Across a Star-Swept Sea fdsts-2

by Diana Peterfreund

  “And she’s so young,” Isla added. “Even if she got caught snooping, how could Aldred risk harming her? A child and a Helo? He’d lose too much support with the Galateans.”

  Persis wasn’t sure about that. She’d seen Reduced children—aristos, yes, but still innocents—and the Galateans didn’t seem to have too much trouble with that. Still, a Helo was another matter.

  “She’s not so very little,” said Persis. “A year younger than Andrine and every bit as brilliant as her brother, it seems.”

  “Her brother is ‘brilliant’?” Isla said, raising her eyebrows. “From you, that’s high praise indeed. The very highest.” She nudged Persis. “Maybe you are enjoying playing the devoted girlfriend!”

  She might be, if she wasn’t forced to pretend to be someone else. She might not even think of it as playing at all. Persis unclasped her gray robe and dropped it to the cushion behind her, shaking out the candle-flame-yellow skirt of her gown. “It’s not just me who thinks so. Noemi has been so pleased to have him at the sanitarium this past week. She’s as starry-eyed as everyone else when it comes to the Helos.”

  Noemi Dorric was the de facto head of the DAR sanitarium nearest Scintillans. She was also the chief medic for the League of the Wild Poppy and the Blake family’s private—very private—nurse. And she’d practically done backflips when she heard Justen was coming and bringing along Persistence Helo’s own research.

  Isla sighed. “I can’t believe he wants to hide away in a sanitarium. It’s not exactly the high-profile position I’d prefer for him.”

  Persis bit her lip, but it did little to lessen the sting of Isla’s words. Justen’s arguments came back to her then. Maybe they weren’t as enlightened as they thought in Albion. Darkening shouldn’t be an embarrassment to any family, even an aristo family, so why were they keeping her mother’s condition a secret? Why wasn’t working in a sanitarium a more honorable, high-profile job? There was an argument to be made that Justen was behaving in the only honorable way a Helo could. Instead of sitting back and enjoying the celebrity Persistence had won for his family, he was devoting his life to fixing the single mistake she left behind. Why didn’t Isla get that? Would Persis, too, fail to see its importance if she hadn’t been touched by the ravages of DAR?

  “Speaking of Noemi, how are her extremely low-profile patients doing?” Isla asked. “Have Lord Lacan’s grandchildren recovered?”

  Persis shook her head. “Still compromised. Detox drugs don’t seem to work quite as rapidly on the younger ones.”

  Noemi and the other medics had expected the opposite to be true. Young minds were more elastic and so they should bounce back more quickly from their ordeal. But after detoxing so many of the Poppy’s rescued refugees, Noemi was developing a new theory on how the drug worked. Now, Noemi guessed the gap was due to the way the Reduction drug the Galateans were using not only blocked neural pathways but also prevented new ones from forming. The older victims recovered more quickly as they regained access to pathways their unhindered brains had long used first, then more-recent neural pathways later. But in young minds, the pathways weren’t as familiar, and there were fewer. It took longer for children’s minds to remember what they’d once known and to start forming new pathways again.

  Isla grimaced and fell into step beside Persis. “That can’t be easy for the Lacans to see. When I think of someone doing that to Albie—Persis, in that case, I would be out for blood. Neuroeels would be too swift a death for Citizen Aldred.”

  Now there was a sentiment Persis could get behind. “Would you like to come to the clinic and see them? I know it would mean a lot to the Lacans, and you could drop in on your newest medic, too.”

  The sanitarium was the perfect hiding spot for the recovering Galatean refugees. Since so many of the symptoms suffered by the Reduced were similar to those of the Darkened, the sanitarium already had resources to deal with them. And Persis knew well that Noemi could be trusted to remain discreet. She was one of the few who knew about Persis’s mother, one of the even fewer who knew Persis was the Wild Poppy.

  Isla made a face. “I have no particular desire to see Justen at work. I’d much rather you spent some time dragging him out in the open. Canoodle a little, my friend. You could start by taking him out and getting him some nicer clothes. Everyone expects you to, anyway.”

  They exited the throne room and emerged into the bright sunlight of the Albion court. “If I do, you won’t get public canoodling. It’ll be a public fight.”

  She’d already tried once to get Justen some new outfits. He’d come to Albion with nothing other than the clothes on his back, and they were in such a severe, revolutionary style that even the Scintillans servants were snickering at the laundry. Justen didn’t care.

  “I haven’t come here for a shopping trip, Persis,” he’d said, his tone as dour as his suit.

  “Of course not,” she’d replied. “Everyone knows the best silks are Galatean.”

  Justen had not been amused, and after being the recipient of yet another of his contemptuous glares, she hadn’t seen much to laugh at, either. In another time, another life, she could have talked to him for hours about what he had come to Galatea for—about politics, about medical research, about everything they truly did have in common. She could have admired him for what he was, and maybe he’d do the same. But what was the point in this world, where he seemed uninterested in the only parts of herself she could risk showing him? From what she’d seen, Justen hardly noticed her appearance and found her taste in Albian fashion faintly ridiculous. She could hardly get to know the attractive Galatean medic better if she couldn’t risk being anything other than a silly, spoiled aristo in his presence.

  She shrugged. “I have other things on my plate, you know.” Sending Justen to work in the sanitarium had a twofold benefit as far as Persis was concerned. He’d be kept busy enough that he wouldn’t question when she disappeared for a day or two at a time on her secret trips south. With Remy in the League now, it was likely she’d see the sister more even than the brother.

  “I know you have commitments,” Isla said, “but you really mustn’t neglect your social life.” She nodded meaningfully in the direction of Councilmen Blocking and Shift, who were standing in the courtyard below, deep in conversation. Shift caught sight of Isla and started up the stairs toward her.

  “Uh-oh,” said Persis’s friend.

  “Your Highness,” Shift blustered at her. “There you are. Your aides said you were sequestered all morning. Another fitting with Lady Blake, I see?”

  “What do you wish to discuss, sir?” Isla said, ignoring his dig.

  “Princess, it’s imperative that we deal with the situation in the east. The regs in Sunrise Village have been blatantly trading with the Galateans, despite the local aristo governor’s warnings.”

  The eastern governor was Councilman Shift’s brother, Lord Shift. Persis knew the Council chief didn’t think much of Isla, but underestimating her wasn’t going to be useful to his cause, either.

  “The Lord Shift’s embargo is not approved by the Council or the monarchy, Councilman, as well you know,” Isla replied smoothly. “And Sunrise Village is an independent township. They are not required to adhere to the advice of the governor.”

  “But—”

  “I can certainly craft a letter of disapproval if you think I ought to, Councilman, but as it happens, I was just discussing this issue with the Galatean lord Lacan—who as you might recall, was recently rescued by the Wild Poppy and brought to our country. He knows well the denizens of Sunrise Village, as they are the closest Albian outpost to his lands. Now that he’s here, he wishes to settle in Sunrise Village, as he has many friends in that area due to his family’s long association of trading taro for Sunrise Village’s milk and cheese across the strait.”

  “But, Princess—”

  “Your brother owns a taro farm, does he not, Councilman? How he would gain if the villagers were required to buy all their taro from hi
m instead. Perhaps he should seek to compete in a more forthright manner.”

  Persis wanted to cheer for her friend as Councilman Shift’s face turned red and he cast about for a response. Isla dismissed him with a nod of her head, then turned to go.

  “You ignore regs at your own peril, Princess,” he said to her back. “The more they think they can make decisions independently from you, the more they will. And the more they collude with their revolutionary friends in the south, the more likely they are to decide they don’t need you at all.”

  Persis saw Isla stiffen, but her friend did not stop walking.

  “You think they like you because you’re soft on them. But all you’re teaching them is that you’re soft.”

  Now Isla did turn, and fixed Councilman Shift with her most royal glare. “And if I let your insult pass unpunished, sir? What am I teaching you?”

  Shift’s mouth snapped shut.

  Isla walked on, and Persis followed, dying to speak, but knowing they’d have to be well out of earshot of any Council spies.

  “Isla,” she whispered at last, “that was amazing.”

  “I don’t need your approval, Persis,” Isla snarled under her breath. “I need your cooperation. I rule a nation of free people, and I cannot have the aristos and the regs at one another’s throats. They need to know we’re all on the same side. You and Justen are going to do that for me. And you’re going to do it soon. Do you understand?”

  Persis paused, then lowered her head in deference. Isla was her friend and her protector. She was also her ruler, and Persis couldn’t fail to support what she’d been encouraging her friend to do for months. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Twelve

  JUSTEN WAS OBSERVING THE patients on the sanitarium lawn when he caught sight of Persis strolling up the hill toward the main building. Today, she was swathed in a golden confection that fluttered in strips from her shoulders and around her thighs, revealing enticing glimpses of her warm brown skin. As she moved toward him, the breeze off the bay caught the material so that every strip blew out behind her like a flag.

  He averted his eyes. Perhaps it was not so very unrealistic that people would believe he was madly in love. Like her mother had clearly been before her, Persis Blake was extremely attractive. For most people, that would be enough.

  And even for Justen, it was extremely distracting. She descended upon him like a flock of very colorful, very loud parakeets. “Justen! How was your day? How are things here? Have you spoken to Noemi much at all? Has she filled your schedule with too many projects? I do hope you aren’t booked solid, as I thought we might go for a sail before supper.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. The patients, and their visitors, looked on.

  Today, most of Persis’s hair was worn down, its yellow and white locks and braids swirling around her shoulders and arms like the strips of her unusual dress. She’d twisted a few strands of her hair into a circlet on top of her head, studded here and there with tiny, brightly polished enamel flowers bearing spiky green leaves. Wild poppies, he realized. Every Albian on the island was wearing things like this in support of their most infamous spy.

  As usual, the effect was stunning. He hadn’t seen Persis with her hair down since the morning after they’d met, when he’d helped her off the bathroom floor when she’d tried to use her palmport too soon. She looked younger this way, more natural, despite the strange hair colors that were, now that he’d spent several days in Albion, not looking quite so strange anymore. As always, she smelled of frangipani, all sweetness and sunshine and soft, pampered skin. As always, she hugged him too tightly and too long, as if they truly were the blossoming lovers they portrayed. And, as always, Justen found he liked it just a tad too much.

  He gave her a perfunctory hug in return, then stepped back. “She has certainly put me to work. I appreciate your help in getting me this position. The last thing I’d want is to be a burden on Albian society.”

  Persis giggled. “Don’t worry—besides, you’re our guest at Scintillans. We can afford a dozen burdens like you.”

  He cleared his throat. “I have a lot of work to do, Persis. Is there something specific you wanted?”

  She blinked at him, an enigmatic smile playing about her mouth. “It depends,” she said coyly. “What are you offering?”

  His lips drew into a tight line. Oh, so it was to be playacting, then. But for whom? The patients here were not in a condition to spread the word about their ersatz romance.

  He saw Noemi emerge from the main building and head in their direction. All right, one witness. Madam Noemi Dorric was a skilled medic in her own right, but had taken a job as the head administrator of the sanitarium, rather than the chief medic, for reasons Justen found bizarre. These Albians might be fair to their regs, but they were quite prejudiced against their women. The chief medic was a man Justen had yet to see; and, despite the official roles, as far as Justen could tell, every employee in the place deferred to Madam Dorric.

  Justen had followed suit. He liked the woman enormously and was thankful that Persis had made the introduction. The aristo did seem to know enough to surround herself with clever people, even as she bragged about dropping out of school and not caring at all about anything that didn’t button or zip. But this was the privilege of wealth and position, Justen supposed. After all, with very little effort, she’d managed to add him to her entourage as well.

  Noemi, though, was one of the most no-nonsense people he’d met since landing on Albion. Even her clothes were simple, her hair natural. Her only concession to Albian fashion seemed to be her palmport. He had been surprised to find one installed on an older woman, not to mention a medic, as most he knew disapproved of the device and the way it leeched nutrients and minerals from its owners. But Noemi had explained that she found it very convenient and didn’t mind taking the required supplements to keep it operational. Though he’d yet to see her actually use the thing. She usually kept it locked away under one of the ubiquitous leather wristlocks all palmport users wore to protect their devices.

  “You’re here,” she said when she reached them. Justen had learned in the last few days that the middle-aged woman was not much one for small talk. “Good. There’s something I need you to see.”

  “Need me to see?” Persis pressed a hand to her chest and laughed. “Goodness, no. I can’t imagine what sort of help I’d be to you in an awful place like this.”

  Noemi rolled her eyes. Justen could understand the sentiment. And he was surprised to see Persis acting so flippant about it, given the seriousness with which she’d addressed the subject when it came to her own mother. Maybe this was the way she’d compartmentalized things in her head. After all, Persis had explained that they were refusing to call Lady Heloise Blake’s illness what it was. Maybe Persis preferred to pretend that these people here were nothing like her mother. She took the usual aristo position: hide DAR victims away in sanitariums and never think about them again.

  Noemi tried again. “I was actually talking to my new recruit, Medic Helo.”

  “That’s better.” Persis looked relieved.

  “What can I do for you, Citizen— I mean, Madam Dorric?” He’d been catching himself like this ever since he’d been working at the sanitarium. The day he sailed away from Galatea, he thought he never wanted to hear the word again, but now, spending days in the sanitarium, surrounded by reg medics and the reg patients they served, he found the word sprouting unbidden from his mouth. Here he could forget what the revolution had done to him and to his country, how everything he’d ever wanted had been perverted, and recall instead what he’d once so loved about its principles.

  “I—” Noemi looked at him for a second, then turned to Persis, looking flummoxed and, as far as Justen knew her, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Was Persis’s ribbon dress rendering her speechless as well? Finally, she sighed. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  “Sorry?” Justen said. Was she letting him go so soon? Did she doubt his
commitment to his work given Persis’s unannounced arrival? “Madam Dorric, I was not aware that Lady Blake was coming here today—”

  But, as always, Noemi got right to the point. “I find you very skilled, medic, and seeing as you’re from Galatea, I think you might be able to provide us with some fresh insight.”

  “What?” Justen asked.

  “What?” Persis echoed.

  “There are a few patients on the lower level I’d like a consult for.”

  “The lower level?” said Persis, sounding skeptical. Her mouth made a perfect, rose-colored O. “Surely there can be no cause to drag my poor Justen out of all this glorious sunlight simply to look in on a few silly patients.”

  Noemi cast Persis a weary look and Persis glared at her.

  Justen laid a hand on her arm. “Persis, please. This is my job.” He looked at her face to find her eyes blazing with . . . was that anger? That he couldn’t run off and join her for a sail at the drop of a hat? The girl needed to find some sort of occupation. Her only commitments might be keeping up with her wardrobe and pretending to be in love with him, but Justen had serious work to do. The elder Blakes seemed like intelligent, hardworking people. It mystified him that they’d produced such a shallow daughter.

  “Lady Blake, I am sorry to disagree with you,” Noemi said, “but whatever your priorities are, I am a medic, and my highest duty is to my patients. I’ve come to the conclusion that Medic Helo here is in a unique position to help them, and so I’m going to ask for his help, whether you approve or not.”

  Justen wanted to laugh out loud as the medic scolded the aristo like a child. He wondered if anyone had ever been so strict with Persis in all her life. Of course, Persis had said that she and Noemi were old acquaintances. Maybe that’s why his new boss felt so free with the aristo.