Shift’s mouth snapped shut.
Isla walked on, and Persis followed, dying to speak, but knowing they’d have to be well out of earshot of any Council spies.
“Isla,” she whispered at last, “that was amazing.”
“I don’t need your approval, Persis,” Isla snarled under her breath. “I need your cooperation. I rule a nation of free people, and I cannot have the aristos and the regs at one another’s throats. They need to know we’re all on the same side. You and Justen are going to do that for me. And you’re going to do it soon. Do you understand?”
Persis paused, then lowered her head in deference. Isla was her friend and her protector. She was also her ruler, and Persis couldn’t fail to support what she’d been encouraging her friend to do for months. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Twelve
JUSTEN WAS OBSERVING THE patients on the sanitarium lawn when he caught sight of Persis strolling up the hill toward the main building. Today, she was swathed in a golden confection that fluttered in strips from her shoulders and around her thighs, revealing enticing glimpses of her warm brown skin. As she moved toward him, the breeze off the bay caught the material so that every strip blew out behind her like a flag.
He averted his eyes. Perhaps it was not so very unrealistic that people would believe he was madly in love. Like her mother had clearly been before her, Persis Blake was extremely attractive. For most people, that would be enough.
And even for Justen, it was extremely distracting. She descended upon him like a flock of very colorful, very loud parakeets. “Justen! How was your day? How are things here? Have you spoken to Noemi much at all? Has she filled your schedule with too many projects? I do hope you aren’t booked solid, as I thought we might go for a sail before supper.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. The patients, and their visitors, looked on.
Today, most of Persis’s hair was worn down, its yellow and white locks and braids swirling around her shoulders and arms like the strips of her unusual dress. She’d twisted a few strands of her hair into a circlet on top of her head, studded here and there with tiny, brightly polished enamel flowers bearing spiky green leaves. Wild poppies, he realized. Every Albian on the island was wearing things like this in support of their most infamous spy.
As usual, the effect was stunning. He hadn’t seen Persis with her hair down since the morning after they’d met, when he’d helped her off the bathroom floor when she’d tried to use her palmport too soon. She looked younger this way, more natural, despite the strange hair colors that were, now that he’d spent several days in Albion, not looking quite so strange anymore. As always, she smelled of frangipani, all sweetness and sunshine and soft, pampered skin. As always, she hugged him too tightly and too long, as if they truly were the blossoming lovers they portrayed. And, as always, Justen found he liked it just a tad too much.
He gave her a perfunctory hug in return, then stepped back. “She has certainly put me to work. I appreciate your help in getting me this position. The last thing I’d want is to be a burden on Albian society.”
Persis giggled. “Don’t worry—besides, you’re our guest at Scintillans. We can afford a dozen burdens like you.”
He cleared his throat. “I have a lot of work to do, Persis. Is there something specific you wanted?”
She blinked at him, an enigmatic smile playing about her mouth. “It depends,” she said coyly. “What are you offering?”
His lips drew into a tight line. Oh, so it was to be playacting, then. But for whom? The patients here were not in a condition to spread the word about their ersatz romance.
He saw Noemi emerge from the main building and head in their direction. All right, one witness. Madam Noemi Dorric was a skilled medic in her own right, but had taken a job as the head administrator of the sanitarium, rather than the chief medic, for reasons Justen found bizarre. These Albians might be fair to their regs, but they were quite prejudiced against their women. The chief medic was a man Justen had yet to see; and, despite the official roles, as far as Justen could tell, every employee in the place deferred to Madam Dorric.
Justen had followed suit. He liked the woman enormously and was thankful that Persis had made the introduction. The aristo did seem to know enough to surround herself with clever people, even as she bragged about dropping out of school and not caring at all about anything that didn’t button or zip. But this was the privilege of wealth and position, Justen supposed. After all, with very little effort, she’d managed to add him to her entourage as well.
Noemi, though, was one of the most no-nonsense people he’d met since landing on Albion. Even her clothes were simple, her hair natural. Her only concession to Albian fashion seemed to be her palmport. He had been surprised to find one installed on an older woman, not to mention a medic, as most he knew disapproved of the device and the way it leeched nutrients and minerals from its owners. But Noemi had explained that she found it very convenient and didn’t mind taking the required supplements to keep it operational. Though he’d yet to see her actually use the thing. She usually kept it locked away under one of the ubiquitous leather wristlocks all palmport users wore to protect their devices.
“You’re here,” she said when she reached them. Justen had learned in the last few days that the middle-aged woman was not much one for small talk. “Good. There’s something I need you to see.”
“Need me to see?” Persis pressed a hand to her chest and laughed. “Goodness, no. I can’t imagine what sort of help I’d be to you in an awful place like this.”
Noemi rolled her eyes. Justen could understand the sentiment. And he was surprised to see Persis acting so flippant about it, given the seriousness with which she’d addressed the subject when it came to her own mother. Maybe this was the way she’d compartmentalized things in her head. After all, Persis had explained that they were refusing to call Lady Heloise Blake’s illness what it was. Maybe Persis preferred to pretend that these people here were nothing like her mother. She took the usual aristo position: hide DAR victims away in sanitariums and never think about them again.
Noemi tried again. “I was actually talking to my new recruit, Medic Helo.”
“That’s better.” Persis looked relieved.
“What can I do for you, Citizen— I mean, Madam Dorric?” He’d been catching himself like this ever since he’d been working at the sanitarium. The day he sailed away from Galatea, he thought he never wanted to hear the word again, but now, spending days in the sanitarium, surrounded by reg medics and the reg patients they served, he found the word sprouting unbidden from his mouth. Here he could forget what the revolution had done to him and to his country, how everything he’d ever wanted had been perverted, and recall instead what he’d once so loved about its principles.
“I—” Noemi looked at him for a second, then turned to Persis, looking flummoxed and, as far as Justen knew her, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Was Persis’s ribbon dress rendering her speechless as well? Finally, she sighed. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“Sorry?” Justen said. Was she letting him go so soon? Did she doubt his commitment to his work given Persis’s unannounced arrival? “Madam Dorric, I was not aware that Lady Blake was coming here today—”
But, as always, Noemi got right to the point. “I find you very skilled, medic, and seeing as you’re from Galatea, I think you might be able to provide us with some fresh insight.”
“What?” Justen asked.