Page 52 of The Forgotten Queen
“Your Majesty, your style and tastes are exquisite,” Paula complimented.
Yes, they are. And, very expensive.
Sydria shrugged as she ran a finger down a pool of leather. “I’ve never seen fabrics like these before. We don’t have them where I come from.”
Marx’s interest was piqued. He watched as the smile dropped from her face as if it had suddenly dawned on her that she didn’t actually know where she’d come from. The more he saw of her, the more he knew she hadn’t come from a poor family in Northland.
“And what about you, Your Majesty?” the seamstress asked, looking directly at him. “What clothing would you like to have made?”
Marx flipped the newswriter paper closed, leaning forward. “I’ll take the usual, a fitted suit with a colorful tie.” He stood and walked toward Sydria. “Give me something that matches what the queen has ordered.”
Sydria smiled over her shoulder at him, and his stomach filled with butterflies.
What on earth was happening?
He’d only ever experienced butterflies doing something dangerous, jumping off the side of a cliff, surfing in the ocean.
“Which dress of the queen’s would you like to match?” Paula asked.
“It doesn’t matter, whichever dress she likes best.”
Sydria reached for his arm, pulling him toward her.
The butterflies intensified.
Was this part of the pretend story?
Their bodies faced each other, splitting the small space on the rounded podium. Marx placed his hands softly on her hips for…stability. He didn’t want to fall off the platform. Sydria was close enough for him to smell the hints of gardenia in her perfume and see the soft pink gloss coating her lips.
She turned her head, looking at their reflection. “You know, Paula, I think the king would look really good in a tapered pant.”
He met her eyes through the mirror. “A tapered pant?”
“Trust me.”
His gaze drifted to her shiny lips, hesitating a moment too long, then shifted up to her eyes. “I do trust you.”
“The pants shouldn’t be so tight that the king looks ridiculous,” she said, looking at Paula, “but something fitted, and then what if the hem ended a little shorter and we matched his tie with a colorful patterned sock?”
“I love it!” Paula exclaimed as she furiously took notes.
Marx raised an eyebrow. “Where are you getting these ideas?”
She shrugged, and a little bit of the glimmer from her eyes was lost with the action, making him regret that he’d ever asked the question. “I don’t really know, but I’ve seen it before in a picture. I think.”
“Pictures haven’t existed since Desolation,” he said, watching her reaction.
She glanced behind him, lost in thought. “It must have been a pre-Desolation picture, then.”
How would a working-class girl get a hold of a pre-Desolation picture?
She turned to the seamstress with a fake smile—the genuine one from moments ago was lost. “Thank you, Paula. I’m pleased with what we’ve come up with today.”
Sydria stepped down from the podium, walking out of his grasp. Marx had never been so aware of the empty space around him as he was in that moment.
Paula tried to curtsy between her notepad and the swatches of fabric in her hand. “It’s been our pleasure, Queen Sydria. These dresses should be ready in a few days.” She turned to Marx. “Your Majesty, I also wanted to let you know that we’ve ordered the fabric for your clothing drive. With the money you donated, we were able to get enough fabric to clothe all of the families in the three poorest provinces—every family that said they were in need.”
Marx scratched his ear, glancing quickly at Sydria. He preferred that she not hear about his clothing drive. The project meant a lot to him, but it would come across as vain to someone else—like he only cared about people in his kingdom looking good. It was too late to keep things under wraps. Sydria’s eyes were fixed on him.
