The Essence
Page 50

I gripped the railing and leaned forward, hoping they could see me on the deck. “Aron!” I called out above the din of voices and the grinding of winches and the clang of bells. Overhead, the seabirds called out raucously. When neither of them saw me, I tried waving at them, my arms flailing. “Brooklynn! Over here! I’m here!”
Brook glanced up then, just as Zafir’s arms wrapped around me. Like unflinching iron bands, they dragged me backward. “Do you constantly have to test me, Your Majesty?” His chastising words were quiet but effective. “Let us at least get you off the ship before you start drawing attention to yourself. I’d like to deliver you safely to Vannova, if at all possible.”
I just grinned stupidly. “They’re here, Zafir.”
It didn’t take long for Brook to reach us, for her to shove her way through the horde of impatient onlookers. “I can’t believe it!” she cried, gripping me in what should have been a hug but felt more like she was trying to smother me instead. She didn’t seem to notice that Zafir was still restraining me. I could only imagine how the three of us must have looked, entangled in an awkward, three-way embrace.
Zafir released me, and I practically collapsed into Brooklynn’s arms, my voice bordering on desperation. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you, how worried I was. I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here.”
Brook squeezed me back until my ribs ached. “Charlie! Where the hell have you been?” she demanded. “Where did you disappear to?”
“I swear I’ll tell you everything,” I promised, glancing around nervously, suddenly realizing that the assassin could be here as well. That Brook had most likely been traveling with the traitor. My pulse flicked raggedly and I pulled her closer. “We have to talk. Privately.”
Beside us, someone cleared her throat, an almost imperceptible sound. I might not even have noticed, except that Brooklynn drew away from me.
Avonlea stood there, on the deck of the ferry, her ragged red blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a tatty shawl. I tried to see her the way Brook would, the way I’d looked at her that first day. She was timid, hesitant.
Not at all like the girl who’d shot Niko Bartolo.
“Yes . . . ?” Brook drew out the word, raising one perfect eyebrow and reminding me that there was nothing timid or hesitant about my best friend.
Avonlea opened her mouth, but seemed to change her mind as she took a step away from us. I reached out to stop her before she could flee. “Brook, this is Avonlea. Avonlea, this is . . .” I thought of the ways I could introduce Brook: the commander of my armed forces, my childhood best friend. “Brooklynn.”
Brook smiled, a slow, suspicious smile that told me she was sizing up the other girl. She didn’t have to say what she was thinking. She, like Zafir, was cautious with her trust. “Avonlea, huh? That’s an . . . interesting name.”
I frowned at Brook, but she ignored my cautionary look.
“Char—” Avonlea chomped down on her lower lip, stopping herself from speaking the rest of my name aloud. She ducked her eyes. “Her Majesty gave it to me.”
“You gave her a name?” Brook’s dark eyes turned to me.
I raised my eyebrows. “I did. And a queen’s name at that.” A slow smile spread over my lips as I wrapped my arm around Avonlea. I could feel her shivering beneath her impractical blanket, and I led her toward the gangway where Zafir was already waiting. “Better than being named for a city,” I suggested, winking at Brooklynn as we passed her.
I wished it was Xander who was escorting me, rather than Zafir, as a hundred etiquette lessons flew right out of my head. I could no more remember my own name than I could recall the proper greeting for the queen of Caldera.
Yet here she was, sitting upon a throne fashioned from black marble. The two ivory barbs that rose from its back looked very much like they were meant to bear the heads of those who blundered in the presence of their queen. A warning to those who didn’t know whether to genuflect in submission or to spit at her feet.
As a queen myself, Xander had instructed me not to bow to another queen. But we’d only covered face-to-face greetings. This was different. Queen Neva was on her throne.
My mind reeled as I approached her on unsteady legs, my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest, and I desperately hoped she couldn’t hear its reckless rhythm. I felt like a fraud—like an imposter posing as a queen—and I was sure she’d recognize me as such the moment our eyes met.
I stopped when I reached the base of the platform she sat upon, knowing I had to do something. . . . anything. And spitting wasn’t it, I was certain.
I was almost certain.
I started to bend at the waist, and then belatedly I changed my mind and awkwardly dropped lower, bending at my knees instead. It turned into a strange half curtsy, half crouch, making me look—and feel—foolish. I tried to sweep my arm in a flourish, a grand gesture I hoped, and then I stood, wobbling gracelessly.
When I glanced up to meet her gaze, sure my head would soon be speared atop one of the spikes of her throne, she giggled. “I’d heard you were lovely. . . .” Her voice was deep and lyrical and more regal than I could ever hope to be. “But I hadn’t realized you were quite so . . . inexperienced.”
I gaped at her—again, not my queenliest move. Second only to the bizarre greeting I’d just offered her. “I—I’m so sorry,” I stammered, wishing Zafir would say something, offer some sort of defense for my behavior. Maybe explain that I was tired from travel, or that I’d just been abducted and my life was in peril.