“What are you—” She writhed in his grip, then brought the side of her palm down on his wrist.
He winced and his hold on her slipped. She slammed her knee against his groin.
“Are you trying to start a war?” she whispered in his ear as he grunted. “Not so fast, Justen. There’s plenty of time for that after we perfect our drug.”
He grabbed at her again, but she easily evaded him, spun, then took his elbow in her hand. A lightning bolt of pain shot through his arm.
“Honestly, Justen, perhaps you should have spent a little time outside the lab. Have you any idea how much combat training I’ve had?” She let go of him and he stumbled back, gasping. “I’m going to assume that’s a firm no to my offer. A shame.” She bit her lip. “But at least now I know for sure. I’ve tried so hard to help you, but you’ve chosen your path.”
“Vania, don’t.” The agony spread from his throat to his fingertips. This was no mere pressure point. He ran his other hand across his sleeve and pulled out a pricker. Empty. Justen turned his eyes to Vania. “What is this?” he gasped.
“Oh, don’t look so betrayed,” she said, annoyed. “It’s just a mild neurotoxin. I could have used something way worse on you and you know it.”
And with that, she melted into the crowd, leaving Justen fighting for breath. He needed to find the medic station. But more than that, he needed to find the Poppy. If the rumors were true, if he was an Albian aristo, then the spy must be at the luau. But he had no idea how to even begin searching.
Justen clutched at his arm and searched through the crowd with watering eyes, but he didn’t even see anyone he recognized. Persis, Isla, Andrine—where were they all?
Persis was right. He should have gotten a palmport like everyone else in Albion. Instead, he stumbled toward the palace wall. If he remembered correctly, there was a public wallport near the restroom here. If he was lucky, there might even be a medic kit in the restroom.
The kit he found was standard, but it still contained an epinephrine pricker and a pain relief pricker. He utilized them both, then logged into the wallport, his fingers straining with every button he typed as the medicine took effect.
Noemi, it’s Justen. I need you to put me in touch with the Wild Poppy immediately on a matter of utmost importance.
He watched the portal open and a sad little generic flutter zip out. How long would it take to reach Noemi? Should he try Isla, too? At least she was here.
Justen massaged his arm with his good hand, sweating as the pain radiated out from his elbow. How long would he have to wait? Could he even afford to wait? Slowly, feeling returned to his fingers and shoulders, and the pain subsided. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall, breathing heavily.
A tiny golden poppy flitted by his nose and sunk into the wallport. Justen turned back to read the screen.
Hello, Justen Helo. What do you want from me
Twenty-nine
PERSIS MOVED THROUGH THE crowd as quickly as she could in her gown, the voluminous fabric undulating about her legs like real waves as she hurried, her eyes searching everywhere for a glimpse of Justen. The flutter Noemi had forwarded to her sounded desperate, but what could Justen possibly have to contact the Wild Poppy about so urgently at the party?
Another generic flutter buzzed her palm. Now that he had a flutter from the Wild Poppy, Justen could contact her directly. It was a risky move, but the chance that someone could follow a flutter back to her, especially in this crowd, was slim. She slipped her wristlock aside to allow his message entrance.
I need to meet you.
She laughed.
I think not. I have a policy of not revealing myself to Galatean revolutionaries. Tell me what you want. Your sister, I suppose?
At last she saw him, leaning against a column by one of the public wallports. She stationed herself several yards away, on the outskirts of a group of people watching the fire dance. From the corner of her eye, Persis saw Justen read her flutter, then bang his right hand against the wallport in frustration. Persis narrowed her eyes. A moment later, she received:
I’m not a revolutionary! Not that kind, anyway. Typing takes too long. Please, you have to believe me.
Well, she had been telling him since he’d arrived to get a palmport. Now, perhaps, he’d learned his lesson. She sent back:
Why would I ever trust the person who invented pinks? Why would I trust someone who takes secret meetings with Vania Aldred? You’ve lied to everyone who has tried to help you in Albion: Princess Isla, Noemi Dorric, even your little girlfriend Persis Blake. But I know who you are, I know what you’ve done, and you’re lucky to be hearing from me at all.
At last, the words she’d wanted to cast at him so long. At the wallport, she watched him read her flutter, and even from a distance, she could see his chest rise as he took a deep breath. He was gripping his arm, flexing the muscles of his left hand as if they bothered him. Clenching his jaw, he leaned over and began typing, while Persis waited impatiently.
Seriously, Justen. Palmport.
There is no apology I can make that would be sufficient. Yet I swear to you that I never meant to hurt anyone. The Reduction drug was an accident. I was trying to make a new treatment for DAR, based on the architecture of the aristo brain, and I stumbled upon a compound that would, if administered to aristos, cause the effects you’ve seen. I made the mistake of telling my uncle.
By the time the flutter reached her, Justen had started typing again, and another flutter soon zipped after the first.
I promise I didn’t know what he intended. The day Queen Gala died, and I saw her body desecrated and her whole court Reduced, I lost all faith in the revolution. I went to Aldred. I tried to get him to stop. When that didn’t work, I even tried to sabotage the pills. He started to suspect what I was doing and restricted my access to the lab. That’s when I ran away to Albion.
She shot back:
My heart breaks for the poor little mad scientist cut off from his lab.
But then she remembered what the medic at the prison had said, about how the pills weren’t working as well as they used to. Had that been due to Justen’s sabotage? After a moment, he replied:
You want to know why Lacan recovered as quickly as he did? It was because the pills he was getting weren’t full strength. If you were to get my sister, she could tell you herself.
Was that what Remy had been doing at the Lacan estate in the first place? Persis would ask the girl. Justen’s flutter continued, its tone as frantic as his typing.
Believe me or don’t. It doesn’t matter. But you need this information: Vania Aldred has taken two of the visitors back to Galatea, including the Reduced one, and she plans to keep them there. She believes that Galateans can use the Reduced girl to create a drug that will cause permanent Reduction . . . and I’m afraid she may be right.
This is the absolute truth. I have nothing to gain from telling you this—and nothing to lose, either.
Persis frowned. Justen was a medic, and no one knew better than he how to create a Reduction drug. If he believed that scientists could use Tomorrow to make the effects permanent, then it was worth paying attention to. And yet, what if the whole story was a lie, engineered by Vania Aldred for the purpose of a trap?