I close my eyes and lean back against the sofa, trembling.
“I am so sorry, Gwen!” Manala touches my arm in sympathy. “They like to gossip about us and say stupid things. It is not so bad, really, once you get used to it. They don’t dare say anything too outrageous about the Imperial Family, but they love to speculate.”
Even Anu and Gennio pause their work and stare at me.
“Okay . . . I can’t watch this anymore, can we please go somewhere?” I say, rubbing my eyes, then my forehead.
And then I stand up. I really need some air.
A few minutes later, Manala and I leave the Prince’s Quarters through one of the doors in the workroom, by way of a private and discreet passage. We take a small personal elevator, and emerge into another passage on the ground floor—it leads to the Palace gardens outside.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I say tiredly, feeling guilty suddenly, guilty for bolting, and dragging Manala with me. I also feel all energy drain out of me, after the events of the last few hours. “I’m not taking you away from your TV shows, Manala? Please tell me if you would rather not walk now.”
“Oh, no! I hate those shows! I just watch them when there is nothing else to do.” Manala tells me with a smile, and points to my pocket meaningfully, where I have my pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Walking with you is so much better!”
“Thanks! And thanks for reminding me,” I say, putting on the dark shades before we step outside into the killer brightness of the Atlantean day.
We emerge into a secluded garden courtyard and take a small path amidst squat trees with supple twisting branches and other greenery of the landscaped park. There are some patches of dappled shade here, casting merciful relief onto the gravel path, but the sky is bright white, and I squint slightly even with my sunglasses on.
Clean cool air sweeps around us in an invigorating breeze.
Manala’s layered outfit starts to glimmer iridescently in the light and she looks like a colorful dragonfly in her veils, fluttering like wings behind her. Her step is light in her golden sandals, and she is almost dancing as she moves at my side, throwing me frequent glances.
“So you like cats?” I say with a smile at her joyful exuberance. Meanwhile, I’m already feeling the effects of the gravity, manifested in a slight weariness, even though we’ve only walked a short distance.
“Oh, yes!” she says immediately giving me her full attention. “They are sacred and beautiful animals! And I love them. We only have big cats on Atlantis, nothing like the little things they showed, coming from Earth!”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.” She nods wisely at me.
“When you say big, do you mean like lions or tigers?”
Manala makes a little sound of laughter. “Our lions and tigers have evolved to be even bigger than the ones we left on Earth. No, I mean the cats you call domestic cats. Ours are really big, the size of your dogs. Mine reaches up to my knees.”
“Oh, so you have a big domesticated cat?” I say. “That sounds like a bobcat or lynx on Earth. How interesting!”
“Yes, my cat is called Khemji, and he is pure black and sleek with short hair, like the proper servant of Bastet that his ancestor from Earth was. Except, he is three times the size of his ancestor.”
“Holy crap,” I say, raising one brow. “I’d love to meet this Khemji as long as he does not eat me alive!”
“Oh, no,” Manala hurries to reassure me with a tug on my sleeve. “Khemji is harmless, like your Earth cats, and he is completely tame. You will meet him soon! He is just really huge by your standards . . . and fat . . . and he passes gas a lot when he sits on my lap.”
I start to laugh.
We walk further down the path as it twists through the park. There are only a few people we see, mostly in the distance as they emerge from various Palace structures in this grandiose sprawling complex. I am already familiar with the light uniforms worn by the servants, but there are also occasional splashes of rich color—deep, jewel-toned robes and other expensive outfits of nobility, and the glitter of golden wigs in the sunlight. Apparently lords and ladies of high rank—or whoever they are—stroll through the park or walk swiftly on their way to somewhere important. Occasionally there are guards accompanying them. How do I know they are guards? They are young, they have prominent holstered weapons, and they look military and imposing.
Which reminds me. . . . “Manala,” I say. “I know that Aeson and your Father have personal bodyguards following them wherever they go. What about other members of the Imperial Kassiopei such as your mother or you—or even me?”
“Oh,” Manala says. “Yes, we have to have them also if we leave the Palace grounds. But not inside the gardens, thank goodness. Of course my Father and Aeson have to have them everywhere. Poor Aeson, he hates it.”
I feel relieved. “Yeah, I know he does. And I can only imagine how personally imposing that must feel. I’d hate to have them follow me everywhere.”
“As the Imperial Consort you will definitely have them follow you if you go outside into the city. Unless you try to sneak out!” Manala gives me a mischievous look and presses her lips tight, holding back a smile.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “And have you ever done that?”
In answer, she nods.
“Wow,” I say. “You’re a delinquent!”
We both laugh.
“Wait, what does that mean? My English is not perfect—” Manala says, pausing with her brows raised.
I laugh even more and explain. Manala opens her mouth then chortles and pulls my sleeve again.
As we continue moving along the park, turning this way and that, a sudden bright sound of female laughter comes from directly ahead.
The moment she hears it, Manala tenses up a little.
I stare in the direction of the sound, and as we turn a corner around a hedge of sculptured shrubs, we see a group of about a dozen fabulously dressed teenage girls moving leisurely in our direction.
I am no expert, but I’m willing to bet they are all High Court. That is, they may be dressed more casually for a walk outside now, but when it’s time to attend an Imperial Assembly, they would all stand in the palest tile section closest to the throne dais and the Imperial Seats.
The young ladies are either in long layered dresses, or extravagantly flowing pants with short jackets, sculptured hair or long loosely cascading locks intertwined with golden chains. A few of them wear elaborate sunglasses with reflective mirror shades. And all of them are carrying hand purses or manipulating interesting trinkets that levitate alongside them through the air. Noticeably in the center of the group, like a queen bee surrounded by her court, is none other than Lady Tirinea Fuorai, the most beautiful and arrogant of them all. Today she wears a stunning pants-and-flowing-jacket outfit of brilliant white embroidered with gold.
Lady Tiri must be telling a clever joke, because half the group laughs, and a few of them put their hands up to their mouths. Next to Lady Tiri on the right is a tall stately girl dressed in a long light blue dress, with deep bronze skin and strong thick eyebrows that lend her a fierce look. Her eyes outlined with kohl are very dark and I cannot tell what color they are. Her hair is the usual gilded metal, a mane of tight curls reaching far below her shoulders. Compared to Lady Tiri’s delicate cascade of long perfectly ethereal locks, this girl’s hair appears untamed.
On the left of Lady Tiri is another girl, somewhat curvy and with a rounded soft face, wearing a jade green long silk kaftan over pants. Her skin is a shade of river-red clay, and her eyes are large and pale blue, and the line of kohl around the lids makes them appear washed out. Her expression is pleasant and her golden hair is cut in bangs over her forehead while the rest of it is gathered in a pleated tail that reaches to her lower back.
There are others, but they seem to defer strongly to these three.
“Oh, no, not them,” Manala tells me softly, as we grow quiet. “I wish we could turn back. . . . This is not going t
o be pleasant.”
I have no time to ask her what she means, because the group of girls nears us, and immediately they all make almost insultingly tiny bows or nods to Manala, ignoring me completely.
“Nefero eos, My Imperial Lady Manala,” Lady Tiri says in a musical, mildly condescending voice, speaking Atlanteo. “So lovely to see you this morning, out walking with your servant. We hardly spend enough time together, my dear—it must be remedied.”
“Nefero eos, Lady Tiri. But this is not my servant,” Manala replies stiffly, also in Atlanteo. “This is Gwen Lark, my brother’s Bride and Imperial Consort.”
The girls make various sounds of surprise. Lady Tiri lets out a false sounding exclamation and puts one hand up to her chest. And for the first time she turns to me directly. Her gaze rakes me over as she gives me a reluctant mocking bow. “You must forgive me, My Imperial Lady,” she says in a purring tone in Atlanteo, and then switches to rather competent English with only the faintest accent. “I don’t know how I could have mistaken you for a servant—it must be your unassuming clothing. Is this what they wear on Earth?”
I meet Lady Tiri’s gaze as firmly as I can, glad to be wearing dark sunglasses (not sure if she can see my eyes through the protective lenses) while a cold sensation of familiar helplessness washes over me, the soul-killing combination of old fear and self-consciousness—but I contain it very quickly. “Nice to meet you, Lady Tiri,” I say evenly, glancing down at my pitiful sweater and jeans. “No problem. My clothes are very old, since I’ve had to wear them all year long during the journey in space. I haven’t had time to replace them yet. I hope the holes in my sweater don’t offend you too much.”
After years of coping with bullies, I’ve discovered only recently that it’s usually best to face this kind of thing head-on.
I think my blunt comment silences her momentarily. And then she raises one brow and examines me with intensity, changing the subject with icy diplomacy. “I am quite fascinated with the details of your journey, My Imperial Lady Gwen. It would be such a delight to get to know you better and hear you tell us everything about Earth—and naturally everything about your meeting and romance with the Imperial Crown Prince. Is it true that you were in fact an Imperial Aide? But come, you and Imperial Lady Manala must both walk with us! We are going to be such good friends, you and I—” And Lady Tiri makes another bow to me, even more arrogant than the first.
Manala gives me a strained look while the girls surround us, making various comments and cooing sounds in Atlanteo and English, which most of them seem to speak to varying degrees of proficiency. Then they begin formal introductions. I stand and stare and listen, trying to remember who is who. The stately girl in blue with the heavy eyebrows is introduced as Lady Hathora Sekru. The round-faced girl in green presents herself as Lady Zua Kainaat.
There is also the very pretty and slender Lady Irana Nokut in an iridescent red pants-and-shirt outfit, who has very pale porcelain skin similar to Lady Tiri, and wears her straight metallic hair in a short pixie cut. A small sphere the size of an orange, made of curved golden wire mesh, hovers in the air before her, at shoulder level. As I stare in curiosity, I see some kind of swirling rainbow thing floating inside it . . . a blob of pulsing energy, iridescent to match the red outfit. Maybe it’s some kind of floating lantern? It’s so weird that I can hardly tear myself away from it.
Most in the group are revealed to be daughters of the highest nobility. A few of the more shy and silent girls are possibly of lower rank, either Middle or Low Court, but I’m not entirely sure. Do these three distinct layers of nobility ever mingle?
We start walking in a big group, and Lady Tiri makes confident conversation in her resonant voice, while I mostly listen and nod.
“To be sure, I had no idea the Imperial Lord Aeson Kassiopei would develop such an interest in Earth. It must be the novelty,” Lady Tiri says, throwing a provocative glance in my direction as she takes up the spot directly on my right, and ignores Manala completely.
I say nothing.
“You are so terribly new to Atlantis, my dear,” she continues. “It is going to be a challenge for you to learn our ways and fit in properly—unlike a true native-bred lady of the Imperial Court. You must therefore allow me to be of service to you, with my advice on all things, including deportment and Fashion.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But I already have the services of Consul Suval Denu.”
“Of course you do.” Lady Tiri nods. “The Consul has impeccable taste. But his family bloodline is far more common than you imagine. Denu is simply not old nobility, such as most of us here, but only third or fourth generation. Whereas the House Fuorai is the culmination of more than a hundred generations of fine breeding. And dear Lady Hathora’s House Sekru stretches at least seventy, while Lady Zua and Lady Irana can count at least fifty-five. . . .”
As I listen to Lady Tiri’s snobbish commentary, I feel another pang in my gut, this time on behalf of Consul Denu. Manala gives me a quick sad glance.
“So what does it mean, exactly?” I say. “Is good taste considered a genetic trait on Atlantis, or am I missing something?”
Lady Tiri laughs in a bright cold voice, and exchanges a mocking look with the others before turning back to me. “Oh, My Imperial Lady, what charming innocence! Or maybe you have an excellent sense of humor. As you eventually come to know the fine nuances of our life at the Imperial Court, you might learn to say things with even more wit and insight.”
Okay, I’m sure that’s supposed to put me in my place. But these Atlantean girls have no idea they’re dealing with Gwen “Big Mouth” Lark who regularly argues with her teachers on the fine points of class material, and has been known to reduce unwitting substitutes to tears.
“I don’t see how my inexperience or sense of humor has anything to do with facts,” I say, feeling the magical power of blab possess me. “Good taste is the product of socialization—education and experience, not inherited genetics. And as far as I know, Consul Denu’s ‘impeccable taste’ and ability to advise me on all matters of Imperial Protocol and Fashion has not been bred into him but cultivated by him. The same way you cultivate orchids or bonsai trees—with much care and attention to detail!”
There is a pause. Lady Tiri looks at me with a complicated expression that includes barely concealed anger and disdain.
“My Imperial Lady, by this rather unique logic, you imply that ordinary low-born tutors can aspire to the same levels and abilities as noble-born princes!” she says at last with a short unpleasant laugh.
“Well, yes, that would be my logic.” I stare at her seriously.
Another pause. The girls look at me and at each other uncomfortably. Poor Manala looks as if she wants to disappear.
“What is a bonsai tree?” one girl says suddenly in careful English. It is Lady Irana Nokut, the girl in iridescent red with the spherical wire-mesh object levitating beside her.
“Oh,” I say, glad for the distraction, and immediately stare at Lady Irana’s golden mesh thing with its pulsing energy-blob interior. “A bonsai is a specially cultivated miniature tree originating in a nation called Japan on Earth. You have to keep cutting the branches to ‘train it’ as it grows into a specific kind of shape. It’s a kind of living art, I suppose.”
“Oh, how interesting,” Lady Irana says. “Your Earth bonsai sounds like my pegasus.”
And she points to the levitating mesh ball.
“What’s that?” I ask.
The girls start to giggle around me.
“You don’t know what a pegasus is?” someone asks.
“A mythical flying horse with wings? The name of the Constellation we’re in? A moon of Atlantis? Not really,” I say.
“Didn’t they teach you anything during the journey with the Imperial Fleet?” another girl says in a petulant, accusatory tone—I don’t think she even understands how rude it sounds in English. Or, maybe she does.
My pulse starts racing with frustration. “No, o
bviously not about this. They taught us the most basic things that we would need to know when we arrived.”
“A pegasus is a living creature,” Manala speaks up suddenly, with agitation. “It is a quantum, trans-dimensional life form.” And then she points to the golden spherical object. “This little baby is trapped inside that awful thing.”
And as I continue to stare at the golden sphere, it dawns on me, this is a cage.
“Oh . . . wow,” I say, and my lips part. I’m feeling a rush of very disturbing mixed emotions right now, as my curiosity and sense of wonder clash with disapproval and horror.
“Ah, come now, My Imperial Lady Manala! My dear, it is entirely not as terrible as you make it seem.” Lady Tiri glances at Lady Irana’s levitating mesh-cage with indifference. “That little creature is simply kept inside the containment box. It is perfectly happy to be there. It needs very little to survive, and it makes a very shiny toy—not to mention, a very expensive one.”
“Oh yes, it was a horribly expensive present. My father paid enough credits for it to buy a small residence in Phoinios Heights!”
“It’s not a toy,” Manala says. “This is very wrong. The baby pegasus is trapped, and you are forcing it to be inside a cage, stuck in this dimension. It needs to move between dimensions to be properly healthy. This quantum containment field that’s keeping it in place is horribly cruel.”
“That is not what the breeder told me,” Lady Irana says in a high nervous voice, switching momentarily from awkward English to rapid Atlanteo which I barely understand. “He reassured me that regular exposure to direct sunlight is all the pegasus needs to survive. That’s why I am walking it with me right now, so that it can feed from the sun. As long as it remains shiny like this, and shimmering with all different colors, the breeder said, it is perfectly healthy.”
“Your breeder knows nothing!” Manala exclaims. “Ugh, I cannot stand to look at it anymore. Gwen, may we please go back inside now?”
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