Page 53 of The Forgotten Queen
“Uh, thanks, Paula. That all sounds great.”
Paula’s eyes went serious. “What you’re doing is really special, Your Majesty. Even if King McKane doesn’t agree.” She dipped again in front of them both and followed her team out the door.
“Well,” Marx breathed as he stepped off the podium. “That was fun.”
“What was Paula talking about?”
He pointed over his shoulder. “Oh, that? That was nothing.”
Sydria’s eyes dropped. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my place to know the workings of your kingdom.”
Marx had somehow managed to hurt her feelings by trying to escape his own embarrassment.
“It’s not that,” he said. “I don’t care if you know the workings of the kingdom.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just a little embarrassed because it’s not a big deal.”
Her dark brows lifted, and her lips softened. “You’re embarrassed? I didn’t know kings get embarrassed.”
Marx didn’tusually,and he couldn’t explain why he was now. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to exude confidence. “They don’t.”
She leaned back against the couch. Her hands rested behind her. “Then what’s the project Paula talked about?”
He walked toward the table where he’d been reading. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.” She lifted her eyebrow as if she wasn’t going to stop asking until he told her. “I wanted to make sure every family in Cristole had access to a few colored clothing items.” He pulled out the chair in front of him, sinking down into it.
“That sounds like a big deal to me.”
“It’s not.”
“Why?”
“Other monarchs worry about solving hunger, or transportation issues, or detonating deadly weapons. I’m worried about colored clothes.”
She dipped her chin, giving him a pointed stare. “I bet you’re worried about more than colored clothes.”
There was more to his project than colored clothes, but Marx wasn’t going to tell her all the reasons. How do you tell your stranger-wife that your life isn’t your own, that you long for the freedom to choose, and that those longings have led to the clothing drive?
“Looking good is kind of my thing, especially looking good in colored clothes,” he deflected.
Sydria folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t believe you. That’s just a front you’re putting up.”
“A front?”
“Yes. What you say to hide your real motivations.”
How did she do that? How did she see right through him?
He drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, feeling an overwhelming push to open up to her. “You’re right. It’s about more than looking good. It’s about giving people the right to choose. Giving the working class more freedom to be who they want to be.”
“I love that.” Sydria smiled. “Thatmakes your project a big deal.”
Marx felt his embarrassment flare. “I don’t know about that.”
“Having the freedom to choose and be who you want to be is a big deal to me, even if it starts with something as simple as colored clothes. I don’t know who I am, but I know that I don’t want anyone else telling me who I have to be. What you’re doing is amazing.”
A slow warmth spread through Marx’s chest. He hadn’t experienced a feeling like that in a long time. Palmer had usually been the one to believe in him, see the underlying good, and make him feel like he had something important to offer. He had taken so much of Marx with him when he died.
“Thanks,” he said. He scooted his chair into the table, ready to change the subject and the feelings burning inside his heart. “Now, then, do you have a list of memories for me?”
“I do.” She walked to the side table and grabbed a small flowered notebook. “Idella gave me this book to write in.” She smiled with pride as she looked down at the front cover like she’d never had a notebook of her own.
