Page 115 of The Forgotten Queen
Sydria
Sydria woke early and dressed for the day. The dull pain in her head throbbed still. She assumed it was a side effect of not taking her medicine the last couple of days, but at least everything with her heart seemed to be okay. Well, not everything. Her heart was still wounded from last night.
She made her way to the royal sitting room, hoping Marx wouldn’t be there. She still needed time to recover from the embarrassment. What had she been thinking, inviting Marx into her room? This was afakemarriage…at least, it was supposed to be.
She cringed every time she thought back to that moment.
Thank you for the offer, but I’m going to decline.
It was humiliating.
Had it been appropriate, Sydria would have curled up into a ball and gently rocked back and forth. That’s how embarrassed she was. She’d only felt this kind of humiliation one other time in her life, a moment that she’d remembered yesterday morning. The memory wasn’t the entire moment, more like the feeling of the moment. Standing alone in front of a large crowd. All eyes on her…waiting, whispering. Where had he gone? He was supposed to be there, with her. Even without the full memory, Sydria knew he’d gone after the color red. She was alone, and everyone knew it.
She shook the dark feeling away and rolled her shoulders back as she entered the sitting room. Dannyn sat alone at the table, eating fruit. She had a newswriter out next to her. Sydria exhaled, grateful she wouldn’t have to face Marx yet.
Dannyn glanced up at her as she took her seat. “What can we do that’s fun today?”
Sydria loved how full of life Dannyn was. “You know, you remind me of someone.” She reached for the pitcher of juice and poured some into her cup.
Dannyn frowned. “How? I thought you didn’t have any memories.”
“I don’t, not really, but yesterday I had more flashbacks than I’ve ever had. There was one with a blonde girl. She was happy and bright. I don’t know who she is, but you remind me of her.”
“Maybe she reminds you ofme.”
“Is there a difference?” Sydria asked.
“Well, I—”
“Your Majesty, Princess Dannyn?” a guard said, rushing into the room. “You need to come quick.” The guard panted like he’d run the entire way.
“What’s wrong?” Dannyn asked.
“It’s King McKane.”
* * *
A crowd of servants, maids, and guards stood around King McKane’s office, watching as the medic team hurried in and out. Dannyn ran into the room, falling over her father’s body as he lay stretched out on a medic board. The king’s skin was a pale blue-ish color, and his body was stiff and rigid.
He was dead.
Queen Malory sat motionless on the couch next to her husband, holding his cold hand. Marx stood by the window with his arms folded and his back to the room. He didn’t even budge when they entered.
“How?” Dannyn asked through her tears. “How did this happen?”
Queen Malory was a statue. “He didn’t come to bed last night. I found him here this morning.”
Doctor Moore glanced at the queen mother, waiting to see if she would give more details than that. When she didn’t, he turned to Dannyn. “We need to do an autopsy to be sure, but it appears the king had a heart attack.”
“But he’s so young,” Dannyn said. “He’s not even sixty yet.”
Sydria’s hand covered her mouth, and tears spilled down her face. She wasn’t crying for McKane. She cried for his family—for Queen Malory, who would have to grow old by herself, for Dannyn, who would never get the chance to have her father walk her down the aisle or see her baby bounce on his knee, and for Marx, who never got to mend their broken relationship—to release the blame that hung over Palmer’s death.
A dark, empty space opened up inside Sydria. The emptiness held so much. Raw pain that had been locked away in the deepest part of her heart spilled out of her. She saw flashes of her mother’s funeral, her dead body lying stiffly in a casket. Long black hair had been situated over each of her shoulders. She wore a burgundy dress with matching lipstick painted on her lips. A small gold tiara rested on her head.
“Come now.” A hand reached out to her. “It’s time to close the casket.”
Sydria tried to see the man’s face. Her mind studied the hand, soft and manly, then slowly pulled back, giving her a better vantage point of the memory. She took in the man’s slightly rounded midsection and expensive suit jacket. Her mind scanned up to his chest and then to his neck. Her heart raced. Would her mind let her see his face? She fought hard against whatever blocked the full memory.
