I tugged it open.
I could have been blown over by the barest of breezes.
Claude—Max’s giant of a friend—stared back at me.
Or rather, down on me. And scared the hell out of me as I stumbled backward, nearly falling over my own feet. My heart practically exploded inside my chest.
I caught myself and tried to pretend that it was nothing as I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Everyone in the kitchen was watching me, including my mother, who wiped her hands on her apron, her mouth agape.
I glanced back at Claude, forcing myself to look somewhere in the vicinity of his vivid green eyes—to at least pretend I was brave enough to meet his gaze—when I finally spoke. “Can I help you?” My voice shook so much that it was nearly unrecognizable.
“I was told this was yours.” Through the opening of the doorway he thrust my book bag at me. It dangled there, looking flimsy and insubstantial hanging from his enormous hand. “Max asked me to deliver it to you.” His voice boomed, filling the kitchen as if it were too large for the small space. There were no other sounds, and without even looking around, I knew that everyone was still staring.
I reached out to take it and wished that my hand wasn’t trembling. “Thank you.”
He didn’t respond to my words; he just turned on his heel and strode away. I half expected the ground to rumble beneath his footsteps as he retreated, but of course, it didn’t.
He was just B;"0e heel a man. A very large man.
I watched him go, not yet ready to face the curious stares of my coworkers. Or my mother.
I was still trying to sift through my jumbled feelings: the disappointment over seeing Claude standing there instead of Max, and the confusion and frustration with myself for feeling that way.
I tried to tell myself that it was better that Max hadn’t come. Obviously he must have known that too or he wouldn’t have sent Claude in his place.
But telling myself as much didn’t make me feel any better.
That night in my room, I opened my bag. Angelina was supposed to be sleeping, but like so many nights she was still awake, hoping I would read to her.
“Only if you promise to be quiet. I don’t want to get in trouble for keeping you awake,” I whispered, knowing my mother would separate us if she knew how often I read to my sister at night. “And no complaints if you get nightmares,” I warned as I pulled out my history book.
Angelina nodded, her clear blue eyes filled with assurance.
I smiled at the expectant look on her face. “Lie down, then. At least try to go to sleep,” I said, and then I explained to her what I was studying, like one of the teachers from my school. “The Revolution of Sovereigns was the brief period of time in Ludania’s history when the monarchy was overturned by the people, when we were self-governed—ruled by leaders of our own choosing.” I read directly from the text now, which was written in Parshon: “It was a concept sparked of idealism, and favored heavily by the masses who had risen up against Queen Avonlea and the rest of the Di Heyse family. It was a time of great violence, when the royal family was forced into hiding only to be hunted down and captured, slaughtered in public arenas so that the bloodlust of the people could be satisfied.”
I peeked at Angelina. I would feel bad telling a four-year-old such tales if she hadn’t already known them. We’d grown up hearing these stories, indoctrinated from an early age. Revolutionaries were not new in our history; it was important we understand that our survival depended on having a queen.
I shifted closer to Angelina, shuddering as I tried to imagine what it must have been like for those of noble birth during those times, to know that they must escape or be executed by their own countrymen, their own subjects. To be cast aside as rulers, only to be set on fire, or hanged, or beheaded.
I continued to read, knowing she was waiting. “Their fortunes were plundered, their homes and lands divided among the new leaders, and all reminders of the former monarchs—statues, flags, paintings, monies—were destroyed, leaving no evidence of their existence.” There was an image on the page, an artist’s depiction of the former reigning family, since no photographs remained. Angelina reached out and touched the drawing, her finger outlining the image of a girl about her age—a girl who’d presumably been executed simply because of her bloodline.
My skin tightened; it had been a dark time in our country’s history.
“But despite the idealism of the time, there was no real relief for the people under the new government. Old taxes were abolished only to have new Bkno he ones created. A queen with too much power was replaced by a president who held even more influence.” Angelina glanced up at me, her expression confused. I stopped reading and tried to explain what it meant, this time in Englaise. “Because anyone could be a leader, regardless of their birthright, corruption was widespread. Elections were tainted, and taxes were raised to subsidize those who were in command. There were even more bloody overthrows.
“Queens from the other realms—those with real power—refused to cooperate with the new regime because the leaders were not of royal descent.” I looked at her as I explained. “Since we didn’t have a queen, our country was isolated from the rest of the world. We were denied essential trade, and the people soon learned that our country was not as self-sufficient as we believed, that we needed what those other countries had once provided. It had been foolish to believe that a mere mortal could be a ruler.