As she no doubt had intended.
Justen ought to have guessed that if these were the outfits his false lady love had procured for her guests, her own would eclipse them in every way. But even with that understanding, as he heard the gasps around him, he barely avoided joining in. The tiniest of earthquakes seemed to rustle through him, the kind that shakes petals off flowers, as Justen became aware of the gulf between what he was supposed to feel for Persis Blake and what he actually did.
Maybe it was the way he’d first met her, ill with genetemps sickness and wrinkly from the code. Maybe it was his own prejudices against aristos, even if his dismissal of Persis was slowly being worn down by her infuriating effervescence, her ingratiating pride in her family and her home, and her determined insistence that her life was perfectly fine just as it was. Maybe it was his own sense of self-preservation, seeing as he was supposed to pretend to be in love with her. Whatever it was, Justen had grown quite adept at ignoring how jaw-droppingly gorgeous Lady Persis Blake was.
Not tonight.
At first glance, her dress appeared to be the same deep sea blue as Justen’s coat, but as she moved toward them, he saw a thousand shades of green and blue and black in the carefully ruched fabric that hugged her curves, then at her knees spread out in waves—there was no other word for it—that rippled around her as she moved, fading in color the way the sea does when it nears the shore until finally, at the floor-length hem, they exploded into frothy white. The crest of the bodice sported the same lacey froth, and her yellow and white hair was piled high on her head in an arrangement so complicated that Justen didn’t even want to know how many people had to help her. In her hair and wound about her neck and arms were delicate strands of gold that twinkled—actually twinkled—with odd nanotech bursts of iridescent blue and green that reminded Justen of nothing more than . . .
“You’re dressed as the star cove,” he blurted.
She smiled and took his arm. “You noticed.”
THE VISITORS WERE WHISKED away to rejoin their newly arrived companions as soon as they reached the court and, in truth, Persis wasn’t sorry to see them go. She had as much curiosity about them as everyone else, but their arrival had complicated everything from her home life to her plans for the Poppy—and for Justen.
Her father had installed his wife at one of the garden tables near the water organ, which had been tuned to play lively, rippling music one might dance to. The water cascaded rapidly through the musical locks, the tempo creating rushes of white water and tiny waves. It was perfect positioning—away from crowds and too much conversation but not suspiciously withdrawn from the festivities. As soon as Persis was assured they wouldn’t need her assistance, she set off to find Andrine and Tero . . . only to be led right back to the visitors.
“Can’t it wait until after the luau?” Andrine begged. “People from elsewhere are about to be introduced at court. This is the most exciting thing to happen in centuries.”
“This and the cure,” Persis said, but relented, though she was sure Andrine would feel differently if she knew how time sensitive their rescues had become. For aristos, they could afford to wait—but regs were in serious danger from the moment they were arrested by the Galateans to the moment the League came to their aid.
But for now, she’d stand back and let Isla have her moment. Her best friend was standing on the dais above the court, her hair winged out in massive petals meant to invoke the royal orchid and her dress swirling about constantly thanks to the nanobots in the hem meant to make her skirt move like she stood in a breeze.
The visitors stood in an arc behind her. Aside from the four Persis knew, the ship brought with it a couple of natural regs older than Persis’s parents named Admiral and Mrs. Innovation, as well as half a dozen crew members with equally silly names. Though Isla’s courtiers had tried to dress the rest of the Argos crew before their introduction, Persis felt a little pleased that none were quite as successful in their mission to give the visitors more suitable Albian dress as she’d been.
In another life, Persis would have counted that a triumph and spent the rest of the evening listening raptly to their stories of the sea and their far-off home. She would have danced the night away with whatever boy asked nicely enough, gossiped with her friends, then sailed home with her parents—all equally exhausted and exhilarated by the party.
Instead, she waited impatiently for Isla to finish with the formal introductions, cast worried glances back at her parents on the terrace, kept an eye out for Vania Aldred, and tried to plot the Wild Poppy’s next move.
The next move was Justen. It had to be. He had asked too many questions about the Poppy yesterday to be merely an interested bystander. And given what she knew about his history with the revolution, she could not afford to let him suspect how close he really was to the spy. It had been hard enough to act flattered and flirty during the trip to court on the boat, and—perhaps for the benefit of her parents—Justen had been doing exactly that. Gone was the glum, frustrated scientist she’d been dealing with ever since her last trip to Halahou. Justen had been as cheerful as a sea mink, displaying charm she hadn’t seen since the night he’d first had dinner with her parents, and he hadn’t mentioned Vania or the Wild Poppy even once.
Persis was suspicious, to say the least. She was no longer the trusting girl who’d taken him to the star cove for swimming and kissing. Whenever Justen acted lighthearted, he was hiding something.
After Isla introduced the visitors, and they repeated the story of their home island and the mission that had brought them to New Pacifica, the party started in earnest. Naturally, the visitors were mobbed by guests who wanted more information. Invitations to the luau had gone out to aristos and regs alike, and Isla stood by and watched with satisfaction at the way her subjects were interacting.
Persis joined her. “A successful party, Your Highness.”
Isla rolled her eyes. “You never do use my title without a laugh in your voice. Even in your flutters, I can hear it.”
“That’s your interpretation,” Persis replied. “I have nothing to do with the tone of my voice in your head. And, for what it’s worth, your flutters always sound bossy to me.”
“Oh no, that I intend,” Isla replied drily. She frowned. “Speaking of bossy, here comes Shift.”
The councilman was stuffed into a long, glittering frock coat loudly encrusted all over with hibiscus made from rubies. Persis longed to give the man a few fashion pointers. “Lovely party, Princess,” he said. “You always can be counted on for an event like this.”
“Thank you, sir.” Isla nodded her head.
“Pity it’s so crowded,” he said airily, “but I guess that’s what comes of inviting regs to court.”
“Seeing as the visitors are almost exclusively regs themselves, I could hardly avoid it,” Isla replied. Her dark eyes burned in her face, but her expression remained serene. Persis admired her friend’s restraint.
Tero appeared, a tray with two flutes of kiwine in his hands. “Some refreshments, Isla?”
Shift scowled at him. “Don’t interrupt your betters, boy.” He swiped a glass off the tray as the three teenagers stood there in shock. “A good server will wait for a break in conversation.”
“I’m not a—” Tero went silent as Shift drained his glass and turned away.
“As I was saying, these regulars are completely forgetting their place . . .” he trailed off. “I feel . . . odd.”
“It’s the app,” said Tero with a roll of his eyes. “As I said, I’m not a waiter. I’m a gengineer and you just drank my latest surprise for the princess.”