“I’ll take it back to my people and see what they think tonight,” said Justin.
“I appreciate that,” said the Grand Disciple. “Though I’m sure that, ultimately, they’d defer to your opinion on such matters.” He rose to his feet, and Justin immediately followed suit. “Come, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you’ve had a long day and would probably like to rest. If you’d like to speak to me again, simply let your host know, and we’ll make it happen.”
The two men walked toward the doorway, passing by Mae. The Grand Disciple came to a stop and regarded her with a look that managed to be both fond and condescending. “So this is your secretary? Nehitimar has commanded us that women are best subdued as servants of the home, though Enoch likes to keep telling me that a day may come when we must turn some of ours out to other jobs if we wish to compete globally.” He held out his hand for Mae’s notebook. Having nothing to hide in it, she handed it over wordlessly. He grunted in approval as he skimmed the pages. “Excellent penmanship. I’d been led to believe Gemmans were so dependent on machines that you could barely spell your names.”
Justin leaned in to look at the notebook. “Well, hers is certainly better than mine. She comes from a culture that values such, uh, art forms.”
It was true. The castes didn’t cling to antiquated technology like the Arcadians did, but there was an emphasis on cultivating skills viewed as signs of civilization. Handwriting, even in an age where devices could do most of the work for you, was one such skill. Mae had spent many hours drilled in practicing writing letters over and over.
The Grand Disciple glanced up sharply at Justin’s words. “Is she from one of the patriarchies?”
Justin looked uneasy at the sudden interest. “Yes. Nordic.”
The priest fixed his gaze on her with such intensity that she felt as though he could see right through the veil. Then, most astonishingly of all, he reached toward her face, letting his hand hover there as he shot Justin a questioning look.
“May I?”
Justin appeared understandably confused, his eyes darting to Mae as though he might get some sign from her, but she was equally puzzled. “Yes,” he said at last.
Slowly, carefully, the Grand Disciple lifted the semi-opaque veil that hung over her face, removing the black haze from her vision. With equal care, he pushed back the heavier grayish brown scarf that had wrapped around her head and obscured her hair. His breath caught, and he let his hand return to his side as he scrutinized her. Mae wasn’t easily intimidated, but something in those dark eyes made her skin crawl. That, and there was just something about being near him that made her feel ill at ease. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before, and although she couldn’t pinpoint any specific danger, her implant responded accordingly to her discomfort.
“Exquisite,” said the Grand Disciple, leaning close. “We have lovely women here, you know. But many of them—and many of us— carry the marks of what you call Cain.”
“What do you call it?” asked Justin, sounding curious in spite of himself.
“Nehitimar’s justice. The virus that devastated the world was part of his plan, to remind those who, in their arrogance, had forgotten who was truly ruler of this world. It was a righteous punishment that we bore gladly, and those who’ve inherited the marks wear theirs with pride as well.”
Not all of them, apparently. This close, Mae could see where the priest had had treatments done and knew Justin must’ve noticed as well.
“Your country accepted the vaccine when ours invented it,” said Justin lightly.
“Well,” said the Grand Disciple, shooting Justin a wry look, “I wouldn’t say ‘accepted’ so much as purchased at exorbitant rates—and that was only when your country was willing to sell, which certainly took a while. But believe me, you wouldn’t have ‘invented’ it if it hadn’t been Nehitimar’s will. We had served our penance, and he’d determined our time was up. We did not try to skirt our punishment by whoring out our population in unholy pacts with other nations—no matter how attractive the results.”
Mae knew that genetic swapping was one of the points of contention that had driven the RUNA and Arcadia apart. The Arcadians had refused to entertain the idea of aggressively mixing their populations with those of Asia, even though early evidence had shown those of heterogeneous backgrounds had greater resistance to Mephistopheles and Cain. She had not, however, known the Arcadians described it in terms of “whoring out” and “unholy pacts.”
“But you.” The Grand Disciple fixed his attention back on Mae, resting his hand on her cheek. She froze. “You aren’t the result of sullied blood and breeding. And to be so unmarked . . . you must come from a blessed lineage.” He abruptly turned to Justin. “She’s yours?”
Justin’s eyes were on the Grand Disciple’s hand, still on Mae’s cheek. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Leave her with me tonight, and I’ll make you a wealthy man. Gold and jewels exchange easily in both our countries.”
Justin made no jokes, no diplomatic quips. His answer came swift and sudden, with a harshness that astonished Mae. “No.”
“It’s quite common with concubines here,” the Grand Disciple said. “Nehitimar has decreed that their bodies may be freely shared among the faithful—or even the unfaithful, as the case may be.” When no response came, he sighed. “I suppose this is where you loftily tell me Gemman women aren’t for sale.”
“No,” said Justin evenly, “this is where I tell you I don’t share.”
For a moment, the whole room was still. Then, the Grand Disciple removed his hand and laughed uproariously, an unexpected sound that startled Mae. He straightened up, and some—but not all—of the tension went out of Justin.
“I can’t say that I blame you, and I’m not going to quibble over a mere woman when the more important task of spreading Nehitimar’s message is on the line.” He gave Mae one last lingering look. “But you’d best cover her before you leave this space.”
By the time Hansen arrived to escort them out of the temple, Mae was sufficiently Cloistered again. After flowery farewells from the Grand Disciple, she and Justin left, neither saying a word to the other until they were in the car.
“Are you okay?” he asked in Mandarin.
“Are you?” she returned. “You looked like you were ready to—” He shook his head. “Wait until we’re back.”
Mae bit back her questions and turned her gaze out the window as the car drove through downtown Divinia. She was looking forward to getting back to Carl’s, even if it meant more housework, so that she could finally move freely and see without the veil’s smoggy haze. Their car stopped at a light in one of the city’s more depressed areas, and suddenly, something made her do a double take and break her silence.
“What’s that?” she asked Justin.
He followed where she pointed, to a small building on a corner with a red velvet flag hanging over the door. There were no windows or markings of any other kind.
“A salon,” he said.
“Where they keep girls . . . for sale.”
“When the red’s out, it means they have girls available who’ve hit puberty. They can’t be sold before then, and they have to be at least thirteen.”
“Thirteen? Is that supposed to be some kind of safeguard?” she asked in disgust.
“It’s the best the government can do to show some sort of responsibility. And I’ve heard that in a few of the more remote and rural salons . . . well, those rules aren’t always enforced.”