“Mistress,” said Ustin quietly.
Selemei heaved a sigh. “What is it, Ustin?”
“If you permit me to hear what happened, I may be able to advise you.”
The suggestion was made mildly enough, but anger flashed inside her. Selemei pushed up on one elbow. “You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you?” she said. “Here I’ve been thinking you guess what I want before I do, but really, you planned this whole thing. Why would you push me? Was it so you could wield power by being close to a cabinet member?”
Ustin replied coolly. “I have served a cabinet member already for twelve years, Mistress. My Master cannot speak for me, but I believe he would vouch for the quality of my service. For more, you would have to contact the Service Academy. I am certain they could quickly find me other employment.”
Guilt quenched her anger. Of course the Service Academy would stand by Ustin’s certification. And naturally someone who had been privy to the First Family’s cabinet secrets would be a coveted prize for a new employer. Xeref had said she does her job too well. Even now, Selemei couldn’t see how serving well could be a flaw.
She sat up. “My fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have accused you. I remember you saying you believed in the goals of the Indelis proposal. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d want me to carry out Xeref’s plan once he was gone.”
Ustin’s brows rose, arching her manservant’s mark. “Mistress, I shall presume.”
Selemei steeled herself. When Grivi had taken her in confidence, it had been shocking enough; but Ustin was a formidable weapon intended for gentlemen, her loyalty pledged to no one. “Please do.”
“Mistress, the Indelis proposal was entirely your idea,” Ustin said. “If you recall, I was not welcome at the confirmation party for your small cousin, but I stayed in the Maze and listened in case I was needed, and I heard what you said to the gentlemen of the First Family Council.” She struck reciting stance, one hand held behind her back. “ ‘Some of us are giving our efforts, while others are giving up our health, and others, like Lady Indelis, have given their lives. I imagine you could think of some way to protect our mothers better. Aren’t you all men of importance?’”
“Mai’s truth,” Selemei whispered. She recognized every word, but in the Imbati’s voice, they had changed from a frustrated outburst to a powerful demand. Her skin prickled.
“Especially after your act of courage in refusing further duties, your words struck Master Xeref deeply,” said Ustin. “You are why he created the proposal, and why he named it for Lady Indelis. He may have put your idea into the proper language of legislation, but even then, you persisted until you approved of its terms, because you understood what would benefit the ladies of the Grobal in a way he did not.”
Selemei shook her head, amazed. Intentionally or not, Ustin had just answered a question that she’d been unable to forget. “So, that’s why you came in to find me while Pelli was sleeping. You wanted to talk to me about my courage.”
Ustin looked her in the eye. “Courage is like a wysp,” she said. “It moves through barriers.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t move through this one,” Selemei sighed. “The Indelis proposal has been retired.”
“Retired,” Ustin agreed solemnly, “with a vote of fourteen to one.”
That wasn’t right. Selemei frowned. “No; the vote was twelve to four.”
Ustin’s eyes widened. The corners of her mouth bent slightly upwards. But they didn’t stop there; her lips parted over her teeth, and she was smiling—really, truly smiling. Selemei had only seen her Imbati nurse-escort smile once, after she’d gone to a public event at age five and been very, very good. Now, as then, it was puzzling and strangely exciting. Selemei got to her feet.
“Ustin, what is it?”
“Mistress, you won.”
“I don’t understand. Of course I didn’t.”
“Respectfully, Mistress, I differ.”
Selemei stared at her. “All right, Ustin, explain.”
Ustin inclined her head. “Mistress, you presented yourself before the cabinet. You claimed the at-large seat. You negotiated for and won the First Family’s support. You attended today’s meeting, even though Grobal Palimeyn tried to sabotage you. And in spite of cooperation between Third and Fifth families to stop you, you kept your seat and were permitted to vote.”
“Ustin, I have been nothing but humiliated. The Heir knocked me down at the last meeting. Palimeyn of the Third Family would have succeeded today if you hadn’t stopped him. My proposal failed miserably.”
“Mistress, a man who intended to stop a threat from a rival might hire an assassin. Grobal Palimeyn only intended to throw blood on you, to force you home to change your clothes.”
Her stomach lurched. “Heile have mercy.”
“I can only conclude that your fall was effective in convincing them that you do not pose a real threat. Your failure to pass the proposal today has no doubt sealed that impression. Their goal was to weaken the First Family; now they believe they have succeeded. But you managed to attract three allies with no effort at all, and now you sit among them, wielding a voice and a vote.” With the grace of long practice, Ustin got to her knees and bowed her tattooed forehead all the way to the floor. “Please, Lady. Accept my vow of service. I would be honored to continue to serve the First Family’s cabinet member.”
Selemei’s heart pounded. Suddenly, everything looked different. Yes, she’d sponsored a proposal that had been retired. It had felt like the end—but maybe it didn’t have to be.
With a voice and a vote, now she could negotiate laws over years. The next time she walked into a meeting, she need not be a machine. She could be a cabinet member the same way she was a mother: falling and standing up again, yet always persisting, nurturing the future.
“Thank you,” she said. “I accept.”
Lime and the One Human
S. Woodson
Once in early autumn, a particularly small and ragged fairy emerged from a hole at the roots of a tulip poplar, into the dazzling green light of the woods. The fairy wore a tattered dress of petals. A purple orchid, withered and vaguely sticky, perched atop her head, and around her neck hung a crude bit of jewelry fashioned from a bit of string and seven irregular beads. Each bead contained a book, shrunken to minuscule size and encased in a shell of magic. She carried no other provisions.
The fairy, like all of her kind, was nameless (which is to say that her true name was secret even to herself). Her preferred nickname was Lime, after the tree from which she had first germinated. Alighting on a yellowed leaf, she sprawled in the sun and began, briefly, to doze—for her long journey through the roots of the world had wearied her.
Five minutes later, she awoke, feeling much refreshed. She yawned, exposing the bulge of her venom glands and a mouthful of pointed green teeth. Her nose twitched. On the breeze, she could smell flowers.
Leaping into the air, Lime followed her nose to a clearing overgrown with the most wonderful variety of plants: clusters of verbena and anise hyssop, heliotrope and pansies, double-petaled impatiens and cone-flowers in every hue of the rainbow. With a cautious glance forwards and back, she flew into the clearing and landed on a mound of impatiens. She held one of the flowers in her hand.
She plucked the flower from its stalk, and at that very moment another fairy burst from cover of leaves and tackled her to the ground.