Across a Star-Swept Sea

Thirty-four

JUSTEN RACED FORWARD, SCREAMING Persis’s name. Distantly, he noticed the evidence of the struggle on the lawn—Vania’s lost bracelet, a lock of Persis’s yellow and white hair, a smear of blood on a blade of grass. . . . How high was this bluff? How rocky the beach? How far had they fallen?

Time seemed to pass slowly; he seemed to be running through molasses. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t tell. Were they all right down there? What was happening?

As they neared, a hand came up over the edge. It was followed by an elbow and then, at last, a face. Smeared with black sand and blood, exhausted and sweaty and beautiful.

Justen had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Persis!” He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to safety. She collapsed into his arms, and he thought he’d never felt anything so wonderful either. She was here. She was Persis. How was it possible?

“Guess what?” she gasped, pointing vaguely into the harbor below. “Someone brought me my yacht.”

  

VANIA ALDRED WAS GOING to be fine. That was the diagnosis that floated up from the cabin of the Daydream as it sped back to Albion through the cool morning light.

Persis wasn’t sure what to think. Of course, it would be far better politically to hold captive and hostage and healthy the daughter of Galatea’s military dictator than otherwise, but Persis wouldn’t mind terribly if Vania had sustained a few serious injuries in her tumble from the cliff. After all, the girl had tried to Reduce her. A minor head injury and a few scrapes from the rocks didn’t seem like significant retribution.

She sat on the prow of the Daydream, Slipstream cuddled in her lap and a palmport supplement forgotten in her hand, and stared out at the sea as the dawn turned the surface to molten gold.

Andrine was below, helping Justen with his three charges. Persis’s friend had found the visitors inside a cell in the outpost’s building after neutralizing the guard. Andromeda had some bruises on her face but looked all right, and Tomorrow was frightened but otherwise unharmed. Persis was certain the guilt the foreign captain probably felt over her choice to go with Vania far surpassed any superficial injuries she might have received as soon as she realized what her host’s true intent was. She’d put up a fight, though, if the bruises were anything to go by. They still didn’t know if the Galateans had gotten their genetic sample from Tomorrow, though Persis imagined they must have. There was almost certainly something of the Reduced girl’s left behind in that cell. Perhaps Justen would know what they intended to do with it and how they might be stopped.

But that wasn’t her problem any longer.

Tero was at the helm, showing Remy how to work the controls. From time to time they waved at Persis and she waved back, forcing a smile. Remy was so proud of herself. She’d been quite eager to explain everything to Persis—so eager that Tero had a tough time holding the girl still long enough to bandage the small wounds she’d received in the fight with the guard. Persis, however, had been a captive audience while Tero administered medicines and wraps to all her various cuts and scrapes. She’d sat and listened as Remy told her exactly how she’d switched the guard’s Reduction pills for whatever it was that Justen had been carrying when she’d found him passed out in the lab.

Which meant Remy hadn’t known what she’d given Persis, other than that it wasn’t a Reduction pill. Persis hadn’t had the heart to point out the danger to her. Not when Remy was acting so apologetic about having ever doubted Persis, and about turning Justen over to Vania, and about . . . well, whatever else the girl had been chattering on about. Persis hadn’t been paying quite close enough attention, because unlike Remy, Persis had instantly known exactly what Justen had gone to the Galatean royal lab to collect.

So now she’d taken the Helo Cure. Tero had confirmed that was what he and Justen had been after when they came to Galatea, though Tero, unlike Justen, didn’t realize the danger regs were in from Reduction. Justen did, though. She’d never forget the look in his eyes when she rose from the ground, covered in foam and almost as confused as a real Reduced. He looked like he’d killed her, and in a way, he’d thought he had.

But Persis had felt fine. Felt like nothing at all had happened, which had momentarily scared her more than anything. When you lose your mind, do you even know that it’s gone? One day, when she Darkened, would she even miss the person she’d been?

Very quickly, however, she realized that whatever had happened to her, it wasn’t Reduction. And then she put on the performance of a lifetime. Persis Blake may have spent six months acting dumb, but it hardly prepared her for six minutes acting Reduced.

Remy had even admitted that for a moment, she was afraid her switch hadn’t made any difference. “I thought you were Reduced,” the girl had told her sheepishly. “I thought I’d messed up again.”

But Persis had taken the cure. And now she would never be in danger of Reduction, just in time for the Wild Poppy to disappear forever.

There was no way Isla would ever allow Persis to go on a mission again. Isla or Persis’s parents, actually. She was about to be grounded for life. And it didn’t matter anyway. Her secret was blown sky-high. The guards knew who she was, and Vania would have to be returned to Galatea eventually. The Wild Poppy was dead.

And yet, did anyone really need the spy anymore? After all, once they spread the knowledge of the protection derived from the Helo Cure, the revolutionaries would no longer be able to use their weapon of Reduction. The people of Galatea would be safe. Without that threat, the refugees could return home, and the rumblings of resistance to Aldred’s government would grow into a roar. And Isla could help with that, too, especially with the bargaining power derived from holding Citizen Aldred’s daughter captive. The Galateans could form a republic now. A true republic, not a nation cowering under the rule of another cruel leader.

Perhaps it would serve as a model. Even for Albion. After all, with Councilman Shift soon to be a nonentity at court, perhaps Isla could finally rule alongside the Council, rather than in opposition to it.

No, the Wild Poppy was no longer needed in New Pacifica. And so, the only question that remained was, did Persis need him herself? He was her duty, yes, her service to her princess and to the people who were needlessly suffering. But he was also her love. As the Poppy, Persis could forget a future that included a marriage to a man who would control her life and her precious Scintillans, a court that expected girls like her to be ornamental and obedient, a mother she was losing a little more every day, and a future as misty as the steam rising off the sea. As the Poppy, Persis could be sure that, no matter what happened to her somewhere down the line, she had done something with her mind while she’d still had the chance.

Without the Wild Poppy, there was nothing to keep Persis from spending her days watching her mother slip into nothingness and her nights wondering if and when it would begin for her, too.

Slipstream chittered then slid off her lap, and Persis looked up to see she had company on deck. Justen.

There was another man whose place in her life had grown rather murky in the past few hours.

She watched the sea mink prance over to Justen, who reached down and scratched the animal behind the ear, then scooped him up and took a few steps forward.

“Do you want him back?” he said.

She stood, leaning against the rails for support. “No. Let him fish if he wants.”

Justen nodded and let the animal down. Slippy darted between his legs and over the side to swim in the wake. “I think your rat is growing on me.”

“Sea mink,” she corrected.

He smiled. “Sea mink.” He kept coming toward her and she scooted over to make room. Was she supposed to apologize for acting like an idiot . . . twice? Was he supposed to apologize for creating a torture device? What was going to happen now?

The sky was coral and pink and a brilliant, brilliant blue. It was going to be another gorgeous day in New Pacifica, but Persis wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body and shivered in the sea breeze. Justen was still wearing the black Galatean military uniform he’d used to sneak into the lab, though the gray flakes were almost completely gone from his hair.

“So . . .” he began quietly.

“So,” she said. “Do you think that Tomorrow will help you with your DAR research? I’m sure her experiences have given her a real fright, but if we have a little patience, we’ll be able to convince her that we mean her no harm. And your models show that her genetics might be promising, right?” She was babbling. Even flaky Persis never babbled.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I . . . don’t want to talk about work right now.”

“Really?” she asked, skeptical. “That’s a new one for you. For as long as I’ve known you, it’s the only thing you wanted to talk about. Your precious research and your beautiful revolution, and how it’s all so very, very important—”

“It is important,” he broke in. “And it’ll be there when we get to Albion. We’re going to fix the refugees, and we’re going to protect the Galateans and their revolution, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m going to get back to my research. And I’m not going to rest until I find a way to help your mother and everyone like her. I promise you, Persis.”

She swallowed heavily, then turned from him and took a deep draft from her supplement to calm her nerves. It was very sugary, though, so it did nothing of the sort. Instead, her heart pounded so hard she thought she might bruise. He promised. He promised he would save her. And, like always, she wanted to believe him.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” he said softly, very near her ear. “What are you doing?”

She turned back. When had he gotten so close? They were face-to-face on the deck, inches from each other. “What do you mean?”

“Come on,” he said, teasing. “We both know you’re not going to be the Wild Poppy anymore, and with my sister safely with me—”

“Your sister,” she pointed out, “can take care of herself.”

“So I see.” He frowned. “That’s something else we can talk about . . . later, the advisability of recruiting my little sister into your spy ring.”

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he replied. “Remy will be safe with me from now on, and Isla is going to be a huge hero after she reveals how we’ve saved the regs and the aristos of Galatea, so it’s not like she needs our help with her public image.”

“True.” Part of her wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. His eyes never left her face, and there was something in his gaze, something dark and unexpected that made her catch her breath. “I suppose I’ll go back to school. I know it’ll make my father happy.”

“The Wild Poppy taking classes in history when she’s used to making it?” Justen considered this, a small smile playing about his mouth. “It would be entertaining, at least.”

“Don’t act so superior,” she said. “I think I know some medic who isn’t quite officially finished with his studies, either. Without your uncle Damos getting all nepotistic, you’re going to have to finish school, too.”

“True,” he echoed. “But what I’m asking is, since all the reasons for having a fake relationship have evaporated, does that mean we don’t have to pretend to be in love anymore?”

“That’s what it means,” she said with a brusque nod.

“Good.”

“Yes,” she managed, though her throat was choking on the words. He was standing so close. She tried to back up a step, and he caught her by the hand. His thumb traced the outline of her wristlock, then slipped inside to rest against the golden disk.

She hadn’t yet finished the supplement, but every nerve in her palm buzzed to life.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, though, smart as she was, she already knew.

“It’s good,” Justen added, as he cupped her face in his other hand and tangled his fingers in her hair, “because, Persis Blake, the next time I kiss you, I want you to know it’s for real.”