House of Artifice

by Lyn Forester

  As I fumble to get my palm-port back into place, Nikola holds out a hand. “Let me keep it for you until after breakfast. We need to hurry now.”

  Grateful, I pass it to him as I hurry off the lift and down the hall, glad to no longer stumble in heeled boots. The brief call with Myrrine, and my conversation with the twins earlier, bolster my spirits.

  I can get through this.

  ~

  Only weeks of training with Mr. Baresly, the etiquette class instructor, keeps my posture perfect as I sit through four rounds of tea with my grandmother. If not for the ingrained fear of pain his ruler instilled, I would be slumped with boredom.

  First the floral, then the earthy, followed by the bitter. Now, I sip from a nasty concoction that might as well be liquid sugar. My teeth ache with every taste.

  Felix would love it.

  I lift the bone-cup to my mouth more quickly than I should to hide my smile. Maybe I can sneak some of the foul drink back for him. When I regain control of my expression, I lower the cup, careful to rest my pinky against the saucer to silence the click of the cup. As I set it on the table, the glow ball in the center turns the thin walls of the cup pink.

  “This service set is magnificent, grandmother.” I glance across the table to my grandmother, who sips her own dessert tea with all the enthusiasm of a connoisseur.

  Even in her seventies, she’s still a statuesque woman. Her trademark Lonette hair, now turned a beautiful silver-white, cuts off below her chin in a sleek bob.

  Her pale-hazel eyes, no less alert than when she sat First Council Seat, study me as she sets her cup aside. “I see you have not taken the class in Quality Trade yet.”

  Tamping down my nerves, I force my eyes to hold hers. “If a cup sits on a high family’s table, does it not then become quality, no matter the origin?”

  “Ah.” Pleasure flickers across her unlined face, and she turns her head slightly toward the man who stands at her shoulder. “My granddaughter approves of your gift, Tobin.”

  My grandmother’s secretary bows with appreciation, a sparkle in his vibrant blue gaze. “She has an eye for beauty, Matriarch.”

  “He ordered it from the Rothven colony.” One long, bony finger smoothes around the rim of her teacup. “It keeps the tea warm longer, so concessions for design are allowed.”

  Over many short interviews with my grandmother, I’ve learned to read her quiet gestures for signs of both censure and approval. Now, as she lifts the cup once more, the gentle care she takes with it practically shouts her delight in the gift. The fact that she shared it with me this morning means something. She would not bring out something so personal unless this breakfast means more to her than the usual interview questions our meetings usually lapse into.

  She runs one long, elegant finger around the rim of her saucer. “What do you think of the Troehan clan’s latest attempt at hot chocolate?”

  I stare down at the light brown, almost translucent, liquid and hide my distaste. After ten years, Grandmother’s efforts to find a match for Earth’s chocolate plant continues to fail. Right from the start, with only descriptions in books to go off of for the flavor profile, the venture seems doomed to fail. So far, none of her efforts have come close to the rich, addictive beverage described in Earth’s history books. She should stick to tea, a far more profitable empire that continues to keep the Lonette family at the forefront of decadent digestibles.

  She arches one narrow eyebrow at my silence. “You don’t like it?”

  Unable to read her expression, I keep my tone neutral. “I do not crave the rest of the cup.”

  She leans back in her chair, chin raised. “Be specific.”

  The words dredge up countless memories of sitting before her, as I do today, tasting cup after cup of tea and struggling to identify leaf and flavor profiles.

  I straighten my spine, despite my already perfect posture, and fold my hands in my lap. “The sweetness overwhelms the palate, while the viscosity leans more toward water than the thickness described in history books.”

  “Do you suggest a thickener?” She reaches out to tilt her teacup, the thin liquid rolling inside the delicate confines. “Perhaps a protein paste?”

  “Only if a finer powder has been developed since the batch from two years ago.” Now, she’s testing my memory. “Last time, watering down the paste left an unpleasant grittiness.”

  She releases the cup. “Do you have a recommendation for flavor improvement?”

  I wrack my mind for anything I’ve read of chocolate. “Perhaps coffee. Its bitterness will help temper the sweetness. The two were often paired together on Earth.”

  “Ahh. Well done. We will make a beverage designer out of you yet.” Grandmother turns her head a fraction. “Tobin, take Nikola, and show him how to prepare the next round for tasting.”

  I smother my surprise. Grandmother rarely does more than five rounds of tasting. She believes anymore will deaden her ability to properly judge the beverages.

  “Yes, madam.” Tobin gives a short bow, his spine and broad shoulders straight.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Nikola leaves his station behind my chair to follow the older man from the room.

  Grandmother watches them leave before reaching beneath the table and coming back with a data wand. “We do not have much time before they return. Take this.“

  “What is it?” I reach across the table to accept the delicate stick.

  It loops at the end to form a ring. An invisible spring hides a shallow needle, just large enough to register my DNA if I press my finger down. I fit it into the elaborate weave of braids at the back of my head, glad for the curls that make it easy to hide.

  “Your father has been presumptuous in the limited selection of your secretary. Those are your other options. Your father should not have pushed young Nikola on you so soon. There is also Garrett, from Tobin’s line, as well as another appropriate option sourced from outside the preferred lineages.” While years of training prevent any hint of embarrassment from showing on her unlined face, the fast blink as her eyes dart away show her discomfort with the topic.

  She focuses on her teacup as she continues. “I, myself, have found contentment with Tobin. He is well trained and someone whom I relied on during my time as First Councillor. He’s also someone whose company I enjoy in my leisure time, of which I have much, now that your father holds the council seat. Take your time and choose wisely, do not allow yourself to be forced into choosing early. Your secretary is your companion for life. Once they know all of your secrets, there is no separation. Such breaches cannot be tolerated by the family.”

  I keep my voice lowered, eyes on the door where the disappeared. “Do you have a specific objection to Nikola?”

  “Nikola excels at his studies and has comported himself with the utmost discretion while away at school. He shows every sign of being the ideal secretary.” She pauses for a long breath, and trepidation fills me. I’ve never seen her need to compose herself before. A sigh escapes her. “He is too perfect, and your father is too fond of him. It is my concern that he is too comfortable within our family without a permanent position.”

  “Father indulged Natalie in allowing her son to say here,” I acknowledge.

  Most children of high ranking servants are sent to live outside the estate with other family. In my more self-delusional moments, I like to think Father tried to give me a companion in Nikola.

  “Yes, he did.” Censure fills her voice. “If you are to interview secretaries at such a young age, inform yourself of all appropriate options before you chose.”

  I bow my head in acknowledgment of her words as the door Tobin and Nikola disappeared through swings open once more. Nikola enters first, a silver tray held before him with a thick-bottomed, silver teapot in the middle. He strides forward and silently sets it on the serving station beside our small table.

  Tobin moves back to his position behind Grandmother’s chair, his hands clasped behind his back as he recites, “The
final beverage of the morning will be a palate cleanser, made from freshly pressed lemons, ground ginger, and mint leaves. It aids in digestion and reduces inflammation.”

  Nikola lifts the teapot and expertly pours a thin stream of amber liquid into a pair of tall, narrow cups. Setting the silver pot aside, he turns to set one cup in front of Grandmother and the other in front of me before he resumes his place behind my seat.

  Grandmother’s eyebrows lift. “Perfect service, Nikola. Did you take extra classes at school?”

  Nikola lightly touches my shoulder. I contain the flinch of surprise at the contact and nod permission for him to respond.

  His fingers skim down my shoulder blade on the way back to his side as he responds. “Yes, Matriarch Lonette. With the house’s investment in beverage delicacies, I felt it prudent to be well versed in case I am called upon.”

  “How very clever of you,” Grandmother murmurs. She lifts her narrow cup to her lips, her gaze meeting mine over the rim.

  Unsettled, I lift my own cup, absently inhaling the tart and spice scent. Her message is too heavy-handed, which concerns me more than Nikola’s excellence in tea service.

  What does she aim to gain by today’s meeting? Does she believe, if I choose Nikola for my secretary, it will cement my father’s influence over her own when I take the First Council Seat? If I choose her secretary’s grandson, will that forge a new alliance with her?

  And what role do I need to play to make them both believe I will follow the path they set for me?

  I take a small sip of the hot, lemon and ginger tea, letting the sting of spice chase the thoughts away for now. Later will be soon enough to let the machinations of my family swamp my thoughts. Today, I simply need to get through the meeting with Grandmother without overplaying my hand.

  CLEAN SLATE

  Nikola waits for the lift’s doors to close before speaking. “Did you enjoy your tea tasting with the matriarch?”

  I cut him a glance from the corner of my eye. “You were there, right?”

  The corner of his mouth ticks up for a second before his expression smoothes out once more. “She seems determined that you take over that part of the family business.”

  My spine stiffens, and I force the tension away. “She knows by now that my palate is not suited for the task.”

  “You played it off well. I never would have guessed.” From my periphery, I see his head turn to me. “Is that what you discussed while I was prepping the last set?”

  My heart kicks up a notch, the data wand a hot poker of guilt against my skull. “No, Grandmother wanted to know how school was going.”

  Silence fills the lift as it slows and comes to a stop on my floor. The doors swish open, and Nikola steps to the side to let me pass first. As I do, he murmurs, “Your pulse is spiking.”

  I stumble, and he cups my elbow while I catch my balance.

  When my gaze lifts to his, his expression remains passive. “You don’t have to tell me everything, Caitlyn, but please don’t lie.”

  Blood rushes to my face, and I can’t force myself to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

  His fingers skim up my arm before falling away. “I’m here to make your life easier, but it will take time to find our balance. This world we inhabit…” His pause draws my focus up, and he stares down the hall, his gaze unfocused. At last, his black eyes drop to skim over my face. “The people you will interact with will try to push you down to make themselves stand taller. They’ll seek to use you. If I don’t know every part of your life, I can’t protect you.”

  I bite my tongue to hold back another apology. The need to confess everything forms a bubble in my throat that chokes me.

  Eyelids dropping to veil his gaze, he glances away, taking my silence for refusal. His voice lacks emotion as he turns to gesture down the hall. “Your schedule is open until sixteen-hundred. We should go over your wardrobe and select your attire for the evening. Afterward, you’ll have a few hours to relax until we need to begin getting ready for dinner.”

  I accept the subject change with relief as we walk toward my room. “What is the dinner for?”

  “The Agriculture Committee wishes to parlay for more space at the Rim on Level 9 in order to grow fruit hybrids.” He pulls his palm-port from his pocket and scrolls down. “The original guest list includes upper and lower level Councillors, but with the recent Black Corporation upheaval, only a few lower level politicians will be in attendance. Nothing will pass tonight. But the food should be interesting.”

  We stop in front of my door, and he presses his palm against the reader. The light turns green. It takes a moment for me to step forward as excitement rattles through me. If I’m attending, then that means I might get to see one of the guys tonight.

  My voice stays even as I step into my room. “Will there be any demi-Councillors?”

  “Unfortunately, the guest list hasn’t been updated.” He follows me inside, his lips purse with displeasure at the lack of information. “I questioned the need for you to go, but since Councillor Lonette agreed to the engagement, he felt it rude not to have the house represented.”

  As he tucks away his palm-port, I remember he still holds mine for safekeeping. Before I can ask for it back, though, he pulls the slender, clear device from his breast pocket.

  “Thank you.” I accept it and swipe open the screen, my shoulders drooping when no new messages show. Myrrine said she’d send a video, but maybe her ship was still waiting out the Storm Markers? And I hoped to hear something from Declan by now.

  I tuck the device into my sleeve, my feet heavy as I follow Nikola through the sitting room and into my bedroom. It still makes me uncomfortable to see him move about my personal space with such ease. He’s more comfortable here than I am, despite the brand new rooms.

  Of course, he familiarized himself with the layout before I arrived back at the manor. His boarding school is on Level 12, near Central Plaza. The distance he traveled to return was far less than mine. When Father allowed it over the last two years, Nikola frequently came back on holiday to visit with the staff and to see his mother.

  I pass through the french doors that separate the sitting room from my bedroom. All evidence of Master Pannor’s invasion has been wiped away, the room once more pristine in cream and pale-green. Even the upholstered bench at the foot of my bed, where bolts of fabric had been piled, now show the neat lines of a comb pressing the fibers of the fabric into the same position.

  The duvet on the bed lays neatly folded next to the freshly plumped his and her pillows. Aside from my missing satchel, it looks exactly the same as when I first arrived. Staged and picture perfect without a trace of myself anywhere in sight.

  A clean slate, waiting for the perfect daughter to settle into place.

  ~

  A half hour later, after I refused Nikola’s offer to help me change into something more comfortable, he gave me solitude to rest before our busy night. But restlessness kept me from crawling into bed. Instead, I ventured back into the front room.

  Now, I sit in the bolstered chair in my spotless office. On the wall in front of me, the holo-window displays the front lawn at sunset, its burnt orange image reflecting on the desk’s glossy, white surface. Pressed against the back wall, it leaves me vulnerable to anyone who enters the room at my back. I’d move it into a more advantageous position, but one tug on the corner revealed the curved legs are bolted to the floor. My palm-port rests on the desk in front of me. The screen timed out five minutes ago, the device translucent and nearly invisible.

  Still no messages.

  My hand lifts, finger hesitating. If no one contacted me, it must mean they’re busy, right? It’s still early in the day. The twins arrived home much later than me and might still be sleeping. I don’t want to wake them, though Felix showed a complete lack of concern for my rest this morning. But the memory of Connor’s red-rimmed eyes stay my hand.

  Declan left earlier than me, though. He’s had ample time to rest.


  Decision made, I unlock my palm-port and pull up his information, stabbing down on the call button before I second guess the decision.

  A loud ring echoes against the hollow desk, and I snatch the palm-port up, then twist to peer through the curved archway to the bedroom entrance, in case the noise drew Nikola from his adjoining room. When the man doesn’t instantly appear, my shoulders relax.

  My hand vibrates a few more times, the ring muffled against my palm before it clicks over to voicemail. Unsure what to say, I disconnect without leaving a message. He’ll see that I called and get back to me when he can. I hesitate over Myrrine’s icon before setting the device aside. If she’s still in transit, I don’t want to disturb her. Besides, ventilation masks and engine noise make for difficult conversation.

  With my focus still on the bedroom door, I reach for the data wand tucked into the tight weave of braids at the back of my head. A curl catches in the loop, and I spend a heart-pounding minute struggling to pull it free, sure Nikola will appear at any moment to check on me. If I had a folding desk-port, I would hide in the bathroom, where a flimsy lock could give me a semblance of privacy.

  I could ask for one to be delivered, but what excuse could I give when I have a perfectly serviceable desk-port right here?

  Finally, I untangle the slender stick and turn back to my desk. The place between my shoulder blades itch with the knowledge anyone can sneak up on me in my current position. It almost makes me give up on the idea reviewing Grandmother’s selections, but curiosity drives me on.

  Setting the stick next to my palm-port, I skim my fingers along the underside of the desk until I locate the slight indent of a latch. When I press my nail into it, the front panel of the desk flips down to reveal a narrow keyboard and slots to insert various styles of data carriers.

  I pick up the slender stick and tug on the end with the loop. It separates into two pieces, with a narrow, silver dart on one end. Sliding it into the appropriate port, I press my fingertip into the loop and barely feel the sharp jab of the needle into the pad of my finger. When I lift my hand free, a small, crimson dot of blood wells from the tiny wound. Popping it into my mouth, the copper tastes sharp against my tongue before I wipe my finger dry on my sleeve.