The Essence (6 page)

I ignored the fact that that same dressmaker had disregarded my preferences and had sewed in intricate gold beading along the waist and hemline.

And then there were the other doubts, the ones that had nothing to do with me at all. The ones that came from
her
.

Listen to your friend, Charlaina. Not everyone can accept change. Not everyone wants the kinds of freedom you’ve offered them.

Sabara’s voice filled my head like liquefied hatred. Loathsome and wretched. It seeped through my veins like bile and I braced myself against the mirrored vanity, leaning closer and trying to see past my own eyes—to see
through
myself—to get a glimpse of her. I wanted to know if she was in there, somehow watching me from the other side of the looking glass.

But it was just me. I was the same girl I’d always been, except that now I looked tired, drawn; my eyes were bleary.

I decided to prod her, hoping I sounded stronger than I felt. Hoping she couldn’t read my thoughts as well as my emotions.

“Say what you will, Sabara,” I ground out on a hushed breath, feeling somewhat foolish. “But I’m not the one trapped. I’m not the one entombed in a body that’s not my own.” To make my point, I curtsied to the likeness that stared back at me and stood again sharply. My actions were jerky, like my limbs were being pulled by a puppeteer’s hands. But it was only me. I was the one pulling the strings. “I’m the one in control here, not you.”

The door opened then, and Brooklynn peeked inside. “Did you need something? I thought I heard you,” she asked, scrutinizing me, and I wondered what she saw as I slowly stood again, letting my arms fall to my sides.

I shook my head, staring at her, still not ready to trust my voice.

“Well, come on then.” She reached out her hand and I stepped toward her. “Look at you, all fancy and queenly.” She grinned, holding out her arm for me, acting as if she were my date for the evening. Acting as if nothing had changed between us . . . as if we were the same old Charlie and Brook.

I smiled sheepishly, looking down at my black dress. “We match,” I said, because I could think of nothing else.

Brooklynn laughed at me, leaning her head against mine as Zafir held the door for the two of us. “Oh, Charlie, when will you realize: We’ve never matched. It’s what makes us perfect for each other.”

Something electric filled the air the moment I entered the dining hall. At first I thought it was Eden. It was typical to feel her emotions, even when her face was completely blank.

As if she could ever manage that,
I thought, smiling inwardly. She wore expressions like accessories, jewelry to match her stormy moods. I noted her usual suspicious glare as she stood protectively behind my little sister, who was already seated at the dining table. Eden’s coal-black eyes took in every minute detail of the room.

But it wasn’t her that I sensed; I was certain of that. I recognized her mood instantly. Watchful and wary. A hawk guarding a sparrow.

No, it was something else that had the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck standing up in warning.

And then I saw them on the other side of the room, near the windows that overlooked the gardens. The cluster of people spoke among themselves, and I could see only their backs. They were too far away for me to get a good look, but
it was hard to imagine that any of them was the emissary Brook had told me about—an ambassador who’d been dispatched to be the face of their nation. Even from here, they all appeared too rough and uncivilized to be suitable.

Besides, emissaries were almost always women. Unlike me, most queens tended to prefer other women in their highest counsel positions. Or so I’d been told.

Max stepped forward then, with Claude shadowing him. Unlike Zafir, who had once been one of Max’s royal guards, Claude had decided to remain with Max. It hadn’t mattered to Claude that Max no longer held a royal title after his grandmother’s death.

I
was the queen now.

But they didn’t know what I knew about Sabara. That she’d somehow survived. That she’d found a way to be heard in the deepest recesses of my mind.

Even I knew it sounded like madness.

I grinned as Max met me at the doorway, blocking most of my view of the room and all thoughts of Sabara. He was dressed in full ambassadorial regalia. In his official role he was my chief adviser, the person who kept me apprised of policies both foreign and domestic. Unofficially, he was the person I most counted on in this world. He protected me. Not me the queen. Just me, Charlaina. Charlie.

“You look beautiful,” I whispered, letting him take my arm.

“I was supposed to say that.”

“That you look beautiful? Be my guest, but I think it sounds better if I say it.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips as he drew me closer to his side than any adviser should. “Our guest is anxious to meet you.”

Already my father was sitting beside my little sister and my mother at the long dining table set with polished silver and gleaming china. His pale blue eyes, so much like my own and Angelina’s, sparkled approvingly as he took in my appearance.

Smiling back at him, I tried to ignore the other sensation that plagued me. The one that warned me that something was . . .
off
.

“Where is she?” I forced my gaze to Max.

“He,”
Max corrected me. “The ambassador is a he.” And when I flashed him a curious look, he grinned down at me. “I know. What is it with these progressive queens and the men in their lives? His name is Niko Bartolo. He’s the
adviser . . .”
He raised his eyebrows meaningfully as he glanced down at me, intentionally reminding me that he, himself, was more than just my adviser. I felt myself blushing. “. . . . to Queen Vespaire of the Third Realm.”

The Third Realm was at least two days—and one full queendom—from Ludania by train. Six by horse. These visitors were far from home.

“Do you know why Queen Vespaire has sent him?” I asked, pretending everything was as it should be. That the tension knotting my stomach was simply the result of nerves.

“Are you all right, Charlie? You don’t look well.” Max frowned, scrutinizing me.

But it wouldn’t have mattered what my answer had been, because the moment Max moved, just the barest amount, I found myself standing in front of the congregation of men who’d just moments earlier been contemplating the view of the gardens. It was hard to imagine that this particular group had any appreciation for flowers or statues or ornate fountains. I imagined they’d much prefer armories and taverns and brothels.

There were five of them in all, I counted quickly, trying to appraise the situation . . . to evaluate my uneasy feelings. Not one of them appeared to have washed or changed after their long journey, and their worn riding pants and coats were still covered in dust and grime from the road. Beneath their clothing, their skin was equally weathered and sunbaked.

Four of the men stepped forward as Max and I approached, aware of my presence at once. And all four of them dropped low before me.

“Niko Bartolo,” Max said, his voice slipping into a cadence far more formal than his usual bantering tone. “I give you Charlaina di Heyse. Queen of Ludania.”

The fifth man, standing just behind the others, eased forward then, bending as if to follow the lead of his men at the very moment his eyes lifted to mine. Eyes so amber they were very nearly molten. Eyes that both unsettled and comforted me, and found their way straight to my core, piercing me like a steel-tipped arrow. I stood frozen on wobbly legs, mutely acknowledging that
he
was the reason my skin itched. He was the cause of the ache in my gut. This perfect stranger who now held my gaze.

My grip on Max’s arm tightened, and I immediately hoped he hadn’t noticed, although I was certain he must have. Yet if this ambassador—this Niko Bartolo—felt even a fraction of what I was feeling, he gave no indication. He dropped into a flawlessly executed bow just as his men had done, until I found myself staring—wordlessly—at the golden halo of his hair.

Inside, my stomach twisted.

Or was it something else that roiled, straining to be noticed?

Max tugged at my arm, reminding me that five men were at my feet, waiting for permission to rise.

“It—it’s a pleasure.” My voice barely registered, but it was all I could manage.

Niko stood once more, doing everything the way he should. It was I who was faltering. I who struggled to understand my uncertain reaction.

He held out his hand to me and I stared at it, my mind struggling to unravel each simple action. Beside me, I felt Max nudge me, slight but perceptible. Just enough to get me moving again.

It was strange to watch my hand settle into this stranger’s, almost as if it were someone else’s hand I watched. Niko lifted my fingers to his lips, kissing the back of them reverently. “Your Majesty,” he intoned, his voice perfectly calm. Perfectly innocent. And then he lowered his voice, and made a sound, an almost indistinguishable gravelly noise that came up from the back of his throat.

Except that it wasn’t just a noise. It was a word, spoken in a foreign tongue, one I’d never heard before. Yet I understood its meaning.

“You,”
he’d said.

I jerked back and watched him through wide eyes, trying to tamp down my curiosity but failing miserably. The longer I stood beside him, the more conflicted I felt. The more intrigued as well.

You?
Was that really what he’d said? What could he have meant by that?

I pulled my hand away, suddenly anxious to have it back. Away from his grip.

Xander interrupted then, making an exuberant entrance as he and Aron came tumbling through the open doors, wrestling and shoving each other. They seemed not to notice it wasn’t just the two of them in the enormous dining hall.

“Get off me, you wag!” Aron grunted as Xander caught him in a headlock and pulled him all the way down so he was very nearly kissing the floor.

Officially, Aron held no title or official role in my administration, but he was invaluable to me all the same. Maybe what I’d really needed was another friendly face around as I adjusted to my new position.

It was Xander, however, who’d taken Aron under his wing, making it his task to teach Aron the finer points of combat and weaponry.

And horseplay, it seemed.

Beside me, Max’s breathy chuckle drew my attention away from the golden-eyed ambassador. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Max jumping into the rambunctious fray of flying elbows and knees.

“Admit that I won,” Xander insisted, laughter clear in his voice. “Tell me I’m a superior marksman.”

Neither
boy
was even aware of the audience they’d drawn. At least until Angelina giggled from her seat at the table.

Simultaneously, I watched both of their heads snap up. And almost equally synchronized, each of them jerked to attention as Xander released Aron from his grip.

Xander, as usual, was the first to recover, standing tall and handsome and looking unruffled, as if they’d just strolled in casually to join our assemblage. As if they hadn’t forgotten it was dinnertime altogether.

Aron’s eyes, however, were still sparkling with recalcitrance, his gaze directed solely at Xander. “It was his fault,” he muttered, shoving Xander with his shoulder in a last-ditch effort to win whatever quarrel they’d been having.

Xander ignored the dig from Aron as he dropped his head and uttered, “Your Majesty.”

I forced a glare for them both, warning them each in turn to behave . . . and knowing that neither would listen unless he chose to. Then I allowed Max to show me to my place at the table.

As I did, I passed Angelina, who looked tired, bruised circles outlining the nearly translucent skin beneath her eyes. Guilt coursed through me.

Guilt and that other thing. That sensation I had yet to identify.

It took a moment for her to meet my gaze fully, for her eyes to stop fluttering nervously away from mine. But when she did, when I had her attention at last, my face fell into a remorseful frown.

I’m sorry,
I mouthed. I desperately hoped she understood me.

It took a moment, but the sliver of a smile that dusted her lips made my heart flutter.

Of course she’d understood me. Angelina always understood me.