“Look at him. Besotted!” Justen was apparently an excellent actor in his own right.
“And why shouldn’t he be? She has her mother’s face.” Well, yes, but that face seemed to have left him unimpressed.
“Leave it to Persis Blake to bring home a Helo.” In truth, he was just the latest in a long line of Galateans she’d brought over. Not as rich as some, not as grateful as others.
“Her father married the most beautiful reg of his generation. Why shouldn’t Persis catch the most famous of hers?”
She pursed her lips as the chatter spread. Isla had guessed right that people would be quick to place her latest conquest inside the carefully cultivated “Persis Flake” narrative. And why not? Persis had spent the last six months concocting her reputation in the princess’s court. It was for this she’d sacrificed school, for this she’d reinvented her image, for this she’d scandalized half the residents of Scintillans, who’d gone from thinking that Torin Blake was right in naming as heir his only daughter to wondering what in the world had happened to the clever, hardworking girl they’d grown up with. But what choice did Persis have? She had to protect the Wild Poppy. She had to help Isla. She had to save New Pacifica.
If they didn’t take you seriously, they would never see you coming. Persis was the most stylish, the most glittering, the most frivolous girl in Albion. There was no way she was secretly orchestrating a spy ring.
Eventually they came across an older couple, two aristos whose Galatean origins were clear by their natural hair and more sedate wardrobe. Justen greeted them stiffly, and Persis followed suit, though in truth she knew them intimately, even if they weren’t aware of that fact. Lord and Lady Seri had been the spoils of one of the Wild Poppy’s first raids. They looked much better now, compared to the miserable, Reduced wretches she’d plucked from their ancestral home.
“Justen Helo,” said Lord Seri, shaking Justen’s hand, “welcome to Albion. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I knew your grandmother well.”
“Yes,” Justen replied in a tone like the depths of the sea. “You argued with her mightily over the universal distribution of her cure.”
But the old aristo merely chuckled and nodded. “Yes, I did. And lost. We will not argue now over who was right, despite the repercussions that have come of her work.”
“If you mean the revolution,” Justen said, his tone even and firm, “it was not a foregone conclusion. It was caused by the mistreatment of the Galatean regs by their aristo masters. You’ll note there’s no revolution in Albion as a result of the cure.”
“No revolution—yet,” Lord Seri replied.
Persis groaned. Loudly. “All this talk of politics makes my head hurt. Lady Seri, your dress is lovely. That silk is so rich I think I could drown in it. Does it come in any color but black?” She hadn’t rescued these aristos so that they could export their snobbery to her homeland. And Isla hadn’t granted Justen’s request so he could act like some kind of revolutionary firebrand. His political leanings were obvious—even understandable given the old system in Galatea. But their plan wouldn’t work if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut in front of the court’s more conservative elements.
“Besides,” Lord Seri continued, “I wasn’t necessarily talking about the revolution. Darkening is a more than sufficient consequence to call the entire experiment into question, is it not? What’s the percentage of Helo-cured regs who suffer and die from that little side effect? Five? Ten?”
Justen’s grip on her arm tightened. Had he felt her tense? She searched the old lord’s face, but he barely seemed to notice she was there. His comment was pointed, but not at Persis. No one at court knew about her mother. Yet.
“One percent,” Justen said, his voice clipped. “But I think even those would rather suffer from DAR than live their lives Reduced.”
Lord Seri looked amused as he leaned in toward Justen. “And how do you know that, young man? It’s not like you can ask them once they’re comatose.”
Persis saw Justen’s jaw twitch. She rather felt like vomiting, herself.
“Oh look,” she said quickly. “There’s Andrine. Let’s catch her.” She tugged him away before more harm could be done.
Andrine had limited time to spend at court since she was still in school—or, as Persis’s father had put it, Andrine “had her priorities in order.” She’d already devoted most of her spare time to Wild Poppy escapades. And Persis didn’t begrudge her those other commitments. After all, unlike herself, the fifteen-year-old reg did not have an estate to inherit. Andrine and Persis had been friends all their lives, though Persis never would have suspected that their antics on the cliffs and beaches of Scintillans would have so well prepared them for risking their lives in Galatea . . . and in the only slightly less treacherous environment of the Albian court.
“Citizen Helo!” Andrine exclaimed as soon as she saw them. Today, she wore a dress to match her wild blue hair. “I’m glad to see you’re still among us. And what’s this I hear about you planning to stay awhile?”
A gesture from Persis and Andrine offered to introduce Justen to her older brother. “Two sciency types like you should definitely chat,” Andrine trilled, taking him by the arm. “You can tell him all about the dangers of genetemps sickness, right, Persis?”
She rolled her eyes. Justen would certainly disapprove of Tero’s more frivolous science, from Slippy to palmports to badly coded genetemps. But she was more than ready to let Tero be the object of Justen’s revolutionary contempt for a few minutes. He deserved it after what he’d done to her.
Once Persis was alone, she sought out Isla.
“A word, Your Highness?” Persis hissed through her teeth.
“Don’t be silly, Persis,” quipped Isla. “You’ve never kept a statement to a single word in your life.” She swept past her friend and toward a break in the bougainvillea. “Keep it quick.”
As soon as they were hidden by the fall of leaves and petals, Persis said, “This is a terrible idea.”
“You’re only saying that because, for once in our long acquaintance, you weren’t the one to come up with it.”
“Forget about giving him secret asylum.” Persis eyed the famous Galatean through the blossoms. “I can go fetch his sister if that’s the fear. Your real trouble is controlling him. He’s a Helo, yes, but he’s certainly a rebel as well. You think his presence will help prevent revolution? If you listen to him talk for five minutes, you’d guess he was here to incite it.”
“What do you want me to do, Persis? Put him in an induced coma like that little revolutionary soldier you kidnapped last week? She’s nobody, and she could still get us in a lot of trouble. Justen is a Helo.” Isla fixed her with a very penetrating look. “A Helo, Persis. If he were imprisoned in Galatea for speaking out against the revolution’s atrocities, you’d be moving the very Earth to get him out, and you know it.”
Persis hated when her friend acted as clever as she actually was. It meant admitting she was right.
Life had been so much easier when they had nothing more to worry about than who was getting top scores at school—usually Persis, though Isla always beat her at botany. Had that only been a year ago? Then Isla’s parents and older brother had died, and Persis’s mother had gotten sick, and the Galateans had overthrown their government, and the Wild Poppy had been born. She hardly remembered the girls they’d once been. Day by day, the superficial mask she’d donned chafed more and more; and no matter how many disguises Persis took on as the Poppy, she couldn’t help but feel they fit her better than the one she wore at home.