At the sound of the name, Trina flinched again. Citizen Aldred would never Reduce her. Ground her for life, possibly. It was her brother who would kill her for getting into this mess—that is, if she did get out alive.
All she’d wanted to do was help him before his moment of temporary insanity branded him an enemy of the revolution. What did she care about some Reduced aristos? But then she’d gone east and seen what was happening to old men, little children. Somehow, seeing the Reduced made all the difference in the world. And she’d started to understand why her brother had risked it all.
A flash of gold hovered near the princess’s hand, and she turned over her palm and closed her eyes for a moment. “A bandage on Lord Lacan’s thumb,” she murmured to no one in particular, “is hardly evidence of sympathy to our cause.”
Trina could certainly agree with that. She was not the one trying to stop the revolution. That was all on her brother. The idiot.
Then she cringed, remembering the way the guards had laughed when Lacan had cut his thumb. Remembering the way his grandchildren—real children, not practically grown teens like her—had been stumbling about in the field, their voices silenced, their brains wiped. What could they have done to deserve Reduction?
But that didn’t mean she was on the side of the Wild Poppy.
One of the handmaidens cleared her throat. Another golden flower buzzed at the princess out of nowhere. Flutternotes, Trina realized. She’d never seen them in person before.
“Perhaps she just wanted to keep him alive to suffer longer,” said the first handmaiden, lifting her head. Trina recognized the blue-haired girl from the attack.
“Of course I wouldn’t do that!” she snapped.
“Oh, so you wanted him dead?” the princess asked.
“No! I—” Why were they asking her these questions? What did it matter? “I wasn’t even supposed to be there, all right?”
Now the second handmaiden raised her head, and Trina saw the face of the girl dressed as a boy who’d attacked her on the skimmer. The face of the Wild Poppy.
“You,” she whispered.
“You,” the girl who was the Wild Poppy replied, “are not a soldier at all. I knew it. I knew there was something off about you.”
“You don’t know anything,” Trina spat at her. “Especially not how much trouble you’re about to be in.”
“Oh?” said the princess. “And why is that?”
And then she released her most powerful weapon of all. “Because I’m not Trina Delmar. My name is Remy Helo, granddaughter of Darwin and Persistence Helo, and I’m no traitor to Galatea.”
She expected shock, and she got it. She expected disbelief, and she got some of that, too, especially from the princess. But she didn’t expect the bark of laughter that the blue-haired one let out.
“She’s lying,” said the princess. “Remy Helo is a schoolgirl.”
“We were schoolgirls a few months ago,” said the Wild Poppy. She peered out from beneath her hood, her amber eyes keen and penetrating. “She may be Remy. I see a family resemblance. And of course, we could always do a quick genetest.”
“Family resemblance?” Remy asked, confused.
“Silence.” The princess raised her hand. “Speak only when you are ordered to, prisoner.”
The Wild Poppy gave the princess a look. “Assuming this story is true, and I’m inclined to believe it, do you think that behavior is going to get you anywhere?”
The princess sighed. “At least this makes the entire operation simpler.”
“Does that mean I’m off the hook?” the Poppy said. “I mean, technically, I already fetched her.”
“If you mean the public relations aspect, no,” replied the princess. “The romance will still be useful.”
What were they talking about? They were supposed to fall all over themselves to apologize. She was a Helo. “Pardon me, Princess, but I must insist upon my immediate release. I am the foster daughter of Citizen Aldred, the Protector of the interim government of—”
The princess waved her hand at her. “Oh, we know who you are, brat. We just wish you truly were Trina Delmar. She was useful to us, and you are an inconvenience.”
“One thing is certain,” the blue-haired handmaiden said. “We shall not be returning her to Citizen Aldred.”
“Oh no?” Remy scoffed. “You think he’ll let a Helo remain in your aristocratic hands?”
This seemed to amuse all three young women.
“Here’s a question,” said the Wild Poppy. “Does anyone in your family know you’re here?”
Remy hadn’t thought of that. How was Uncle Damos supposed to fight for her return if he didn’t know she was imprisoned?
The princess cocked her head at Remy. “Maybe I should use those neuroeels.”
This time, however, the threat held no weight at all.
“Why did you take a false name and join the army?” the Wild Poppy asked her.
“None of your business.” The only good to come out of this mess was that with Lacan and his family spirited away to Albion, there was a chance Uncle Damos would never discover her brother’s betrayal. If the prisoners on the Lacan estate were no longer in custody, no one would ever find out that their pinks hadn’t worked properly.
As far as she knew, Justen hadn’t sabotaged anyone else’s drugs.
“Bet I can guess.”
Remy was quite sure the smug aristo spy could not.
“You had plenty of political power as one of Aldred’s inner circle. You had no need to take a false name unless whatever it is you wanted to learn was something you figured your foster father would disapprove of. Am I correct?”
Remy swallowed.
“And there you were at the Lacan estate, of all places in Galatea, watching over the aristo who might have been your grandmother’s greatest ally. Watching him suffer, watching him bleed. Watching his children and his grandchildren tortured . . . and why?”
Remy could barely meet the older girl’s gaze. Her eyes watered with shameful tears.
“So here’s what I think. You hated what they were doing to the aristos on the Lacan estate,” the Wild Poppy said to her, rising and coming forward. Her hood fell back, revealing hair the color of frangipani and eyes as bright as the scales on that long-dead sea pony. “You don’t want to admit it, but deep down, you know your guardian is no longer interested in helping Galateans. He just wants to punish his enemies.”
Enemies like Lacan. Enemies like Justen would be if Uncle Damos found out what he’d done. . . .
“The revolution has betrayed you, has betrayed your whole nation. You are not a traitor, it’s true. But your loyalty lies not to the leaders destroying your country but to its citizens—all its citizens—who have the power to make it great.”
Remy found she could muster no response to this enemy of the revolution. It made no sense at all. This woman—this girl, really—stood for everything Remy hated. She rescued aristos. She was an aristo herself. She undermined the revolution. How often had Remy heard Vania and the other soldiers complaining about the Wild Poppy?
So why was she saying things Remy agreed with?
The Wild Poppy made a quick motion with her left hand, and Remy’s ropes fell loose. If she wanted to flee, now was the time. But her heart thrummed in her chest as the spy’s words settled into the space between the two girls. How did this Albian know exactly what had happened to her? She looked only a year or two older than Remy, she was clearly an aristo, and yet it seemed she could see right through to Remy’s soul.
All she’d wanted was to save her brother, and this was where she’d ended up. In the throne room of a monarch, kneeling before a young girl who was the embodiment of the aristocracy Remy had wanted so hard to fight, the embodiment of the spy Remy had tried so hard to be. This girl who was making her question everything. Everything.