Justen shook his head. “If Noemi ever responds to me, I’ll ask her to put me in touch with him. Or maybe the princess will do it.”
Persis remained silent, fearing any response would connect the dots in Justen’s head. The only person those two had in common was her.
“I wonder,” Justen said, “do you think Tero is the Wild Poppy? I know all along we’ve been saying that the Poppy must be an aristo, but maybe he’s not.”
All right, her and her other friends from Scintillans village. But even that guess was too close for comfort.
“Tero?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “He has far too many gengineering duties at court. Besides, I’ve known him for ages. He’s not the sneaky type. He can’t even keep his feelings for the princess a secret.”
“Yes, but remember how he knocked that lord out on Remembrance Island the other day?”
Right. She had let Justen think Tero was responsible for that.
“And if Isla was helping him, he’d have the money and the resources to make all the trips to Galatea that he needed. And the disguises! He’s a gengineer, so he’d have access to the lab to code whatever genetemp he wanted. It makes a lot more sense than some bored Albian aristo who knows nothing of spy craft.”
“It makes more sense that some freshly cooled gengineer knows something of spy craft?” Persis acted as if she was holding back her laughter. “That’s preposterous, Justen. Trust me, I’ve known that boy all my life.” Which was why she trusted Tero in the League, and why she didn’t want Justen sniffing around him. Why, after all this time, did he suddenly want the spy to fetch his sister? And why was he so curious who it was? “Besides, who cares who the Poppy is? Isn’t the important thing that he is effective?”
Was Vania still trying to find the Wild Poppy? Had she enlisted Justen’s help?
“Everyone cares, Persis,” Justen said. “It’s the only thing anyone talks about, on both sides of the sea.”
That she knew. “Oh, Justen, I thought you weren’t interested in gossip.”
He paid her no mind. “It must be Tero. Look at the way he keeps his hair. No one here cuts their hair so short. It’s for his disguises, maybe.”
Now Persis really wanted to laugh. Yes, she supposed short hair would have been a boon to her in her disguises. Perhaps she should let that rumor about her new taste in hairstyles stand and go for it. “I look forward to seeing Tero’s response when you ask him at the luau tomorrow.” At Justen’s confused expression, she explained Isla’s plan as well as the fact that Vania had invited herself.
His face fell, which ignited an uncomfortable twinge in Persis’s chest, one she firmly ignored. She didn’t care if he was despondent. Or care about anything he did as long as it didn’t hurt the refugees anymore.
“Another party,” he said. “Another day away from the lab. I don’t know how any of you can celebrate with all this suffering. You most of all, Persis. How can you worry about clothes and hair and not think about the fact that this is going to be the first luau your mother’s too sick to attend?”
She stiffened.
Justen paled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did,” she replied bluntly. “You look at me and you hate the fact that I can put my mother’s sickness from my mind while I tell Isla what shoes will best match her dress.”
“She wears white, Persis. It can’t be that hard.”
“It’s not? You do it.” She was safely back in her role now, but her mind erupted with ideas. He truly couldn’t stomach having fun while people suffered. And yet he was asking questions about the Poppy like he’d been sent on a mission from her enemies. Which was it? Who was he? How could she find out the truth?
A flutter zipped into the room; halted above Persis’s head; and switched to its lazy, lilting trajectory toward her palm. Orchid. Isla.
We must discuss the visitors’ clothing requirements. Call me immediately.
She took a deep breath and fluttered back:
Yes, Your Highness.
JUSTEN HAD NO MEMORY of dropping off to sleep at his desk, nanorectors still hard at work, oblets burning bright, but when he woke, it was to find a kimono-wrapped Persis standing above him and shaking him by the shoulders.
“There’s only four hours until we have to leave for court. Do you even know what you’re wearing?”
“Pick something,” he groaned, blinking. “I’m sure Isla would prefer our outfits matched anyway.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you, too? Must I single-handedly dress every person on this island?”
“I thought’s that what you liked doing.” There was something on the edge of his mind he couldn’t quite grasp. Something about last night. After Persis had left, he’d fumed a bit, and then, unable to sleep and unable to do anything for his sister, he’d gone back to work. He scrubbed his hands across his face and toggled up his notes. “Fashion. Fun. Nothing that could remotely be construed as serious.”
Persis fixed him with a glare. “You wouldn’t like me serious, Justen. I promise you that.”
The nanorectors on his desk were blinking blue and green, indicating they’d completed the task Justen had set. As Justen looked at the model they’d built from his program, rotating silently on the desktop, everything clicked into place.
Staring in fascination at the model, he waved her away. “I don’t care what I wear, Persis. Put me in whatever you want. I have more important things on my mind.”
Far more important. He may have found a way to stop it all.
Twenty-seven
ELLIOT NORTH HAD ONCE thought the brightly colored velvets and silks the Posts wore back at home were garish and over-the-top. Now, thanks to the hours-long ministrations of Persis Blake, she realized how tiny her worldview had actually been. Now she knew garish. Even the brightest fabrics in Channel City had nothing on Albian fashions.
“I can’t wear that,” Elliot said when Persis showed her the gown she’d chosen for the party.
“I know, it looks terribly complicated,” Persis had replied, “but the zip goes right here, and you step into it like so, and then we wind this piece around after you’re inside.”
That hadn’t been exactly what Elliot meant, but somehow she’d found herself fastened into the outfit anyway. She gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her curves had been pushed and squeezed and lifted and restrained—harnessed, really—revealing the figure usually hidden underneath her work trousers and coveralls. Her hair had been pomaded and glittered and curled until it fell in sparkly ringlets halfway down her back.
“But for that truly exotic touch,” Persis said, “I think we need makeup. Sit.” Elliot, helpless to resist now, sat and let Persis go to work on her face with a palette the size of a dinner plate. The Albian aristo was an odd one, to be sure. When Elliot had first met her, she’d placed Persis in the same boat as her sister, Tatiana: pretty, rich, spoiled, and lazy. And though the first three were certainly true, she was beginning to have her doubts about the fourth.
“Persis?” she asked as her gorgeous host painted her lips a rich plum. “May I ask you something?”
“As long as you don’t move your mouth too much.”
Elliot took a deep breath and raised her eyes to the other girl’s. “Why do you pretend to be stupid?”