Across a Star-Swept Sea

Twenty

BY THE TIME VANIA got back to Halahou, she’d reviewed every bit of information she could find on the prison break-in. She’d also gotten sick over the side of the boat. In a single burst, the Wild Poppy had managed to destroy not only her long campaign against the Fords but also the week she’d spent rearranging the troops according to General Gawnt’s orders, which she knew he’d somehow manage to blame on her. And the spy had done it all while Vania had been off in Albion, failing to talk sense into a clearly lunatic Justen Helo.

How was she ever going to explain this to her father?

She was surprised to find Remy waiting for her on the docks, her short black hair mussed in the breeze.

“What are you doing here?” Vania snapped at her foster sister, disembarking before the sailors finished setting the nanoropes. “It’s not safe in this neighborhood so late.”

Remy pouted. “Moral support, of course. Do you have any idea what they’re saying about this fiasco at the palace?”

Vania wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but then again, forewarned was forearmed. “Thanks, squirt.” She ruffled the girl’s hair a little as they headed for a waiting skimmer. “I imagine it’s not particularly good.”

At first, no one seemed to know how the Poppy had pulled it off. After they discovered the Fords’ prison cells were empty, troops had been sent after all deliveries and repairmen who’d entered the palace that day. One guard recalled a suspicious salter whose skimmer had broken down right at the gate, but though he’d been located, detained, and thoroughly searched along with his skimmer, there was no sign that anything was amiss. With a lack of any evidence and the clearly innocent and distraught salt miner beginning to draw a crowd on the public road, the guards let him go. All the other visitors to the prison that day had been similarly cleared.

It was all so mysterious.

It wasn’t until the guards reconvened at the prison to review the records of all comings and goings that they’d noticed the exodus of a crew of military personnel without any movement orders to match.

Vania groaned. “So no one recognized the guards as prisoners? No one thought, ‘Well, I haven’t seen these people before’?”

Remy shrugged. “Apparently, with all the staffing changes, as well as the influx of soldiers who’d previously been assigned to the Ford estate barricades . . . I was down there today looking for Uncle Damos and I barely recognized anyone.”

“I told Gawnt increased staffing wouldn’t help,” Vania muttered, mostly to herself. “If anything, it’s backfired.” She looked at Remy. “You have no idea how frustrating it is not to be taken seriously.”

“I can’t imagine,” Remy replied, and for a second, Vania was almost positive she heard an edge in the girl’s voice. “Did you find anything worthwhile in Albion?”

Vania remained silent. How much should she say about Justen’s behavior? She didn’t want to upset the girl, but it would be better for Remy to hear it from Vania than get shocked if things went bad for Justen later on. Vania couldn’t quite picture her father being kind if Justen’s treasonous ravings made it across the sea.

Stupid Justen. If he really felt so guilty about all of this, then he shouldn’t have gone to Albion. He should have simply joined those weird Peccants and spent the rest of his life whipping himself and combing the beach on Remembrance Island. At least then everyone would have just written him off as crazy.

“Not much on the Wild Poppy, no,” she said at last.

“Did you see Justen?” Remy pressed. “I heard he’s gone to Albion.”

“Yes.” They passed through the gates to the palace, the sound of the lifter fans echoing off the massive walls of the courtyard.

“Did he tell you why he left?”

Vania rubbed her temples with her fingers. She didn’t have time for a big dramatic scene with Remy. She needed to arrange her thoughts around this break-in. Like it or not, the Wild Poppy took precedence over whether or not her foster brother had decided to betray everything he’d ever believed in for some stupid rich girl.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “The gossip all says he’s in love with some idiot aristo.” There. That excuse would hold Remy for a little bit, until she had time to explain all the complex political philosophies involved. Hearts and flowers a girl her age could understand. “Her name is Persis Blake.”

“An aristo?” Remy sounded skeptical. “That doesn’t sound like him, and an idiot even less so.” She laughed awkwardly. “You know Justen—he’d sooner Reduce an aristo than kiss one, right?”

Vania looked at the younger girl. There was something odd in her tone—grasping and almost desperate, as if she was trying to convince herself of something she didn’t really believe. Had Justen already infected her with some of his traitorous ideas? Vania made a note in her oblet to screen all Remy’s messages from Justen. For now, let the girl think Justen was being guided by lust.

“This aristo’s especially rich and especially pretty,” Vania said. She accessed an image of the lady in question and turned the oblet’s display toward Remy. “Here. Take a look at her and tell me your brother’s thinking with his head.”

The display sparked to life, revealing Persis Blake in all her splendor. She was at some event or another, in a gown that sparkled like a sunlit sea, her wild yellow and white hair floating above her in a cloudy puff. She was holding a crystal glass of kiwine in her hand, and she had her head thrown back, laughing.

Not a care in the world. Spoiled brat. Vania started feeling sick again. She rolled her eyes and turned to Remy. “See what I mean?”

“That’s Persis Blake?” Remy asked quietly. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open.

Oh no, not Remy, too! They were supposed to be above all this awe-of-aristos nonsense. “That’s her. And believe me, she’s every bit as stupid as she looks. Don’t be too impressed, Remy. Trust me, your brother has made a huge mistake.”

Remy looked from the display to Vania and back again. “That, I believe,” she said at last.

THE DAYDREAM WAS AT full sail, the party was at full tilt, and they were halfway to Remembrance Island, but Persis was certain this trip would go down as the worst event a Blake had ever hosted. Half the attendees weren’t speaking to one another, and the other half couldn’t figure out why.

“Darling,” Isla cooed in Persis’s ear. Persis turned to see the princess wearing a diaphanous white wrap and her most disapproving frown. “You’re neglecting the party, and, worse, you’re neglecting Justen.”

“I’m sorry,” Persis replied. The poison-green petals of her skirt swirled around her knees in the sea breeze, and her split sleeves flapped like angry snakes at her shoulders. “Would you prefer I livened things up by dumping him overboard?”

Isla sighed. In deference to the bright sun, she’d donned an enormous white floppy hat with a hole in the middle that allowed her to pull her hair through and arrange it in layers around the brim. When Persis had picked up the royal entourage at court, she’d said Isla looked like a child’s shell art. Isla had said Persis looked like a clump of seaweed.

The party, in Persis’s opinion, had gone downhill from there.

Justen sat like a lump in the extreme aft, giving monosyllabic answers to every attempt at conversation. He was deeply unhappy that he’d been dragged out on the boat instead of being allowed to return to the lab, though he’d only registered his complaint once to Persis. Noemi, however, had reported to Persis that he’d sent her several messages overnight about the “new address of the refugees.”

Forget dropping him off the side of the Daydream. She’d wait until they got back to Scintillans and push him off the pali itself.

“You’re supposed to throw the best parties on the island, Persis,” Isla reminded her, “so act like you’re having fun or people are going to start to suspect you have something else on your mind.”

Which she did. And it wasn’t like Isla wanted to be here, either. “Fine,” she said. “Shall I arrange a game of spin the shell with, say, you, me, Justen, and Tero?”

Isla gave her a queenly look. “Tero and I have made up.”

“Kissed and made up?”

“Don’t start with me right now.”

“Then don’t complain about me and Justen,” she replied in as low a voice as she dared out here in the wind. “Those pictures of us kissing in the star cove probably did more for your campaign of equality than any five royal balls.”

Isla turned on her heel and went to talk to the other aristos aboard. The princess had invited Lady Blocking and her stick-in-the-sandflats Council-member husband in what was supposed to look like a show of support for the Council. They’d at first acted thrilled to finally score a ride on the Daydream, then dialed down their enthusiasm as the festive atmosphere failed to materialize. Then there was Dwyer Shift, who seemed much happier about attending than Isla was about putting him on the guest list. Dwyer was every bit as exasperating as his powerful uncle, and his unctuous behavior was not a particularly welcome change. His tangerine hair had been arranged in an artful swoop, and he’d chosen to dress from head to toe in a material that made him look for all the world like a molting brass crab. He’d spent the party either offering Isla an endless parade of sweets or telling Justen that it must be exceedingly wonderful to be descended from Persistence Helo.

Persis was quite sure neither recipient enjoyed his attentions and, quite frankly, she thought they both deserved it—Isla for forcing her to host this event, and Justen because being bothered by Dwyer Shift was the least of the punishments she fantasized for him.

Andrine and Tero rounded out the party, but neither was in the mood to help. Andrine had been giving Persis the silent treatment ever since waking up in her own bed, totally feminine and completely clueless as to how she’d wound up there, rather than in the middle of a spy mission on Galatea. Persis was surprised she’d even accepted the invitation, given how angry she was.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tero had informed Persis as they’d boarded. “She’s got plenty to say to you later. But my sister, unlike a few people I can mention, knows the proper time to impart her feelings on issues. Which is not, I’d like to add, in the middle of a mission.”

“The beginning of one is better?” Persis had said. “Like that temper tantrum you threw with the princess the other day?”

“I didn’t slip her drugs.” Tero crossed his arms, probably because he knew how large and intimidating it made him look. “You know there’s a big difference.”

“There are complications that are making it particularly dangerous for regs to be in the League of the Wild Poppy.”

“Oh, so I can drop out, then?”

“You’re not that lucky, Tero.”

Her friend sighed and handed her a pill. “No, not as lucky as you. Because while you were off drugging my sister and causing a ruckus in Galatea, I’ve made you a new palmport application. Allows for hand-to-hand exchange—no flutters necessary. I’ve got one for Slippy, too. It’ll record input to his optic nerves. You’ll be the only one in Albion with a surveillance sea mink.”

“Fantastic,” Persis said, and downed the app. “Perhaps it’ll start a new fashion.”

Tero watched her swallow, and then with a slow, dangerous smile said, “You’re awfully trusting, Perse. What if I’d decided to take revenge for what you did to Andrine yesterday? That could be a knockout drug.”

Persis started coughing, and he laughed.

“Joking. But if you mess with mixtures intended for my sister again, it’s the last genetemps you’ll ever get from me, Lady Blake.”

Lady Blake? “Well, at least you’re respecting rank today.”

Tero narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t start with me, Persis, or I’ll make you eat sand like I did when you were four.”

“Funny,” said Persis. “That’s exactly what Isla said.”

How in the world was she supposed to throw a party when she hated half the guests and the other half hated her? Persis fed Slipstream the surveillance app pill Tero had given her for the sea mink, then camped out near the wheel, running diagnostics on the program—which was, admittedly, amazing, though it was too bad neither Tero nor Andrine was willing to try it out with her—and hoping it would all be over soon, and she could go back to playing the part of the daring spy, rather than the foolish socialite.

Now, at Isla’s urging, she lifted her voice above the wind and called out, “My friends, it’ll be another half an hour before we reach our picnic on Remembrance Island. What shall we do to entertain ourselves until then? A poetry reading, perhaps? A game of questions?”

“Oh, please no poetry,” said Lady Blocking as everyone on the yacht gathered in the center of the lower deck. “Don’t we get enough of that at court?” Her husband elbowed her in the side and she went quiet.

“I love poetry,” said Dwyer. “I’ve attended every reading that the princess has held since taking the throne.”

“Tell me,” Isla drawled, “were you such a fan of the art before I became regent?”

The Blockings looked scandalized, but Tero snickered behind his cup of punch, earning a radiant smile from the princess. Persis shook her head. Isla could afford to be openly cynical about Councilman Shift’s obvious attempts to throw his nephew in her path, but not if she was going to openly flirt with a reg gengineer. Whatever was going on between her two friends, it wouldn’t end well.

“Citizen Helo!” Isla called. “Have you heard Persis’s poetry? She had quite a reputation for it at school, though I think she’s fallen out of practice since.”

Justen, still moping, lifted his head. “I have not had the pleasure, no.”

Isla clapped her hands. “Well, you shall today. Persis? Grace us with a ditty.”

Persis stared evenly at her friend. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for extemporaneous composition.”

“Of course you are,” the princess insisted. “I’ll take topics now.” She pointed at Tero.

“Love,” he said, and Isla rolled her eyes.

Persis sighed. As soon as this party was over, she and Isla were going to have to have a serious talk. There was a reason Persis had quit composing poetry after she’d left school. Cultivating a reputation as a wit was not conducive to her goals. But as long as she was being forced to perform like the princess’s pet parrosprey, she could get in a few digs of her own. Lady Blake, indeed! After a moment, she responded:

The fool says “Love,” but I confess,

I’d rather have a nice new dress.

He may be strong of build and fair of face

But I prefer a frock’s embrace.

The group chuckled appropriately, and Isla pointed next at Lady Blocking.

“Oh!” the woman said, stirring her beverage with a stick of sugarcane. “Um . . . oh, I know. The Wild Poppy!”

“Of course.” Persis nodded, and flashed a glance at Isla, who shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Very well. But they were playing with fire:

Across the sea and up the stair,

The Wild Poppy’s everywhere.

Though southmen search until they’re blind,

They know not what they seek to find.

“Wry, Persis,” Isla drawled with a warning glare. Well, she had started it. Persis cast a glance at Justen, but he barely seemed to be paying attention. How disappointed his dear Vania would be in him. Here she was, dropping clues like jewels, and he hardly noticed.

“I don’t get it,” said Lady Blocking, her head cocked, her mouth slack. Perhaps Persis should spend more time studying the woman’s behavior to make sure her own act achieved proper authenticity. She was never quite successful at playing dumb.

“Unfortunately, they can’t all be works of art,” Persis said, lifting her shoulders in pretty defeat. “And I did warn you I was out of practice.”

“Better luck next time.” Isla pointed at Justen. “Your turn, Justen. Challenge our girl.”

His expression was as flat as his voice as he replied, “Reduction.”

The guests began to fidget with their cups and plates.

“I—ah—don’t know if that’s quite the topic we’re looking for, Citizen. A little serious, perhaps, for our purpose.” Isla gave an apologetic smile. “Perhaps a different topic springs to mind?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t think of anything else right now.”

Good, thought Persis. When it came to Justen Helo, neither could she. Persis lifted her hand. “Oh no, I’ve got this one.” She stared straight at Justen and began to recite.

Though long forgotten by the kind,

Lucky enough to keep their minds,

The threat sadly, remains most keen,

To those who are called Galatean.

Justen rose, not breaking eye contact, and recited back,

The world’s content to sit and wait,

While those in need suffer sad fates.

And while we laugh and ride the waves

Our negligence will dig their graves.

Persis blinked. Well, that was unexpected. Who knew Galatean medic students had time to fit in lyric lessons amid RNA transcription classes?

Whatever had remained of the party atmosphere, however, had vanished. Andrine chuckled nervously. “We seem to have gone far off course.”

Persis narrowed her eyes at Justen. “My dear Justen is, perhaps, not entirely used to the way we do things in Albion.”

“But he’s so well-suited for it,” said Dwyer. “A Helo and a poet. Almost as good as a real aristo!”

At least three of the people on the deck rolled their eyes.

Persis smiled broadly at the guests. “Please excuse me. I’m going to pass my turn along to Andrine, who I recall spent many a night at school keeping us in stitches with her limericks.”

She crossed the deck, took Justen by the arm, and led him to the upper deck, out of earshot of the rest of the party.

“Your agreement with Isla demands not only that you accompany me to social events but that you look happy about it,” she reminded him softly but firmly.

“You first.”

She drew back. Who would have thought he was paying so much attention?

Justen looked out over the water in the direction of Galatea. “Those refugees are suffering and every moment I spend here playing your devoted admirer, I’m not able to help them.”

And every moment she was forced to spend playing hostess was one she couldn’t use to get to the bottom of Justen’s lies.

He turned back to her. “Does Isla really think she’s impressing the regs of Albion by setting off on a yachting trip with a bunch of aristos and a few token court regs? Is that what she thinks is going to keep the populace happy? Wouldn’t they be much happier to know that we’ve found a way to protect the regs in Galatea?”

“Shh!” she hissed. “Lower your voice.” The last thing she needed was for the Finches to find out the real reason she’d drugged Andrine. She leaned up against the rail and drew Justen against her. “People are watching.”

“So?” He leaned his body toward hers. “We’re supposed to be arguing.”

She draped her arms about his shoulders and arched her back. Behind her, the sea spray frosted her skin, but heat radiated from Justen’s body. The last time she’d held him this close had been in the star cove. It seemed like a world away. Then, she’d let down her guard, acted almost like herself, imagined that Justen was the sort of person she could tell things to. It had been her most serious lapse in judgment in a week that seemed full of them.

“Well, now we’re making up. Isla hasn’t authorized any fights.” More’s the pity. How she’d like to have it out with him here and now. How she’d like to pitch him over the side of the Daydream and sail away, no matter what secrets he might discover in his grandmother’s files to help her mother. If Justen could find a cure in them, someone else could, too.

“I don’t care what she’s authorized,” he whispered. “All I care about is my countrymen. I can’t stand by and watch them suffer.”

“You were happy enough to do so before.” The words slipped out, unfiltered. He began to jerk away from her but she held him tight. “When you were in Galatea, there were citizens being Reduced all around you. Why was that all right?”

“It wasn’t,” he replied. “And there was very little I could do in Galatea with my uncle breathing down my neck. Here I can help the refugees in that sanitarium.”

Persis was sure that was a great comfort to those regs already damaged by Justen’s pinks. She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek, when what she’d rather do was smack it.

“Oh, lovebirds,” called Lady Blocking, “are you going to rejoin the party or find someplace more private?”

He looked into her eyes, pain furrowing his brow. “You sound angry with me, Persis. If I’ve done something to hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Vania came to your house. I didn’t invite her, believe me. I respect your family’s privacy.”

“And what about the princess’s good opinion?” Persis said. “Entertaining her enemies—”

“Don’t worry about Vania. All she cares about is the Wild Poppy.”

That was plenty to start with.

“I thought,” he said, “that we were becoming friends. In the star cove—”

“I made it clear what we’re doing here,” she finished. “At least, I thought I had. If there was any confusion . . .” She shrugged. “This is a role, Justen. Play it.”

He glared at her, his jaw set, his dark eyes burning. And then he kissed her.

She couldn’t pull away, not with half the party watching and the other half judging. And after a second, she didn’t want to. There was something desperate and wild about the kiss, about Justen himself. In the star cove, he’d touched her gently, tentatively. Now he cupped her face in one hand, tangling his fingers in the windswept strands of her hair, while he slipped the other around the small of her back, pulling her up from the rails and holding her against his body.

This was not the Galatean medic she knew, cautious and serious and sarcastic. The petals of her skirt whipped in the wind, molding about his hips as tightly as her arms wrapped around his back. He moved his mouth over hers, hot and hard and hungry for understanding or absolution or something else entirely unexpected.

And then, just as suddenly, he lifted his head, and there was no pleasure in his face. “There,” he said. “Satisfied?”

Not even a little. Persis caught her breath before speaking, afraid of how she might sound otherwise. “It’s . . . a definite improvement.”

Down on the main deck, Princess Isla pointed at the sky and screamed.