it is time to face my guests. I leave my suite, catching sight of Kong standing by my door. My mouth opens—loving words tickling my tongue—but it closes quickly when the Dears crowd the corridor.
“Happy Birthday,” Dear One says, with Dear Two and Three in tow. “Come. Come.”
“Do you need more time, my queen?” Essen blocks the eager Dears. “We can take a stroll to unwind first?”
I am thankful for Essen, only now noticing her loyalty and compassion. Guilt needles my stomach. I was wrong about her. Her eyes on me, as well as Kong’s, give me enough strength to shake my head. “No, I don’t need more time. Now is fine.”
She nods and falls in line behind me. Ahead, the three Dears take the lead down the purple corridor. My three ladies trail behind me, arranging my white cape as we stride.
I’m peering over my shoulder when my gaze catches him, air breezing into my lungs, offering relief and assurance. I needed to see that he was close. Kong takes his position right behind my ladies, towering over the tops of their heads by at least a foot.
I turn to face forward.
We enter another grand room, where Trade citizens of the Lower-Tower are already gathering and waiting. An excitable hum fills the space as they converse, until they see me—
The room is dissected by silence.
Gathering my courage on a deep inhale, I stride through the middle, people parting like a sea, and take the polished steps up to the throne perched a level higher in the centre of the room. Flattening my dress down my stomach, I sit.
All. Eyes. Press. On me.
I straighten and lift my chin but slide a smile onto my lips. Not too secret today; my belly churns with both caution and… joy? I am a little, tiny bit excited. I force myself to recognise that the nerves are not all bad.
Glass walls rise like crystal fortresses around me, blurring the boundary between the throne room and the lush greenhouses beyond. Nature and architecture embrace in this transparent sanctuary.
The ceiling above is a delicate grid of glass, allowing an artificial sun to beam into the room. Though I know it’s merely lighting, when paired with the greenery, it creates a nice illusion of what the old-world might have looked like before the Redwind.
The throne itself is padded with purple velvet across the seating, while branches and vines create the back and armrests. It is large; I imagine it was designed to fit Rome, not me.
One by one, Trade citizens take the steps up to me, bearing gifts that depict their Trade: dresses from the Modistes, art from the Painters. Each gift is a gesture of what The Trade has to offer, how talented my citizens are, and how they embrace their Trade.
They too are marketing.
Time rolls by. There are hundreds of citizens, hundreds of gifts. I want to see them all, give each a smile and nod, so I fight my exhaustion.
As lovely as this is, I do wish to see how the ruins compare, how the iceberg looks from beneath the surface.
As the line continues, a strange sensation begins to pool at my feet like a dark phantom slowly curling around my legs. Overstimulation plays with my senses, and a faint noise, barely more than a hiss, reaches my left ear, followed by a similar sound in my right. Left.
Right.
Left.
I rub my face before smoothing my hair, pretending I am positioning a rogue strand. The sound grows, an insistent chime that sets my nerves on edge.
Then light—flashes of light flickering in my peripheral, first on the left, then the right, pulling my gaze from side to side with increasing urgency.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
My heart races. The room spins—slowly at first, then with a disorienting speed that leaves me breathless. Overwhelmed, my chest tightens, breath catching as panic sinks its teeth into me with invisible maws.
I am strong.
I am strong.
Then it happens. A man steps forward, holding a vase with a small flower inside. It is frozen in a thick, clear, jelly-like fluid. Glitter. Sunshine. Pretty. Pink. A trophy.
“For you, my queen.”
The pink bloom sparkles. I am drawn to it. I grip the armrests and try to stand, but my legs aren’t responding.
Paralyzed.
Fading away.
Skinny reality…
My body plummets back to my room at The Estate, numbed from the waist down, mind seized by fear and helplessness as I am forced to give my womb to these people, the citizens of The Trade.
“I will take no man,” I whisper.
“What did she say?”
“Bear no children.”
Tug.
“Nurture.”
Tug.
“Inspire.”
Tug.
“Endure. I am the Queen of The Cradle.”
A blur of people gathers around the throne, blocking the pretty vase and flower from my sight.
“Little queen.”
I feel my body shaking violently, fingers gripping the chair, something inside me rattling my bones with visions and memories.
“Little queen.” Warm hands cup my face, but I barely feel them. I fall into the dark pit of my memory, retreat into my mind, and decide to finish this once and for all…
I need to finish this!
The black abyss opens up, and I see myself as I am now—an adult, hair perfect, flawlessly marble—entering the queen’s wing, walking down the corridor, passing the lamps, turning the corner into her room.
I stroll up to Little Tuscany lying on the bed. Streams of tears mark her young cheeks. I reach for her hand and take it.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to her. “Come with me.” I feel her hand in mine, and mine in hers, from both perspectives. Feel cold and hard as an adult, na?ve and trusting as a child.
Guiding her, I take her into the bathroom. I smile—a big secret smile—and run a bath. I help her into the clawfoot bathtub, her little legs unsteady.
But Rome appears, pushing into the bathroom, and we both turn to look at him.
Too late.
“They took it all,” she says pathetically. “All the parts I won’t need now that I am to be Queen of The Cradle.”
I smile at him, and little Tuscany trembles but trusts, still clutching my hand.
Trembles but trusts.
Slowly, she sits down in the warm water, a soft whimper leaving her lips.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
And Rome dissolves from the room. He left. Of course, he did. That is what he does.
So I place my hands on little Tuscany’s shoulders, push her backward into the tub, hold her beneath the surface, and smile down at her as she drowns.