“Excuse me?”
Tero raised his hands. “Look, I’ve known that girl my whole life. She’s basically a kid sister. Used to follow me around the beach in the village, bugging me to play with her. But I’m not blind. I know what she looks like in a bathing suit these days, and I know what kind of brain she’s got hidden under all that hair of hers, too. I would never have signed on to this whole Poppy nonsense otherwise. Because of who she is, she has to protect herself. I’ve never seen any guy who could match her. And then you came along and you didn’t care one bit that she was the heir to Scintillans. You called her out, Justen. No one does that. And then, you helped her mom, you’re helping the refugees, and you’re taking genetemps to go rescue her.” Tero shrugged. “I also saw you two making out on this very boat on that trip to Remembrance Island. There’s something there.”
“Believe me,” Justen said ruefully, “it was faked.” Mostly, at any rate.
Besides, Justen was pretty sure she hated him for his involvement in the Reduction drug. The Persis he’d thought he’d known might be able to forgive him, but the Wild Poppy, who risked her life to protect the victims of the revolution—no. Not her. She’d made it quite clear in the Poppy’s flutters.
And Tero would never understand. He’d always known the real Persis, bathing suits or no. To Tero, someone developing real feelings for his brilliant, charming aristo friend was no big surprise. But Justen didn’t have the right to feel the same. He’d spent the last two weeks dismissing every point Persis made because he’d idiotically decided that she wasn’t smart enough to be correct about things. Yet even when she was acting her flakiest, she still managed to make more sense than his revolutionary friends back home in Galatea. He’d known it, even if he hadn’t wanted to believe it. How odd that an array of gorgeous dresses and a few well-placed dumb comments were all it took to disguise her true self. Was it because she was a woman? Was it because Justen was actually far shallower than Persis had ever appeared to be?
He’d taken her at face value, because she was pretty and rich and dressed so nicely. He’d wanted to think the worst of an aristo, the same way everyone wanted to think the best of him because he was a Helo and a medic. He’d relied on his reputation to bring him to Albion, to get him an audience with the princess, to give him the lab space he’d needed. But the Wild Poppy—Persis—had seen through all that. As Persis she’d urged him to do better with the gifts he’d been given. As the Poppy, she’d neatly cut him off from all the things he’d used his borrowed reputation to gain. She was an aristo, but every member of her spy league other than Isla was a reg, and Persis was not using her aristo status to ply her trade.
It was Justen, the supposed revolutionary, who had thought he should be trusted merely for being a Helo. And if Persis chose to trust him now—as he hoped—it wasn’t because he was a Helo, it was because he was trying, at last, to make up for the worst thing he’d ever done to the family name.
He almost laughed. Love from Persis Blake? He’d settle for forgiveness. Any hope of something more was pointless. Justen used to think that, although Persis was beautiful and kind and charming and funny and whatever else he’d most recently realized about his Albian hostess, she did not have the qualities he looked for in a woman. She wasn’t smart enough. She wasn’t serious enough. She wasn’t dedicated to the betterment of mankind enough.
He’d been such an idiot.
“I think,” he said slowly, “a girl like Persis Blake deserves someone much better than me.”
Tero’s grunt sounded remarkably skeptical, even over the sound of the water rushing beneath them. “Maybe you can revisit this topic once you’ve saved her life. I hear girls like it when a boy rescues them from his evil sister.”
“She’s not my sister.”
Tero rolled his eyes. “Right. Sorry, I really need to stop trusting my own eyes, don’t I? Vania’s not your sister, Persis isn’t your girlfriend, you’re not wearing a bushy gray wig and trying to sneak into the Galatean royal labs to steal some expired medication on a shelf somewhere. Silly me.”
“It might be expired,” Justen muttered, “but it’s better than nothing.” And what was he supposed to do? Sit around in Albion and wait while Isla’s royal guard went to Galatea and demanded the return of two Albian nationals? The relative arguments of Albian immunity from the revolution versus the crimes the Wild Poppy had committed on Galatean soil would take a significant amount of time to untangle; and until they were released, Andrine and Persis were in danger every moment of being Reduced. If it wasn’t already too late.
The port of Halahou loomed large before them, but Tero moved east, beyond the city limits to the edge of Queen’s Cove. The cove was silent now, the water still and peaceful but for the occasional dark hump of a mini-orca back breaking the surface to breathe.
“Did you see that?” whispered Tero. “You know, we studied them in school but I’ve never seen them in person.”
Justen wondered if his companion would be less in awe of the creatures had he seen them eat the corpse of their last mistress. He wondered if Tero would be so calm about the almost-certain capture of both his sister and his friend if he knew what happened to regs who received the Reduction drug.
Justen had been thinking that if he wound up with genetemps sickness, he’d drop Tero down a lava tube. But if the gengineer’s sister was permanently damaged by the drug Justen created, what would Tero have the right to do to him? If Persis was damaged . . .
Justen shook his head. He just wouldn’t let it happen. That was all.
Thirty-two
IN A BEAUTIFUL ROOM in the royal palace in Galatea, Remy Helo sat alone, searching the news from Albion for any information about the Wild Poppy—about Persis Blake. The gossip was extremely light. There’d been a single item a few days ago about her hair, and nothing whatsoever about Justen—not since the night before Persis’s trip to the prison.
Not since before Remy had confirmed for the spy that Justen was responsible for creating the Reduction drug.
And she hadn’t heard from the Wild Poppy since then either. The mission had gone well—Vania had certainly gotten in a lot of trouble for it—but Remy was surprised that the Albians had never contacted her again. Things had been quiet in Halahou for two days, but she expected at least some recognition of the work she’d done for the Albians. Weren’t they concerned that her part in the operation remained secret? Weren’t they worried that she was staying safe and not ratting them out to her uncle?
Of course, she was a traitor now, so she had as much to lose by telling the Aldreds the truth. And maybe, given Justen’s behavior, the Wild Poppy and her League wanted nothing more to do with Remy Helo.
Ironic. She’d gotten herself into this mess by trying to keep Justen safe from the revolutionaries. Now she was worried he wouldn’t be safe from those trying to fight the revolution.
Maybe she should have told the Poppy why she’d gone to the Lacan estate in the first place. Maybe she should have explained how Justen had been sabotaging the pinks, and how she’d tried to step in before anyone noticed and traced the problems back to him.
Then again, that might just give the Poppy more nanothread to hang both the Helos with. She’d wanted to message Justen and warn him, but couldn’t figure out any way to do so without incriminating herself, should anyone else read it. And given her uncle’s suspicions—and worse, Vania’s suspicions ever since she’d gone to Albion the day the prison had been breached—Remy was certain messages to and from Justen Helo were being monitored.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t heard from him. Remy refused to think of other reasons. Still, it was odd that the gossip waves, which had previously been so full of items about Persis and Justen, were suddenly silent on the subject. Tonight, Remy had grown frantic as rumors had leaked out about a giant party to be held at Princess Isla’s royal palace. Justen would have to be at that, right? But so far, nothing had come through. Stupid Uncle Damos and his stupid news delay. She’d even tried hacking the system, to no avail. How ironic that she could borrow her uncle’s oblet to give herself a secret soldier identity, but she couldn’t find some simple gossip. Uncle Damos should really get his priorities straight.