Across a Star-Swept Sea

Justen tried it and sat back on his heels, impressed. “Very well-trained pet you have.”

“That’s what my father paid the gengineers for.” Persis turned her attention to the sea mink. “Slippy, end!” Slipstream flipped the cake off his snout and caught it in midair as Persis stepped off the stairs and onto the soft, loamy earth of the lawn. “Ever seen a sea mink before?”

“We don’t use gengineering for personal pets in Galatea,” Justen said, rising to his feet, “just for stock animals, guard beasts, stuff like that.”

Stuff like mini-orcas to feed your enemies to. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now. Not when Justen had been so kind as to save her life. Not when she was in the midst of showing him what a shallow socialite she was.

“Slipstream is an excellent guard beast,” she replied as the animal scurried to her side. “I’ve never had my yacht stolen even once.” A servant had set out a breakfast she wasn’t quite prepared to tackle until the tsunami in her gut died down. Instead, she poured herself a cup of jasmine tea and sank into the cushioned chair. “So, Citizen Helo, have you been enjoying my estate?”

“Justen is fine, Lady Blake.”

She smiled at him over the cup. “So is Persis. After all, we’re good friends now that you’ve spent the night at my place.”

His gaze flickered away from her then, and Persis’s smile grew wider. She’d have answers from him yet. He might be handsome and famous and smart, but she was Persis Blake.

“So, what brings you to Albion . . . Justen?”

“Just a vacation.” He shrugged, but he still wasn’t quite meeting her eyes. “You visited my country for fun.”

“I can’t imagine your wanting to leave Galatea when things are going so well for you back home.” Persis crossed her legs, allowing the silk of her robe to part past her knees as Justen did his best to ignore the sight and busy himself with the teapot. The Galatean was hiding something.

Justen poured himself his own cup of tea, then took a long draft. After a moment, he looked at Persis again. “No, not really. No true patriot of my homeland would relish the violence happening now. I am a regular, I am a Helo, but I do not condone what is being done to Galatean aristos.”

His words hit hard. Persis swallowed and fought the urge to pull her robe closed. Maybe he wasn’t hiding so much as seriously disturbed by the horrors in Galatea. “I’m happy to hear that,” she managed.

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting the hospitality of any aristo without explaining my objections to my government’s tactics.”

Persis longed to ask him why, then, if he was a Helo, he didn’t use his influence to stop them? Why was he not fighting to help his countrymen, the way his grandmother had when she’d invented the cure? Persis was fighting. What was wrong with the rest of the world?

But that wasn’t the sort of thing Persis Blake asked anyone anymore. Not the Persis Blake who’d spent the better part of the year convincing everyone that she was empty-headed and ornamental and absolutely indispensable to the glittering court of Princess Isla. Those sorts of questions were reserved solely for the Wild Poppy these days, and the Wild Poppy was out of commission—at least until Persis recovered from Tero’s mistake.

“What is it you wish to do while you’re here?” she asked instead. “I must say, you’ve fallen into excellent hands—though you might not think so after yesterday. I’m rather popular at court. I’m sure I could get you an invite to a party there.” In truth, the entire court—aristo and reg—would salivate for a glimpse at a Helo. Bringing him would only cement her ranking at court.

But somehow, Persis had trouble imagining Justen would enjoy it.

“I’d like that, thank you,” he surprised her by saying. “Do you know the Princess Isla at all?”

What did he think “popular at court” meant? “I’m her chief lady-in-waiting.”

Justen looked nonplussed. “Like a maid?”

Persis smiled indulgently. “It’s how royals say ‘She’s one of my best friends.’”

Justen blinked. “Really? Oh . . . good. Because I’ve come to Albion to meet her.”

Was that disappointment he was not quite able to hide? Why would he be disappointed to have fallen in with such a well-connected aristo? And what did he want with Isla? Persis narrowed her eyes. This required further observation.

As did Justen Helo.

BY THE TIME THE aristo had done her hair, her clothes, and her makeup, Justen had gone through the entire catalog of her gengineered rodent’s parlor tricks and wandered around the grounds of her sprawling estate twice. No one could deny the place was as beautiful as the girl who lived here. Perched on a high cliff at the southernmost edge of Albion’s western peninsula, the house seemed like a cliff flower itself, blossoming in shades of brown and black from the earth. Most of its rooms lay open to the sea air, covered only by vast, petal-shaped roofs that swept overhead, supported by thin, translucent columns of onyx or crystal. Justen could see slits in the external walls, hinting at screens that could be drawn to protect the interior during the rainy season.

The water surrounded them on three sides, vast and glittering beneath the sun-drenched sky. From up here, you could barely hear the surf, and the sharp, living smell of the water faded into a simple salty freshness. Justen paused at the western cliff edge and stared at the endless ocean. Once, long ago, before the Reduction and the wars that had broken the very heart of the world, there’d been other lands, other people. People who lived and breathed democracies, people who’d accomplished their goals without spilling a single drop of blood. The Galateans had failed at this. Justen had failed.

All he’d ever wanted was to help people, like his grandmother had done. And now, when things had gone so wrong he had no choice but to escape, the only place left to go was Albion. The only mercy he could hope to get was from another monarch.

That was, if Persis Blake ever finished getting ready.

Everywhere he went, he felt the eyes of the estate servants on him. He grew tired of their obsequious attempts to bring him things—snacks, perfumes, changes of clothes in monstrously garish colors. Most of all, he hated the way every last one of them called him Citizen Helo. They probably meant it as a mark of respect, or even support for the Galatean revolution, but if anything, that made him feel worse.

“Citizen Helo, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you—to thank your family—for their gift to the world.”

“Citizen Helo, both my parents were born of the cure. Bless you and yours.”

“I hate to bother you, Citizen Helo, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it. It is such an honor to be in the presence of someone descended from Persistence Helo. Everyone here at Scintillans is overwhelmed. Is there anything I can get you?”

This last one planted a notion in his head, and he stopped the servant, a blue-haired butler. “Pardon me, but the lady of the house . . .”

“Lady Heloise Blake? She and Lord Blake are away at the moment.” The servant eyed him. “Oh, you mean Persis.”

But Justen already had the information he needed. He snapped his jaw shut. Heloise. Persis. He should have seen it before. Those names were no accident. And yet, why would aristos bear them?

“Citizen?” the servant prompted.

Justen shook his head. “I was just wondering how long she’d be.”

The older man laughed. “Yes, she does like her clothes, our girl. These days, it’s all she seems to care about.”

Our girl. Now, Justen examined the estate with new eyes. He’d been too concerned for his patient’s welfare when he’d arrived yesterday afternoon, and last night and this morning he’d been busy trying to make a plan for the future, but now he finally began to take in the details of this aristo estate. The little fishing village nestled at the base of the cliffs was filled with neat, tidy houses, not ramshackle cabins like one often saw on the plantations in Galatea. Happy, plump children ran about the lawns of the estate itself. The servants practically whistled while they worked. Were things so very different in Albion?

He knew that the Reduction’s end had been handled differently in the two nations of New Pacifica. In Albion, mandatory education for regs and fair wage laws had been passed. There’d been reg representatives on the Royal Council for more than a generation. But that couldn’t have made a true difference, could it? As Uncle Damos said,