Page 48 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
Bris didn’t understand why that would be surprising. “Well, I am going to be their queen…”
“Yes, of course.” His eyes still sparkled with an excitement she couldn’t fathom. Was her family so disconnected from their own people that basic curiosity seemed revolutionary? “There’s so much to show you, but perhaps you need to see for yourself first…”
“I noticed the tenements from the hill,” she said carefully, pulling her light jacket tighter around her shoulders under the stiff breeze. “Does the area flood often?”
“Not in over forty years, thankfully,” he said quickly. “Though with these storms, we worry constantly.”
“Were the living conditions this poor when the Tyndarians lived in the palace?” She needed to know if her family’s rule had caused this suffering.
“Not at all,” he said. His sad eyes in an otherwise happy face were making their appearance again. “The poverty came from years of civil war. This land was once rich with natural resources—but greed and territorial disputes have made them virtually untouchable.”
Those ramshackle homes were constructed from literal scraps of tin and cardboard. “How are those people surviving?”
“Barely,” the priest admitted. “But we’ve had generous help with rebuilding efforts. Everyone contributes what they can.” He glanced meaningfully at Bris’s cousin. “Polly has volunteered countless hours to help, along with collecting funds from her extensive connections in the area.”
Something in his tone made Bris glance sharply at Polly, who appeared embarrassed at being singled out for her charity work—though there was something else in her expression, a warning gaze directed at Nestor. Clearly, the girl didn’t want any credit. Bris’s estimation of her cousin rose.
Her phone buzzed insistently in her jacket pocket, and she dug it out. Achilles was calling. The overprotective griffin was awake and panicking about her absence. She deliberately ignored the buzzing. She was so done with his schtick. Let him sweat a little.
“Good morning, Nestor!”
Polly and Bris turned to see a slight, middle-aged woman with vibrant red hair. She waved as she rounded the corner of the church. Her hands looked weathered and capable, carved into networks of veins that spoke of hard physical labor. She thrust those strong fists into the pockets of practical coverall shorts. “Did you get that order for me?”
“Yes, indeed.” Nestor’s face lit up with genuine affection. “The books are in the vestibule. Let me fetch them.” He disappeared through a side door.
The woman’s shrewd green eyes found Bris next, assessing her with frank curiosity. “I’m Maggie—I work at the school here. Are you new to the area?”
“Just arrived,” Bris admitted. The woman’s accent was distinctly American—probably a Peace Corps volunteer who’d decided to stay and make a difference. “My name is…” Polly was shaking her head vigorously behind Maggie’s back, and Bris caught the urgent warning. “I’m… visiting. Yes, just visiting.”
Maggie’s eyes crinkled with laugh lines that spoke of genuine warmth and humor. “Well, hello there, mysterious visitor.”
“Bris,” she amended, unable to maintain the deception completely. Let the woman make what she would of that.
Nestor returned, staggering under the weight of three heavy cardboard boxes. His elderly frame bent dangerously backward as he fought to maintain his balance.
Horror filled Bris’s throat. Those boxes would break him in half! “Here, let me help!” She rushed forward to rescue one box while Polly grabbed another. They needed their priest in one piece!
Nestor gratefully surrendered two boxes but refused to relinquish the third to Maggie, so the plucky redhead led the way down the hillside. Bris’s phone buzzed again, insistently, the call followed by another, but with her hands full she couldn’t answer. They didn’t have far to travel—down a winding lane through narrow alleyways that led into the heart of the tenements.
The closest neighborhood was crunched into very bright, very dilapidated buildings. A blood-red house stood next to a mint-green building, which was wedged between a powder-blue two-story structure that leaned precariously to one side. The cheerful paint couldn’t disguise the fact that these homes were constructed from whatever materials their owners could scavenge—corrugated metal, salvaged wood, even repurposed shipping containers.
About twenty children ran barefoot through the cobbled streets, their clothes mismatched and patched, ranging in age from toddlers to teenagers. Their parents were nowhere in sight, likely working whatever jobs they could find.
Maggie ducked into the cramped red building on the corner, gesturing for them to follow. Bris stepped inside, unsure what to expect in the tiny space. Despite the building’s ramshackle exterior, the single room was meticulously organized—makeshift desks arranged in neat rows, a chalkboard made from painted plywood, and shelves constructed from concrete blocks and salvaged boards.
This was a school? In a space barely larger than Bris’s walk-in closet?
Maggie answered her unspoken question by grasping the rickety door frame and calling out to the children playing in the street. “Recess is over! Come see what just came!”
The children scurried inside, their bare feet slapping against the hard-packed dirt floor. They stared up at the newcomers with enormous dark eyes full of curiosity. One of the smallest—a girl with light brown hair escaping from a drooping ponytail—pushed her fingers into her mouth and whispered: “Eisai omorfo.”
Bris was still struggling with her Tirrojan. “What did she say?”
Maggie leaned down to the shy child. “In English, sweetheart,” she prompted gently.
“She… girl pretty.”
Bris’s heart melted as she set down the box and knelt in the dust beside the little girl. “That’s so sweet of you to say. Thank you!”
