She walked out onstage, wearing one of the dresses they’d bought that first week. Her hair was still as long as ever, but at least she no longer wore it in an obviously provincial way. He thought she looked adorable and dared anyone to say otherwise. She gave a small, succinct introduction about her film and how it was inspired by being an immigrant. Her speech was delivered in a loud, clear voice, but he heard a few people around him grumble about the accent. No wonder she always seemed so irate after school.
Her film was brilliant—and he was certain it wasn’t just because of his bias. Her observations gave the Gemman audience a mirror for some of its odder idiosyncrasies, though he suspected most of tonight’s viewers didn’t find them odd at all. There was a poignancy to it that struck him deeply, and most of all, it was honest. Gemmans liked to act as though their world was out in the open, what with all the shows and documentaries peering into people’s lives. But they were all edited and dressed up to create an image. Reporters and directors defined the truth—even he did in his job, according to Tessa. She did none of that, though. She didn’t spin or sensationalize or grasp for things that weren’t there. She simply told the truth. It was a talent—no, a gift, that she didn’t even realize she possessed.
“Was it as bad as you thought?” Cynthia asked him later as they walked along a downtown sidewalk. They’d decided to take the family out to dinner, and Poppy—who Justin was sure really would be in a miscreant girls camp someday—had come along. Quentin and the two girls walked ahead, and he was attempting eight-year-old flirting, which Justin took as a promising sign.
“No.”
Cynthia gave Justin an expectant look. “This is the part where you say, ‘It was worse.’”
He smiled and shook his head. “It wasn’t.”
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” she asked when he said nothing else.
“Cyn, what do you think was ultimately wrong with Mom as a parent?”
Cynthia nearly tripped, and he caught hold of her arm. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“I don’t mean the obvious stuff. I mean, I do, but…I don’t know. There’s something more basic to her personality, something I’m trying to figure out, that had such an impact on the way she raised us.”
“There’s nothing secret or mystical about it, Justin. She’s an addict. Addicts have a dependence on certain substances and behaviors that become more important than everything else—even people. Even their children.”
“Have you been taking psych classes?”
“Every day of my life,” she retorted.
He stared ahead, barely seeing the crowds and endlessly flashing advertisements. “You know, when they came to offer me admission to the Hart School, they gave Mom a chance for you too.”
“Yes,” said Cynthia quietly. “I found out about that later.”
It was something they rarely spoke about but that always lay between them. Justin had been “discovered” one day in the Anchorage Summer Market by a woman who taught at a private school on the other side of the city, in a much more affluent neighborhood. She’d been dazzled by his and Cynthia’s guessing-game performance and questioned them extensively about it. He’d realized immediately that her interest was legitimate and had eagerly explained the way he watched people, turning on all the charisma he’d already learned at eleven. Cynthia, younger and warier, had thought they were going to get into trouble and had been reluctant to speak.
Although both siblings had impressed the woman, her power to get a charity scholarship could only initially extend to one student, and she’d chosen Justin. That switch had changed his life. Being put among students from affluent and well-educated tiers of society had propelled Justin toward one himself, opening doors he never could have had in his old life. His benefactor had later found a workaround way to get Cynthia in, but it required more government hoops than their mother was willing to jump through. Cynthia had been left behind.
“Why wouldn’t she do it?” Justin asked Cynthia. “She loved us. In her way. All she would’ve had to do was fill out some paperwork and get a job—any job, even a part-time one—and they would’ve processed you through too. She could’ve even managed a subsidy to move across town!”
“It was too risky,” Cynthia said. “She would’ve lost her rations and federal allowance.”
“But she’s a gambler. And between the subsidy and job, she would’ve ended up making more. She could’ve gotten high more often. She should’ve liked that.”
“Too risky. Her life wasn’t ideal, but it was comfortable and familiar. If she’d gone to all that trouble to get me transferred too, and something went wrong—like I hated the school or she lost her job—it would’ve been a bitch to go through all the social-aid procedure again.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t it have been worth the risk that you might achieve greatness?”
“I’ll ignore the subtext there—that I obviously haven’t achieved greatness. But the point remains: Even though she liked to gamble, there were some risks Mom wouldn’t take, not when her comfort was on the line. She went with the sure thing.” Cynthia eyed him carefully. “Why do I have a feeling this isn’t really about Mom?”
“It’s about Tessa,” he said in a rare moment of transparency. “I’m trying to make a decision that’ll affect her future.”
It took Cynthia several moments to process that, and when she did, her face was full of incredulity. “Why did you even use the word ‘trying’? There’s nothing to decide. Just do what’s best for her.”
“Doing it involves a risk,” he said.
“Then you’d better decide how important her ‘greatness’ is to you.”
Justin pondered her words over dinner and said little to the others. When they got back home later, he went straight to his office and finally sent one of the reports off to Cornelia. As he did, he noticed he had an unread message from Lucian.
Justin,
Word’s gotten around about the brilliant servitor and valiant prætorian responsible for busting open the patrician murders. Don’t worry, I’ll let them keep thinking you’re a genius—because that’s the kind of friend I am. In return, a good friend like you should come to an upcoming fund-raiser the party’s having for me, and you should bring your valiant prætorian. It’s black-tie, and I’ll make sure you’re seated with some of the prettier donors. No one will think twice about heroes coming to an event like that, even patrician ones. Think about it, and convince her too. I already asked her and haven’t heard anything back. It’s a pretty clever compromise, though, one that’ll finally give me the semblance of an evening out with her that won’t end up on the national news.
Whatever satisfaction Justin felt at learning Mae was ignoring Lucian was immediately killed when he got to “clever compromise.” The world came grinding to a halt, and Justin gripped the arms of his chair. Clever compromise. Those were the words Geraki had used in the Internal Security holding cell when he’d claimed the god he served had a message for Justin. Yield your stars and flowers and accept the clever compromise.
That was what this god wanted? For Justin to help set Mae up on a faux date with Lucian? It was ridiculous.
You promised Geraki you would, Horatio warned him. When he helped you find the Morrigan. You said you’d do what our boss asked.
That was before I knew what it was! No way am I going to help set Mae up with Lucian, even for something like this. He just wants her because he can’t have her. He knows nothing about her except that the pants she had on when they met made her ass look great.