Soulstar

by C. L. Polk

  Grace sparkled when she smiled. “I have a meeting with him this afternoon,” she said. “Do you want to help me prepare for it?”

  “Are you quitting or getting fired?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll resign. But not before I make it plain I’m deserting his side.”

  “What are you already planning to do?”

  Grace tilted her head, looking up at the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts. “I know your spouse wants to manufacture wind turbines.”

  The words put a needle in my heart. It was going to be like this whenever someone who didn’t know talked to me about Zelind. I rubbed at my chest, soothing it away. “Yes. Khe does. What is your thought?”

  “If I gave King Severin a document detailing the decision made by the Free Government about getting aether turbines to the people, he’d be angry enough to fire me.”

  “He could just refuse,” I said. “It’s not enough. You need to go bigger than that.”

  Grace leaned a little closer. “How much bigger?”

  “What happened to the witches who were taken from their families and imprisoned in labor camps masquerading as asylums can never be fully compensated,” I said, “but I’ve done some figuring.”

  “I’m not sure King Severin will fire me over asking for an increase to their pensions.”

  “Not pensions, Grace. Morally, every cent of profit generated by the scheme to monopolize aether belongs to the witches who suffered profoundly to produce it.”

  “Morally, you’re correct. But no one will ever agree to that,” Grace said. “Give me a number I can fight for. A number that people will debate over.”

  I cocked my head. “Really?”

  “Really. Make it hurt, but I want to see it happen.”

  “All right.” I took a deep breath. “Twenty-five percent of all the profits reaped by APL in the four decades of its operation, adjusted by base investment interest.”

  Grace sat back and sighed between pursed lips. “Lump sum or annual payment?”

  “Annual payments for twenty-five years, payable to the witch or the witch’s estate.”

  “And for the witches who are already dead?”

  “Closest living relative.”

  “You thought about this,” Grace said.

  “Do you think it will work?”

  “Oh yes,” Grace said. “You’re much better at this than I am. Let me write this down. “Twenty-five percent of APL’s total profits, plus compounded interest, split equally between every witch imprisoned in an asylum, to be paid to each witch, or their estate, or their closest living relative.” Grace gazed at her own handwriting for a moment. “It’s fair. It’s a painful penalty, but it’s payable.”

  “Do you want to hold another conference to announce your support for Solidarity?”

  “Not right away,” Grace said. “I’m happy to come work for you, but the official announcement can wait.”

  This was a plum, and I couldn’t wait to tell—I rubbed at my chest again and smiled at Grace. “I think we’re going to do great things together,” I said.

  Grace smiled back. “I know we will, Right Honorable. Will I see you at the sitting tonight?”

  When I saw Grace later this evening, we would talk of business. And politics. And maybe I could ask her to listen to my problems with Solidarity. Maybe we could talk like this again.

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “I’ll save you a drink.”

  * * *

  A sitting wasn’t the same as a party, though white Aelanders thought it was. You held sittings a few weeks after a funeral. You wore fine clothing, and if you had given the bereaved food, your dish would be returned to you. There was food and drink, but no music unless someone sang. You brought gifts for the bereaved, and no one played any games.

  I had stretched a length of silk scarf and painted it in long, pale stripes of blue and green, Jacob’s favorite colors. I wore a hand-hooked lace dress with draping sleeves, the beads in my hair silver and blue, for the sea and mourning. I walked in thick, practical winter boots that didn’t match my outfit at all, with a pair of delicate, beaded black slippers tucked into the bag slung over my shoulder.

  The street outside Duke and Winnie’s was jammed with sleds. Horses stood snug and comfortable in quilted blankets, eating from buckets. Drivers stood in a huddle, smoking as they talked among themselves. I waved to them and they waved back, and one of them jogged out of the gathering to open the door for me.

  I was perfectly timed—I had arrived after the gathering had begun, but I wasn’t rudely late. Voices hummed through the air, blending into unintelligible, comforting sound, leading me up the stairs and to the open door. I let myself in. I put on my fancy slippers; Althea took my coat.

  The pianochord was covered in gifts. I left my modestly wrapped package and ran the gauntlet of guests who wanted to shake my hand and ask questions about the new government and my future plans or give suggestions on what to do next.

  “You should have fought that spoiled ballot nonsense,” Fanny Harper, one of Duke’s bandmates, said to me. “That Jarom Bay stole our votes, and you should have fought for them.”

  “I could have,” I said to the woman who played rhythm guitar. “But then the Free Government would have taken a back seat to my duties in the House.”

  She nodded, and her drink came precariously close to spilling. “But you could have had a place at the table. Now, after the riot—”

  “Robin,” Preston Grimes said. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Fanny. I need to talk to Robin. It’s important.”

  He didn’t wait for a response before he took my arm and hustled me toward Tupper Bell, towering in a corner like a thundercloud.

  “We compared notes,” Tupper said, staring me down. “On what you told us about your investigation.”

  They were angry at me. I looked from one to the other, warmth flooding my hands and up my back. I could have wept with relief. Preston and Tupper were gossips, not spies. I could trust them, and my smile stretched across my face.

  “I wouldn’t grin like that if I were you,” Tupper said, in his best school headmaster voice. “You told us lies. We deserve an explanation.”

  “Indeed,” Preston said. “We should be able to trust you. Why are you happy?”

  “I’m just so relieved,” I said. “I have a terrible secret, and now I can share it with you.”

  “What secret?” Tupper asked. “Why did you tell us two different stories?”

  I stepped in closer. “I have reason to believe someone on the steering committee is spying on us.”

  “And so you gave us misinformation to see which story leaked,” Preston said.

  “I did. I’m sorry I tested you to see what information made it free. But neither of you is the spy.”

  Tupper glanced over our heads at the gathered crowd. “What do you know so far? We can help.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I said. “I have guesses. I think the spy informed about Jacob’s plan to hold an election, and our enemy—let’s call them A—hired an assassin to murder Jacob. I also think the spy leaked the truth about Jacob’s marriage, and A used it to tarnish Jacob’s reputation.”

  “To make people think that the leader of the movement, who talked so much about morality, was himself immoral,” Preston said. “That makes sense. And you headed it off as well as anyone could.”

  “It’s like I tell my students,” Tupper said. “‘Never tell a lie when the truth will do.’ But who else knew about Jacob’s triangle marriage? I did.”

  “So did I.”

  “Right,” I said. “And Winnie told me as much. So when you both came to me asking about Jacob’s murder, I had to test you. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” Tupper said. “And I’m glad you know you can trust us—”

  “She’s here,” Preston said. “The Daughter of the Gates.”

  We turned toward the door, where the spectacularly tall Grand Duchess of the Solace and her constant companion, th
e dark and staggeringly handsome Ysonde, walked into the room. Ysonde held a rosewood secretary set, and the crowd parted so the two could stand before Winnie and Duke, who had risen to their feet to receive the Daughter of the Gates.

  “Thank you so much for the apple bread,” Winnie said. “It was a comfort. I have your bread wrap here—”

  Winnie picked up a square of waxed cloth and Aife took it, tucking it inside a silken pouch. “I’m glad you were comforted by it. We have a gift.”

  Ysonde offered the secretary set. “There are books suitable for meditations inside, if you practice in that way.”

  Winnie opened the top of the lap desk and drew out a hand-bound diary. “I should start,” she said. “I could write about him.”

  The women next to Winnie admired the set with oohs and ahhs. Aife didn’t realize it, but she had just started a fashion. Everyone would buy secretary sets and books for meditation. Penmakers were going to have orders out the door.

  Duke took out the second book and compared it to Winnie’s. “Thank you,” Duke said. “This is a great comfort. Do you want to start writing in the morning, Wins?”

  “Yes.” Winnie cradled the book in her arms. “Let’s do it every morning.”

  Aife glanced toward a seat, and the person who had been resting there stepped aside. Her secretary perched on the wide, padded arm by her side.

  “I liked Jacob very much,” Aife said. “But I don’t know that much about him.”

  At that, people clumped up to speak to each other again, letting Winnie and Duke tell stories about Jacob, recalling him with fond memories. Stories about the dead were supposed to draw the spirit back to the gathering, to hear all the gossip and be remembered. If Jacob was listening, I didn’t know it.

  I turned back to Preston. “I need to know if anyone else on the steering committee knew about Jacob’s marriage. I didn’t know, though I should have figured it out.”

  “I’ll stick my nose into other people’s business,” Preston said. “Who do you think this person is spying for?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe Albert Jessup—”

  “Wait,” Tupper said. “I think I know.”

  He gestured at us to follow him into the crowded sitting room and paused before a photograph mounted on the wall—there had been a still life painted there before, but now there was a photo of a wedding gathering.

  Winnie was in the center of the front row, with Jacob on one side and Duke on the other. They held hands and smiled serenely at the camera. Duke was the only white person in the picture—the others were Brewers and Clarkes, and I scanned over the faces, looking at their expressions.

  All of these people knew. Did any of them have reason to tell tales to the papers? Did any of them—

  I stopped. I pointed at a little girl near the front of the gathering, her skirt covering her knees. She was a child in that photo, but I knew that face.

  “There,” I said. “There’s our spy.”

  She had the soft, full face of childhood, but the dimple in her chin was there. The shape of her eyes was the same, and so was her smile.

  “That’s Gaby Meadows,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  Tupper leaned in closer and nodded. “That’s her.”

  Preston studied every single face in the photograph, particularly the young women. “She would have been Brewer then.”

  “Meadows is her professional name,” I said. “Brewers of the Fragrant Meadows.”

  I stared at the picture of Gaby as a young girl. What would have led her to spy on the collective? Why would she betray us—to Albert Jessup, of all people? Gaby headed the committee dedicated to price control on dairy products. She had led brilliant protests against Jessup Family Foods. She was working for Jessup? All this time?

  “What do we do?” Preston asked. “She’s been on the committee for months.”

  “Because she pushed the deal to supply schools with subsidized staples, and she got that Wholesome Kitchens education program sponsored by Jessup Family Foods.” Tupper looked at the picture of Gaby with a fierce frown pinning his lips shut. “We’ve been had.”

  “We talk to her,” I said. My middle trembled. How could she do this? She had made so much progress—or, at least, Jessup had made it seem as if she had won victories against him. “Is she coming to the gathering?”

  “I don’t know,” Tupper said. “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Let’s look around,” I said, and a soft hand on my shoulder made me turn to see Tristan, sighing with relief.

  “Robin. There you are,” Tristan said. “We’ve been searching everywhere.”

  “Ahoy.” Preston put out his hand, and Tristan shook it. “You’re Miles’s sweetheart, aren’t you?”

  “You know Miles,” Tristan said, a lovely smile on his face. “I was just searching for Robin on his behalf. Do you mind terribly if I steal her away?”

  Tristan was already steering me toward one of the tall glass doors that led to the dining room. I waved at Preston and turned to Tristan, my voice hushed.

  “I found her,” I said. “I know who my spy is.”

  “In a moment,” Tristan said. “We have to tell you something.”

  Miles waited next to the punch bowl, but instead of taking over a corner, he led the way out of the apartment completely, stopping at the end of the hall for privacy.

  “What are we doing out here?”

  “You have a problem,” Miles said. “I investigated Caitrin Scholar and Evelyn Plemmons.”

  My heart beat a little faster. “Which one is our killer?”

  “Neither,” Miles said. “Caitrin was at a career day at Queen Agnes Junior Academy. She was talking about being a professional musician to twenty schoolchildren when Jacob was killed.”

  “And Evelyn Plemmons was in court, testifying in a robbery case,” Tristan said. “She was in the docket when the murder happened.”

  “That means they all have alibis,” I said. “None of them did it.”

  “It might be worse than that,” Miles said.

  “How? We’re nowhere.”

  “Caitrin and Evelyn are innocent, by the virtue of many witnesses. But Laura Debenham only has the word of one person.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s the word of the King—”

  A king who disparaged the Solidarity movement. Who likened us to rabble. But I shook my head. “He abolished the Witchcraft Protection Act. Why would he set the witches free, and then kill the man responsible for their freedom? He could have just said no.”

  “The Amaranthines wanted the witches free,” Tristan said. “It was a goodwill gesture.”

  “But it didn’t satisfy Solidarity,” I said. “He asked me if we were going to stop protesting now that he had given the witches their freedom. But we didn’t.”

  “And what Jacob wanted next directly threatened Severin’s rule,” Miles said.

  “Severin enjoys being thought of as a generous king,” Tristan said. “I have no doubt that he intends to bring changes to Aeland. But he’s been waiting for his turn at the throne for decades. Aife thought he would be a better choice than Constantina.”

  “He is,” I said. “Or, at least I thought he was. Do you honestly think he sent his bodyguard to kill Jacob?”

  “I checked the duty roster,” Miles said. “Laura Debenham was on shift. She reported being in the shooting range with him. Who would question the word of the Crown?”

  “We would,” I said. “But if you’re right—what do I do? How do I expose him? How do I prove that the King is responsible for a murder?”

  “That’s something I thought Grace might help with. You haven’t seen her?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Nowhere.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Miles said. “She’s never late. I was the late one. She’d literally push me out of bed and make me get ready early when we were children. She should be here.”

  I watched a well-dressed couple climb the stairs and enter the Clarkes’ apa
rtment. “Maybe cleaning out her office took longer than she thought it would.”

  Miles cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you see her today for lunch?”

  “She sent her regrets, and promised to see us tonight,” Miles said. “Did you see her?”

  “She wanted my help,” I said. “She was angry, toweringly angry. She’d said that she couldn’t get through to Severin, that Sir Christopher had all the influence, and that Severin wants to put down the ‘mob.’ That’s what he calls the Solidarity Collective.”

  “What was she going to do?”

  “She wanted to quit,” I said. “After she made it utterly clear that she was on Solidarity’s side. She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” Miles held onto Tristan for support. “If we’re right about Severin being behind Jacob’s murder, if he’s listening to Father instead of Grace—if she went in there to deliberately make Severin angry enough that he would—”

  “What did Grace do?” Tristan asked. “What specifically did she plan on saying to Severin?”

  “She was going to outline Solidarity’s request for reparations.”

  Tristan rubbed Miles’s shoulder. “How much?”

  “Twenty-five percent of the company’s total profit, plus interest.”

  Miles’s head came up. “Twenty-five percent? What does that mean in marks?”

  “Millions,” I said. “Close to forty million marks.”

  “He’d never say yes to that,” Miles said. “He’d fire her. At the very least.”

  “And what would your father do,” Tristan asked, “if he knew his child had turned on him so completely?”

  “He’d punish her,” Miles said. “He’d— We have to find her. We have to go to the palace. What if he locked her up in prison?”

  “Let’s do this calmly. We’ll start here and go through this systematically,” Tristan said.

  “Maybe she’s on her way,” I said. “One moment.”

  I closed my eyes and stretched out my senses. I thought of Grace’s ostentatious orange sleigh, of the horses who trotted perfectly in step with each other, of white-wigged, liveried George who drove her everywhere.