by Lyn Forester
Connor grabs the palm-port and reappears on screen. “Keep in touch, Sparks. I’m sure we’ll see you soon.”
Across the room, motion draws my attention to Nikola’s door as it slides open. My pseudo-secretary walks through, perfectly groomed despite the hour.
His eyebrows lift when he sees me already awake. “Caitlyn, good morning.”
“Who the fu—”
I press end before Felix’s angry voice can complete the question.
Nikola’s eyes narrow. “My apologies. I did not realize you were conferencing so early in the morning. I would have come sooner to assist you into proper attire.”
“Just some friends from school checking in to make sure I arrived safely.” Guilt bubbles in my stomach to marginalize them like that, but my relationship, shaky as it is, is not open for discussion.
Nikola walks further into the room, face expressionless as he heads for the closet. “Male friends?”
I tug the robe closer at my neck. “There aren’t many females in my class.”
“I hope they aren’t taking advantage of you.” His voice echoes as he enters the bathroom, followed by the sound of rushing water. When he returns, his brows crease with concern. “As the Lonette family’s heir, there are those who would try to get closer to you for your status.”
My throat tightens. I considered that the first time the guys refused to accept my rejection, but ultimately disregarded it. The guys came from powerful families themselves; they had no reason to try to use me. Now, though, the doubt slides back in, refilling the empty hole that waits for it.
I push the feeling away. “No, they’re not like that.”
Pity flickers across his face before it disappears. “If you say so.”
“I do.” My voice pitches up at the end, making it more of a question than a firm statement of fact.
“Your bath should be ready.” He lifts a palm-port from his front pocket. “The stylist will be here in an hour. I’ll have the maid bring up your breakfast while you bathe. A new robe is on the hook beside the door.”
“Thank you.” Relieved he doesn’t offer to assist me, I swing my legs out of bed and stand.
As I hurry past him, he catches my arm. His worried gaze meets mine, voice quiet as if others might overhear. “Your father did you a disservice in homeschooling you. He should have sent you to study with your peers and learn to recognize subterfuge early on.”
I freeze, his words resonating my own concerns. “What are you saying?”
“In school, they teach us to lie, to hide what we feel.” His gaze searches my face. “You’re an open book right now, and I worry it’s left you too vulnerable.”
Coldness spreads through my body as he voices my deepest fears out loud. I shiver and pull free of his grasp. “I appreciate your concern.”
“I’ll teach you what you need to look out for and how to guard yourself. I’ve trained for this, too.” His hand touches my back, a light pressure to propel me forward. “I’ll protect you, Caitlyn.”
His unspoken words hang in the air between us. Even if it’s from yourself.
BURDENS
A quiet knock comes from outside the bathroom, and I yank my robe into place as the door slides open. Nikola strides in with a fresh pair of slippers in hand.
He smiles when his eyes land on me standing at the vanity. “Good, you’re finished. I didn’t want to rush you, but the stylist is already here. He’s setting up now.”
“I could be faster if we installed a sanitizer.” Sweat from the bath beads on my skin as I glance around the large bathroom. The space between the two-person bathtub and the waterfall shower is large enough to fit a unit. “We should waste fewer water resources anyway.”
Sanitization units use special lights and a vapor designed by the Riellio clan. In under a minute, the mist cleans the entire body of all dirt, sweat, and oil. APA has two installed in the dorm bathrooms, but only a few students use them, the rest preferring the standard water-based showers. I ventured into one only last week and never felt cleaner. The only downside came in the need to apply extra moisturizer after.
“Here, have a seat.” Nikola bends slightly at the waist to pull out the upholstered stool hidden beneath the vanity. “I will call in a contract and have a sanitizer installed before your next return home.”
“Thank you.” I take the offered seat, unsurprised when he kneels in front of me. “I used one at APA, and it made me wonder why we don’t have them here.”
“I believe the matriarch had them removed once they became common on Level 10.” His fingers, cool against my heated skin, cup my right heel and lift my foot to slide the new slipper on. He sets my foot down and repeats the process with my left foot, quick and proficient, before rising to stand behind me. “I’ll braid your hair for now. Once the stylist leaves and we have your outfit chosen for the day, I’ll redo it.”
I shift to face the mirror, forcing my body to stay relaxed as I wait for his touch. Even knowing the answer, I can’t help but ask, “Can’t we leave it down for now?”
He shakes his head as he finger combs my hair. “Long hair is currently out of fashion.” He lifts the red curls off my shoulder to expose the long line of my neck. “Unless you want to cut it?”
“No!” My fists clench as warmth creeps up my neck, a tide of pink to show my embarrassment. It’s only hair, but it’s one of the few things I’ve retained control over in my life. Clearing my throat, I meet Nikola’s black eyes in the mirror. “Please braid it.”
He smiles with relief. “Thank goodness. I’d hate for my supplementary classes to go to waste.”
“Supplementary classes?”
His fingers hit a tangle, and he gently works it free before answering. “In different styles for long hair. Right now, they’re only teaching classes for short hair.”
I fidget with the edge of my robe as he begins to deftly weave my curls into a smooth braid. “Why would you take extra classes then?”
“I heard from the maids how fiercely you resist cutting it. It made me happy.” His head drops lower, but not before I spot the hint of red staining his cheeks. “You have beautiful hair.”
His obvious embarrassment increases my own until we look like a pair of strawberries.
He clears his throat and steps back. “Done.”
I reach back to feel the braid looped back and forth across the back of my head. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Caitlyn.” His cool fingers brush against my exposed nape before they drop to my robe, and he tugs it into place. “Ready?”
I sigh. “As I’ll ever be.”
He cups my elbow to help me stand, his other hand moving to my lower back as he teases, “It won’t be that bad.”
I slip free of his touch to march forward. “Yes, it will be.”
We come out of the bathroom into a flurry of motion in my bedroom.
In high heels and a tight-waisted vest, the stylist appears much the same as the last time we met, right before I left for APA. Now, though, he sports a slender mustache, sleek and waxed into sharp points at the corners of his mouth. It quivers as he directs one of his assistants to stack bolts of shimmering white cloth on the bench at the foot of my bed. It’s programmable to take on any shade in the color spectrum, and engineered to resist stains, wrinkles, and scent. The cost of a single outfit is outside the price range for most households below Level 11.
His other assistant, a tall, slender man clothed all in white, drags a wheeled suitcase into the room and gently lays it at the stylist’s feet. Kneeling, he undoes the buckles with quiet clicks and lifts the lid.
After the stylist lifts the mannequin out, the assistants whisk the box away. The form unfolds from its case to stand at roughly the same height as myself. Powered down, the faux flesh that covers its exterior has an unhealthy gray cast to it. I cringe to see the disturbing doll; although it’s better than the older method of standing for hours to model the clothing options myself. The stylist positions the m
annequin in the center of the room and moves to its back to slide open a panel of buttons. He punches in a code and a quiet hum fills the room.
Without looking up, he waves an imperious hand in my direction. “Miss Lonette, if you are ready?”
He sounds impatient, as if being here is an inconvenience for him. And it probably is. Did he cancel another appointment to make room for me today on such short notice? Or does he have another to get to at a more reasonable time of day?
Nikola’s hand on my shoulder stops me, and he leans forward, breath warm in my ear as he whispers, “Master Pannor.”
His hand slides to between my shoulder blades with gentle pressure, and I hurry forward. “Thank you, Master Pannor, for making time in your busy schedule.”
The stylist straightens, pleased to be remembered. “I am always available when House Lonette calls.”
I position myself in front of the mannequin, uncomfortable under its lifeless stare.
“A little closer.” Master Pannor waits until I take a step forward and makes a few minor adjustments. “Hold very still.”
White light fills the dolls faux-skin and creeps across the plush carpet until it reaches my slipper covered feet. It fans upward across my body, penetrating the robe, to tingle across my skin. I force my eyes to remain open as it reaches my face, and the tingles crawl behind my ears, up over my head, then down my back like scuttling bugs.
“Perfect,” Master Pannor exclaims as the light shuts off. “Done on the first try.”
I resist the urge to rub my arms and legs. My skin crawls, and I want nothing more than to go back to the bathroom and scrub myself anew. Instead, I wait while Nikola brings me a chair from the sitting area. As I sit, I consider demanding he leave. The next step is beyond mortifying.
But he knows more about the clothes I’ll need than I do, so I bite my tongue and wait as the mannequin slowly morphs, shrinking, and rippling until it forms a perfect replica of me, only a very naked me.
It displays every last detail, down to the dusting of golden freckles across my shoulders and the shadow between my thighs.
I wish for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
“Ah, good!” Master Pannor bustles around my replicant, a palm-port in hand. “You have lost an inch in your waist. This will be advantageous.” He frowns for a moment. “Though, the breasts are still the same.” He taps at the device in his hands. “Perhaps with a reduction, we can make you appear more thin—”
“No body modifications,” Nikola interrupts.
“Yes, you’re right, there’s not enough time.” Distracted, Master Pannor taps at his palm-port. “A note for the future, when time constraints allow.”
I fold my arms protectively over my breasts. No body modifications, ever. I refuse to become one of the ever-morphing elite, ballooning and deflating to fit within the current fashion. Nikola’s hand touches my shoulder in reassurance.
“The height will be an issue.” The stylist snaps his fingers in the general direction of his assistants, and one rushes forward with a case in hand.
He pops it open, then turns the case on outstretched arms to display the items inside. Foam molds around six pairs of shoes with varying heel heights, from one to seven inches. I stiffen in horror as his hand hovers over the last pair. I’ll break my neck in those things.
Master Pannor pauses, and I slump with relief as his arm drops back to his side. In the next moment, though, he shakes his head with an irritated tsk. “None of these are tall enough. We need eight inches, minimum. Otherwise, Miss Lonette will be lost among the other party goers.”
My hands ball into fists. This is just like last time, where my height and current fashion clash. Why did grandmother design me to be small? Every female generation before mine has been statuesque, my grandmother’s own height rivaling that of a pureblood halion. Some days, it feels like everything about me was engineered to fail societal expectation.
My stomach tightens. I should say something before I end up with outfits I can’t function in. But the words stick in my throat. A lifetime of learning silence in this house makes speaking impossible.
Nikola hand moves to cup my neck briefly before he steps forward. “Are you questioning the Lonette family’s design for their current generation?”
Master Pannor’s face blanches. “No, I would never! It’s just that current fashion—”
“Instead of trying to force demi-Councillor Lonette into a fashion ill-suited for her, you should strive to set a new trend.” Nikola’s brow arches. “Or, did we make an error in selecting you as the family stylist?”
“No, you are entirely correct.” Master Pannor snaps his fingers at his assistant. “What are you doing? Get me the flats. Leton’s first family will set the trend.”
“Set it quickly.” Nikolas removes a palm-port from inside his jacket. “We need an outfit for breakfast with the matriarch by the first hour of Half-Light.”
Over the next hour, Master Pannor goes into a styling frenzy of plunging v-necks, vertical stripes, short jackets, high waists… My brain goes numb watching him cinch and flounce the mannequin.
At last, though, he delivers the first of my new outfits. A pair of high-waisted, brown trousers that end at mid-calf and hug my legs without being too clingy. He pairs them with open heeled, black shoes with silver buckles on top and a short, V-necked blouse with a small vine pattern on it. The light material flutters around my waist as I walk back into the bathroom, and Nikola styles my hair into a loose chignon.
As he works, I stare at my hands clenched tightly together in my lap. “Thank you, Nikola.”
“For what?” He catches an errant curl and tucks it back into place.
My fingers tighten until my skin turns white. “For standing up for me.”
He freezes for a moment before his hands settle on my shoulders. “I will always protect you, Caitlyn.”
“Yes.” I force my hands to relax as I meet his dark gaze. “You do your job well.”
“It’s not just a job to me. Being here is everything I’ve ever wanted.” His hands slide to cup my neck, his usually cool skin hot against my skin. “If you choose me as your secretary, I’ll devote my entire life to making sure you’re happy.”
My eyes drop, unable to hold his gaze any longer, and I focus on the vanity drawer where I stashed my converter coil necklace earlier. Its promise reaches out to me through the small lock on the drawer, pushing at me not to forget.
I don’t want to spend my entire life trapped by Lonette Manor. When I leave, it will be a minor inconvenience to my family to have to breed a new heir. But Nikola’s dreams ride on me staying to fulfill my duty.
It’s a burden I never planned to bear.
“Come, you don’t want to keep your grandmother waiting.” As his hands drop away, they leave hot imprints around my throat that feel like a noose.
CHOICES
My palm-port vibrates against my arm as we stand in the lift on our way to the fifth floor where grandmother keeps residence. I reach up my sleeve and pull it free from the hidden strap Master Pannor designed to prevent the device from ruining the line of my clothes.
A pink puffball dances across the screen, and I glance at Nikola. “What time is breakfast?”
A frown ticks at the corners of his mouth. “You have five minutes.”
With a relieved smile, I press the answer button, and Myrrine’s face appears. She wears a ventilation mask and engines hum in the background as she huddles over her screen.
“Caitlyn, hello!” Her voice comes out muffled, the tiny black vents on the side of her mask fluttering as she speaks. “Did you arrive home safely?”
“A few hours ago.” The elevator glides to a stop, and Nikola presses the hold button to give me time. “Are you still on your way to Riellio colony?”
“Yes.” Her feathery pink eyebrows sweep together. “The skies are less clear as we near the mountains. We are hovering at the moment.”
The Riellio clan built their c
olony high in the eastern mountains that form a barrier against the noxious sea. Mist surrounds the peaks year round, making it an ideal location for sky skipper infestations in the region. The Riellio clan capitalizes on this, and they’re one of the primary exporters of sky skipper meat.
One on one, the lightning sky skippers emit isn’t dangerous. But in high concentration, they contain enough combined electricity to draw one of their larger brethren’s attention as an easy food source. One Storm Maker can devour an entire swarm of sky skippers in minutes.
Anxious, my fingers tighten around the small screen. “Are there Storm Makers?”
“Oh, yes.” Myrrine nods and glances to her left. “They are truly magnificent as the suns rise.”
“Will you be okay?” My fingertips ache against the slim palm-port, and I force myself to relax before I break the thing. “Can you turn back?”
“Oh, no, that will not be necessary.” Through the clear mask, she grins. “This is why I called. Bastion thought you would like to see the Riellio cannons.”
She shifts her palm-port until Bastian’s face comes into view. Stoic as ever, he glances away, but not before I catch the blue and yellow swirls in his cheeks.
Myrrine once more appears, her brows arched. “I assure you, Caitlyn, he was most anxious to share this with you.”
“My lady exaggerates,” Bastion rumbles from off screen.
Nikola draws my attention as he takes the lift off hold. Time’s up.
“Myrrine, I have to go.” Unexpected regret rolls through me as her shoulders slump. I glance at Nikola, who waits patiently in the open elevator door. “Can you record it for me?”
“Ah, yes.” She nods solemnly. “Duty calls early on you, Caitlyn. I will forward you a holo-vid.”
“Please thank Bastian for thinking of me.”
The corner of Bastian’s face appears beside Myrrine’s. “It is a sight few outside of the Riellio colony ever see. I believe you will appreciate the beauty.”
“Thank you.”
A boom comes through the speaker as Myrrine cuts the line, her expression excited.