But somehow, Persis had trouble imagining Justen would enjoy it.
“I’d like that, thank you,” he surprised her by saying. “Do you know the Princess Isla at all?”
What did he think “popular at court” meant? “I’m her chief lady-in-waiting.”
Justen looked nonplussed. “Like a maid?”
Persis smiled indulgently. “It’s how royals say ‘She’s one of my best friends.’”
Justen blinked. “Really? Oh . . . good. Because I’ve come to Albion to meet her.”
Was that disappointment he was not quite able to hide? Why would he be disappointed to have fallen in with such a well-connected aristo? And what did he want with Isla? Persis narrowed her eyes. This required further observation.
As did Justen Helo.
BY THE TIME THE aristo had done her hair, her clothes, and her makeup, Justen had gone through the entire catalog of her gengineered rodent’s parlor tricks and wandered around the grounds of her sprawling estate twice. No one could deny the place was as beautiful as the girl who lived here. Perched on a high cliff at the southernmost edge of Albion’s western peninsula, the house seemed like a cliff flower itself, blossoming in shades of brown and black from the earth. Most of its rooms lay open to the sea air, covered only by vast, petal-shaped roofs that swept overhead, supported by thin, translucent columns of onyx or crystal. Justen could see slits in the external walls, hinting at screens that could be drawn to protect the interior during the rainy season.
The water surrounded them on three sides, vast and glittering beneath the sun-drenched sky. From up here, you could barely hear the surf, and the sharp, living smell of the water faded into a simple salty freshness. Justen paused at the western cliff edge and stared at the endless ocean. Once, long ago, before the Reduction and the wars that had broken the very heart of the world, there’d been other lands, other people. People who lived and breathed democracies, people who’d accomplished their goals without spilling a single drop of blood. The Galateans had failed at this. Justen had failed.
All he’d ever wanted was to help people, like his grandmother had done. And now, when things had gone so wrong he had no choice but to escape, the only place left to go was Albion. The only mercy he could hope to get was from another monarch.
That was, if Persis Blake ever finished getting ready.
Everywhere he went, he felt the eyes of the estate servants on him. He grew tired of their obsequious attempts to bring him things—snacks, perfumes, changes of clothes in monstrously garish colors. Most of all, he hated the way every last one of them called him Citizen Helo. They probably meant it as a mark of respect, or even support for the Galatean revolution, but if anything, that made him feel worse.
“Citizen Helo, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you—to thank your family—for their gift to the world.”
“Citizen Helo, both my parents were born of the cure. Bless you and yours.”
“I hate to bother you, Citizen Helo, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it. It is such an honor to be in the presence of someone descended from Persistence Helo. Everyone here at Scintillans is overwhelmed. Is there anything I can get you?”
This last one planted a notion in his head, and he stopped the servant, a blue-haired butler. “Pardon me, but the lady of the house . . .”
“Lady Heloise Blake? She and Lord Blake are away at the moment.” The servant eyed him. “Oh, you mean Persis.”
But Justen already had the information he needed. He snapped his jaw shut. Heloise. Persis. He should have seen it before. Those names were no accident. And yet, why would aristos bear them?
“Citizen?” the servant prompted.
Justen shook his head. “I was just wondering how long she’d be.”
The older man laughed. “Yes, she does like her clothes, our girl. These days, it’s all she seems to care about.”
Our girl. Now, Justen examined the estate with new eyes. He’d been too concerned for his patient’s welfare when he’d arrived yesterday afternoon, and last night and this morning he’d been busy trying to make a plan for the future, but now he finally began to take in the details of this aristo estate. The little fishing village nestled at the base of the cliffs was filled with neat, tidy houses, not ramshackle cabins like one often saw on the plantations in Galatea. Happy, plump children ran about the lawns of the estate itself. The servants practically whistled while they worked. Were things so very different in Albion?
He knew that the Reduction’s end had been handled differently in the two nations of New Pacifica. In Albion, mandatory education for regs and fair wage laws had been passed. There’d been reg representatives on the Royal Council for more than a generation. But that couldn’t have made a true difference, could it? As Uncle Damos said, they still had a king calling the shots. One only had to look at the way they treated the women of Albion, the way aristos like Persis led such decadent, useless lives, to see how rotten the system must be.
But then again, those names . . . something was strange about Scintillans.
“Are you ready to go?” came a voice at his back. He turned to find Persis in a sari the color of sunset. Jewels sparkled along the hem and neckline. Her hair was piled on top of her head again, in a fashion he was sure was exceedingly intricate but looked to him like nothing more than an osprey nest. On top of it all perched a ridiculous fascinator shaped like a bird of paradise and made entirely from real feathers. Her skin was clear and golden, glowing with a vitality one would never have guessed possible for a girl so recently recovered from genetemps sickness. Her light-colored eyes were winged with kohl, and her wide cheekbones and full lips were the same sparkly rose color. Perhaps her complexion was being helped along by a good deal of Albian cosmetics, then.
The sea mink, its glossy red coat set off by a jeweled coral collar, frolicked at her feet.
The aristo frowned at him, as her gaze traveled down his body and over his simple black shirt and pants. “Oh, you didn’t change, I see.”
“Where did you get your name?” he blurted.
Her eyes snapped back to his face. “Where do you think?”
“From my grandmother.”
“Well,” she said, with a tilt of her head that sent the feathers shaking. “I see you have at least some of her smarts.”
“Your mother—”
“Is a reg, yes,” she said, her tone clipped. Was she . . . embarrassed by that fact? Justen couldn’t tell. He had never known a half aristo before. Not a legitimate one, anyway. Not one who was friends with royalty.
Persis tapped at her gloved left hand, then seemed to remember she was still recovering. “Well, let’s go. The royal court of Albion awaits.”
And now Justen realized he had no idea what to expect.
Five
JUSTEN HAD TAKEN TWO sea voyages with Persis Blake so far but had yet to see her touch the controls. On the way back from Galatea, she’d been unconscious, and now she left the yacht on autopilot while she downed palmport supplements and stationed herself at the cabin’s wall port to exchange what were apparently rather urgent messages with her tailor.
The autopilot’s docking mechanism was somewhat shaky. Justen went below to call to Persis, who rolled her eyes in frustration at the interruption. “The Daydream won’t sink,” she said with a wave of her hand. The image of a keyboard hovered before her, its letters flashing. “Now leave me alone. I’m a bit rusty at this wall port business. I can’t believe it actually makes you type. With your fingers. Like some kind of primitive.”