Page 22 of The Forgotten Queen
“My wedding?” he sneered. “How long does that take?”
A knock sounded, saving Elsbeth from answering. She whisked around, heading for the door. “Thank you,” she said, taking a tray of food from the servant. She carried it over to his bed and placed it on his lap. Her eyes lingered on the bruise on his bare chest, a token from their hike yesterday when a tree branch had hit him.
Marx raised an eyebrow at his secretary. “Elsbeth, I have a feeling the only reason you wake me up early is so that you can see me without my shirt on.”
She rolled her eyes. “Young man, don’t flatter yourself. I may be old, but I can still remember changing your diapers.”
Marx liked how Elsbeth called him out on his antics. “Well, I have a different idea for my itinerary this morning,” he said as he sank his teeth into a strawberry.
“And what would that be, Your Majesty?” she asked.
“Tell Kase and the boys to ready the personal transporters. I’m in the mood for some racing.”
Elsbeth narrowed her eyes as if she disapproved. “Don’t you think you have more important things to do today besides racing?”
“Iamdoing the important things. I’m getting married later. What could be more important than that?”
She shook her head.
Yes, getting married wassoimportant that Marx needed to leave the castle for a bit to wrap his head around it.
Sydria
Sydria stood in the middleof the small bathroomin her aunt and uncle’s house. She leaned her face closer to the mirror, rubbing her hands under her bloodshot eyes. She hadn’t slept at all last night. How could she, when she was being carted off in a negotiation that she couldn’t stop?
Sydria had lain awake last night, staring into the blackness. She had thought through all her different options. She could run away. That was the most logical thing to do. But the logic of that situation fell apart in her mind, giving way to her fear. Where would she go? How would she survive? She didn’t have any street-smarts to rely on. She couldn’t even remember her own birthdate. So she stayed in bed, watching as dawn slowly illuminated the day. She considered about begging, crying, pleading with Edmay and Von. But it was useless. They wouldn’t change their minds. Sydria had brought the subject up at dinner the night before after Otis had left. But they maintained that this was a great honor, that her mother had wanted this for her, and thatthiswas the reason she had come to Cristole in the first place.
How could Sydria go against her mother’s last wishes?
Was it even true? Or were Von and Edmay feeding her more lies?
It was all so confusing.
As the last bits of sun crept into the sky, a new idea popped into Sydria’s head. What if she took her concerns to the king? She could plead with him to stop the marriage, vow to be a servant in his castle for a few years…until she remembered who she was. The money she earned as a servant could be sent back to Von and Edmay. She’d be able to solve all of their problems. The king could find another working-class girl to marry. The plan hinged on the king being a reasonable man—or on her own persuasive powers. Did she have that kind of fight inside her?
She braced her hands on the sink in front of her and lifted her chin to the mirror. She didn’t recognize her long black hair or her dark eyes. A stranger stared back at her. Shouldn’t the curves of her face and the brown flecks in her eyes be something she remembered? She looked away, disappointed again by the fact that even seeing herself didn’t help jar her memory.
Sydria’s hand went to her chest, and her eyes glanced back at her reflection. She parted the collar of her shirt, opening it wide to where her scar was visible. What would a man think about her ruined skin, about the jagged purple line that marred her chest? No man would be satisfied with a disfigured wife, especially a king. She squeezed the fabric of her collar closed and shut her eyes. She had to stop this wedding. This couldn’t be her future. People without pasts cling to the promise of a happy future.
Sydria wasn’t about to give up on her happy future.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror and hoped that she was strong enough to stop this wedding. It didn’t matter that her mother had wanted it.Shedidn’t want it, and that was enough to keep fighting.
7
Marx
Marx nodded at Kase and Warren riding next to him on their personal transporters. The speeding machines funneled wind into their faces, blowing their hair back. He smiled at his friends in a way that let them know they were about to lose the race. Marx leaned his chest closer to the handlebars and pushed the lever forward. His tires spun faster as the machine kicked into a higher gear, sending a spray of sand out from under the wheels. His fingers clutched the handles tighter as he steered his PT forward into an enormous sand dune. He drove upward, not knowing what was on the other side of the steep hill. His heart raced as he approached the top. His machine lifted into the air as if it were weightless, drifting gracefully through the sky. A rush of adrenaline tied his stomach into a thrilling knot as he looked at the thirty-foot drop below.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The nose of the PT dove forward as Marx floated through the air. The longer he waited, the more complex the landing was going to be. At the last second, he pulled the machine up as fast as he could, lifting the nose. His tires hit the ground and skidded on the smooth sand. The impact was enough to throw him off his machine and roll his body several times until he came to a halt on his back. His chest heaved up and down as his eyes squinted against the harsh sun. Thinning white clouds slowly sailed through the blue sky above him, painting a portrait of serenity.
But serenity was the last thing Marx felt.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Kase asked as he leaned over him.
Marx’s eyes shifted to his guard. “Nah, I was trying to impress you.” He added a cocky smile to his answer.
Warren’s head popped into view, lining up with Kase’s. “If you would have landed it, then I would have been impressed.”
