Across a Star-Swept Sea (37 page)

If only he knew! “You think your sister is like Vania?”

“No, I think she’s a child.” He shrugged. “Citizen Aldred is the only father she’s ever known. Of course she supports him. Maybe if I’d been there for her more, instead of being in the lab all the time …”

“She’s fourteen,” Persis said. “I don’t think she’s as much of a child as you imagine.” But was she as grown-up as Persis had hoped? She knew Remy’s family members underestimated her. Persis, of anyone, understood how easily something like that could happen. But Justen did know the girl better than she did. If pressure were put to bear on Remy Helo … if Vania got desperate … would she crack?

“You haven’t met Remy,” Justen said, smiling ruefully. “She was so young when our parents died—it makes her a little intense sometimes about family, about protecting the people she loves …” He trailed off. “And maybe I have some of that, too. I can’t let anything happen to her. She’s the only family I have left.”

Curious. Remy had said precisely the same thing. And here stood Persis in the center of it. She couldn’t say if Citizen Aldred would hurt Remy because of Justen’s actions, but if Remy’s work for the League were discovered, she’d surely be Reduced—or worse. And Persis couldn’t vouch for Justen’s safety in Albion, either. No matter what Isla had said yesterday, Persis would find a way to make Justen answer for his work on the Reduction drug. The biggest danger to both Helos was Persis herself.

What a strange family this was, who claimed to wish to protect each other but left each other in the company of people they suspected might hurt them. Then again, she’d allowed Justen to treat her mother, allowed it because she wanted to believe he wished to help the Darkened, rather than harm an aristo. Allowed it because, just as Isla had said, her hope that he might cure her mother—might cure
her
—trumped any hatred she had for what he’d done to the refugees. No matter what crimes he’d committed, if he held the secret to stopping DAR, he
had
to be allowed to work.

“I don’t want Remy in Galatea any longer,” Justen was saying now. “If my messages to her are being intercepted, I think it’s time the Wild Poppy gets involved.”

Persis’s laugh was high, trilling, and not entirely faked. The Wild Poppy was very much involved. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved that you’ve started making those decisions for him.”

Justen blinked. “I didn’t mean—”

“To sound like some bossy aristo?” Persis finished. “What if the Poppy’s busy with something big? Or maybe he’s decided to scrap the whole thing and take up cliff diving for fun and profit. Can’t be any more dangerous, right?”

“Well, Isla said he liked challenges. And the royal palace in Halahou … that’s a tricky prospect.”

“I think you should leave actually planning events to the Poppy, Justen,” she said, a trifle annoyed. She could get into the palace. If she wanted to. And she’d had quite enough of discussing the Wild Poppy with Justen. He could ask for Remy’s extraction until the islands cooled, but
she
would be the one to decide when her informant needed to get out of Galatea.

Justen shook his head. “If Noemi ever responds to me, I’ll ask her to put us in touch. Or maybe the princess will do it.”

Persis remained silent, fearing any response would connect the dots in Justen’s head. The only person those two had in common was her.

“I wonder,” Justen said, “do you think Tero is the Wild Poppy? I know all along we’ve been saying that the Poppy must be an aristo, but maybe he’s not.”

All right, her and her other friends from Scintillans village. But even that guess as too close for comfort.

“Tero?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “He has far too many gengineering duties at court. Besides, I’ve known him for ages. He’s not the sneaky type. He can’t even keep his feelings for the princess a secret.”

“Yes, but remember how he knocked that lord out on Remembrance Island the other day?”

Right. She had let Justen think Tero was responsible for that.

“And if Isla was helping him, he’d have the money and the excuses to make all the trips to Galatea that he needed. And the disguises! He’s a gengineer, so he’d have access to the lab to code whatever genetemp he wanted. It makes a lot more sense than some bored Albian aristo who knows nothing of spy craft.”

“It makes more sense that some freshly cooled gengineer knows something of spy craft?” Persis acted as she was holding back her laughter. “That’s preposterous, Justen. Trust me, I’ve known that boy all my life.” Which was why she trusted Tero in the League, and why she didn’t want Justen sniffing around him. Why, after all this time, did he suddenly want the spy to fetch his sister? And why was he so curious who it was? “Besides, who cares who the Poppy is? Isn’t the important thing that he is effective?”

Was Vania still trying to find the Wild Poppy? Had she enlisted Justen’s help?

“Everyone cares, Persis,” Justen said. “It’s the only thing anyone talks about, on both sides of the sea.”

That
she knew. “Oh, Justen, I thought you weren’t interested in gossip.”

He paid her no mind. “It must be Tero. Look at the way he keeps his hair. No one here cuts their hair so short. It’s for his disguises, maybe.”

Now Persis really wanted to laugh. Yes, she supposed short hair would have been a boon to her in her disguises. Perhaps she should let that rumor about her new taste in hairstyles stand and go for it. “I look forward to seeing Tero’s response when you ask him at the luau tomorrow.” At Justen’s confused expression, she explained Isla’s plan as well as the fact that Vania had invited herself.

His face fell, which ignited an uncomfortable twinge in Persis’s chest, one she firmly ignored. She didn’t care if he was despondent. Or care about anything he did as long as it didn’t hurt the refugees any more.

“Another party,” he said. “Another day away from the lab. I don’t know how any of you can celebrate with all this suffering. You most of all, Persis. How can you worry about clothes and hair and not think about the fact that this is going to be the first luau your mother’s too sick to attend?”

She stiffened.

Justen paled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“You did,” she replied bluntly. “You look at me and you hate the fact that I can put my mother’s sickness from my mind while I tell Isla what shoes will best match her dress.”

“She wears white, Persis. It can’t be that hard.”

“It’s not?
You
do it.” She was safely back in her role now, but her mind erupted with ideas. He truly couldn’t stomach having fun while people suffered. And yet he was asking questions about the Poppy like he’d been sent on a mission from her enemies. Which was it? Who was he? How could she find out the truth?

A flutter zipped into the room; halted above Persis head; and switched to its lazy, lilting trajectory toward her palm. Orchid. Isla.

We must discuss the visitors’ clothing requirements. Call me immediately.

She took a deep breath and fluttered back:

Yes, Your Highness.

J
USTEN HAD NO MEMORY
of dropping off to sleep at his desk, nanorectors still hard at work, oblets burning bright, but when he woke, it was to find a kimono-wrapped Persis standing above him and shaking him by the shoulders.

“There’s only four hours until we have to leave for court. Do you even know what you’re wearing?”

“Pick something,” he groaned, blinking. “I’m sure Isla would prefer our outfits matched anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you, too? Must I single-handedly dress every person on this island?”

“I thought’s that what you liked doing.” There was something on the edge of his mind he couldn’t quite grasp. Something about last night. After Persis had left, he’d fumed a bit, and then, unable to sleep and unable to do anything for his sister, he’d gone back to work. He scrubbed his hands across his face and toggled up his notes. “Fashion. Fun. Nothing that could remotely be construed as serious.”

Persis fixed him with a glare. “You wouldn’t like me serious, Justen. I promise you that.”

The nanorectors on his desk were blinking blue and green, indicating they’d completed the task Justen had set. As Justen looked at the model they’d built from his program, rotating silently on the desktop, everything clicked into place.

Staring in fascination at the model, he waved her away. “I don’t care what I wear, Persis. Put me in whatever you want. I have more important things on my mind.”

Far more important. He may have found a way to stop it all.

Twenty-seven

E
LLIOT
N
ORTH HAD ONCE
thought the brightly colored velvets and silks the Posts wore back at home were garish and over-the-top. Now, thanks to the hours-long ministrations of Persis Blake, she realized how tiny her worldview had actually been.
Now
she knew garish. Even the brightest fabrics in Channel City had nothing on Albian fashions.

“I can’t wear that,” Elliot said when Persis showed her the gown she’d chosen for the party.

“I know, it looks terribly complicated,” Persis had replied, “but the zip goes right here, and you step into it like so, and then we wind this piece around after you’re inside.”

That hadn’t been exactly what Elliot meant, but somehow she’d found herself fastened into the outfit anyway. She gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her curves had been pushed and squeezed and lifted and restrained—harnessed, really—revealing the figure usually hidden underneath her work trousers and coveralls. Her hair had been pomaded and glittered and curled until it fell in sparkly ringlets halfway down her back.

“But for that truly exotic touch,” Persis said, “I think we need makeup. Sit.” Elliot, helpless to resist now, sat and let Persis go to work on her face with a palette the size of a dinner plate. The Albian aristo was an odd one, to be sure. When Elliot had first met her, she’d placed Persis in the same boat as her sister, Tatiana: pretty, rich, spoiled, and lazy. And though the first three were certainly true, she was beginning to have her doubts about the fourth.

“Persis?” she asked, as her gorgeous host painted her lips a rich plum. “May I ask you something?”

“As long as you don’t move your mouth too much.”

Elliot took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the other girl’s. “Why do you pretend to be stupid?”

The brush stilled on Elliot’s lips. Persis turned away to the table, to find a blotter. “You think I’m stupid?”

“No. I don’t.” She’d seen Persis, her flashes of seriousness, her eagerness to help Elliot and Kai when they worried their friends had gone missing. She’d seen her go head-to-head with the black-clad revolutionary when Andromeda and Ro returned. Persis had acted like she hadn’t a care in the world, but every word was carefully crafted for maximum impact. “But I see you pretend to be, and I don’t know why. If you’re the heir to this estate, wouldn’t it be best to try to gain the respect of the people here?”

Persis shrugged. “Not really. I won’t have any power once I’m married, so it’s better not to spend my life regretting what was once mine.”

What an odd way of doing things they had on this island. Who cared if the heir was a boy or a girl? Still, Elliot knew something about managing without official power. “I ran my estate for years without any power at all. My father was supposed to be the one in charge, though you wouldn’t know it from the inside.”

“How nice for you, Chancellor. And yet, you gave it all up for a man, too, didn’t you?” There was a sharp edge to Persis’s pleasantness this time, and Elliot was taken aback. But she was no longer the frightened child living under her father’s thumb. She was a Luddite Lord and a Cloud Fleet explorer, and she knew that the paint and the clothes and the hair were more than fashion for Persis Blake. They were armor.

“See what I mean?” Elliot said. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be cross.”

“I’m
cross
,” Persis drawled, as if it was a word from a foreign language, “because you’re calling my life choices into question. In my house. While I dress you in clothes I bought for you. Now, hold still while I do your eyes.”

Elliot sighed and closed her eyes while Persis began to paint them with gold. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not being a very good guest. It’s just—where I’m from, a mind is a precious commodity. Our most precious commodity. One would never have one but pretend otherwise.”

“You are saying I’m acting Reduced?”

“I’m saying when human intelligence is all that’s keeping the world alive, we should use every bit we’ve got.” Elliot blinked her eyes open. Persis was staring at her very seriously.

“Where
I’m
from,” the beautiful aristo said, “a mind is precious but temporary. In Galatea, they destroy them as a means of punishment. And everywhere, there are those who will lose theirs in time, and there is no way to prevent it. I may be one of those, Elliot. I just may.”

J
USTEN ENDED UP BEING
almost physically dragged from his desk by two Scintillans servants who cared a tad too much about how the estate presented itself at a party they weren’t even attending. He was bathed in perfumed water, shaved, styled, and arrayed in a pair of silk slacks and a dark blue long silk jacket with a mandarin collar. After it was all over, Justen stood before the mirror in his bedroom and admitted that Persis may actually have the marked talent for clothes she always claimed. The material was not quite as dark as his usual revolutionary black, but the richness of the blue didn’t look alien on him, either. The lines of the suit were simple and snug, and the design lacked all the nonsensical embellishments favored by the men of the Albian court. The material was subtly shot through with a shimmery golden thread, and the jacket buttoned up the front with a row of round star sapphires.

He probably could have done without the star sapphires.

That being said, the party was the perfect opportunity. He’d see Isla again and be able to communicate to her the importance of being put in touch with the Wild Poppy as soon as possible. With the kind of information Justen had to give him about the prisoners, the spy would have to agree to put Justen’s sister at the top of his priority list. For the first time since Uncle Damos had started using his drug, Justen felt a ray of hope.