could be holding in his hands the key to helping her mother. To helping
Even if he didn’t know it yet.
WHEN JUSTEN HAD FIRST set off for Albion, his grandmother’s oblets concealed in his pockets, he knew he’d have to share the secrets to be found within. With Princess Isla perhaps, or more than likely, one of her science advisers. If he hoped to be put to work in the research labs of Albion, he’d certainly be forced to tell the scientists there what he was working on.
But he hadn’t expected the first person he’d confide in would be an empty-headed aristo he was supposed to be having a relationship with. Then again, he was no longer entirely sure that Persis Blake was empty-headed. Shallow, sure, and woefully ignorant about every weighty topic affecting both her nation and his own—but she wasn’t an idiot. She knew her way around the court. She knew where her loyalties lay. And despite the ridiculous head-in-the-sand approach her family seemed to be taking to Lady Heloise’s illness, she wasn’t stupid about DAR, either.
There was an unmistakable hunger in the way Persis had asked him for information. It made sense, especially if her family was just trying to ignore the problem, as if that would make it go away. Persis might be flighty, but she was no fool. Her mother was sick, and Persis wanted to do anything possible to help her.
Which meant she might help him as well.
And he had a lot less to fear from Persis than he might from actual scientists. Actual scientists who might start reading more into the research than she would, who would start putting two and two together and figuring out the
He was even afraid to face it himself.
“You really think the information in here will help?” she asked now, still examining the oblets.
He nodded. “I do. I think my grandmother was close to a breakthrough when she died. And we’ve collected so much more data in the last two generations about DAR.”
But Persis looked skeptical. “If she was so close, then why wasn’t anyone in Galatea able to solve the problem before now?” She shook her head, a furrow appearing on her brow. “I mean, I’m sure you’re very smart, Justen, but there are other scientists in your country who have been treating DAR for decades.”
“Until the revolution,” said Justen, “no one had access to these oblets. They were kept under lock and key by the royal house of Galatea.”
Persis looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
Silly aristo. “DAR is a sickness of
“We have very nice sanitariums—” Persis began halfheartedly.
“Let me guess. Beautiful gardens, impeccable grounds, bars on every window?” he scoffed. “Don’t tell me what they’re like. I trained in one. And you know very well it’s the same here. There’s a reason your family wants your mother’s condition kept secret.”
Persis said nothing, just stared at him with a defiantly raised chin.
“Your Princess Isla talks about avoiding a revolution,” he said. “Perhaps she should start by admitting things in her country aren’t as different from those in Galatea as she wants everyone to believe.”
She pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t know much about that,” was all she said. “And I don’t really care, either.”
“Then what do you care about?” he practically shouted.
Persis was silent again. “I care about my mother’s future. I know someone who works at the west coast sanitarium. Noemi Dorric. She’s a brilliant medic,” she added, though Justen wasn’t sure he should take Persis’s word on the matter. Still . . . “If you’re serious about this, I can arrange to have you installed in a laboratory there as soon as tomorrow.”
He looked at Persis. “You can do that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Justen, I’m one of those aristos whose crushing power you’re always deriding. We can work it for good, too.”
“True,” he allowed with a chagrined smirk.
She lifted her shoulders. “Besides, even if that weren’t the case, you’re a Helo and under the protection of Princess Isla. Your only challenge will be finding time to turn down all the invitations you’re about to get for your medic services.”
“True again. Shall I rely on you to be my social secretary, then?”
At that, the aristo graced him again with one of her dazzling smiles. “You couldn’t have chosen better if you tried.”
Ten
FOR A LONG TIME, the soldier called Trina Delmar floated—weightless, senseless, like she used to at the bottom of the tide pools in the cove where she and her brother played when she was younger. Back then, she used to dream she was a fish, and wished she had the money to get a gengineered sea pony like the aristo girl up the bay had. But then the revolution had come and the aristo girl and her parents had disappeared and one day, Trina had seen the pony washed up on the shore, its marvelous coral flippers ragged and torn, its big, faceted golden eyes lifeless and swarming with blackflies.
The revolution. It was supposed to save them all. But then her brother had told her of impossible treasons and she’d tried to help him, only to be confronted with bleeding old men and guards who didn’t seem to care as much for equality as for making people pay and a cliff top where the last person she’d expected to voiced the same fears as her brother had—fears she didn’t even want to admit were possible.
Senses began to intrude on her solitude. The muffled sound of people talking, far, far away. A light, white and creamy, soft and blurry. The smell of orchids in the air. A soft, melodic tinkle that sounded almost like water in a fountain, but was far too musical for that. And, most of all, the ropes binding her ankles and her arms.
Her eyes shot open to see a bright dome above her head, framed at the edges by palm fronds strung with orchid leis. She sat up, and a wave of dizziness overtook her, but she tensed her muscles and blinked her eyes until her vision cleared.
“Hello, Citizen Delmar,” said the woman—or rather, the girl—seated on the dais before her. She was all white from the tips of her high-piled hair to the sculpted white eyebrows against her golden-brown skin to her long cape and shimmering gown. At her feet knelt two handmaidens, both swathed in hooded robes of silvery gray. The princess regent of Albion, Isla. A royal, an aristo, and an enemy of the revolution. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
In a rush, the memories flooded back. The Wild Poppy. She’d been captured by the Wild Poppy. She looked desperately around the room for an escape route, for a weapon of some sort. The white cushions and rugs wouldn’t help her. The enormous planters would be too heavy to lift, even if she could break free. She tested the bonds and they tightened further.
“Trina,” the princess admonished, in a tone that meant she’d probably said the word a few times already. Right. Her name. So they didn’t know. That could be useful. “Don’t waste your time, dear. You can’t escape from nanothread ropes.”
“What do you want?” Trina asked. Her voice trembled on the words, which was not ideal behavior for a revolutionary soldier, but it’s not as if she’d had much training in that area. She might have skills with a gun, but she was no Vania Aldred.
“To talk to you,” said the princess serenely. “Though, to be honest, I personally don’t see the value in it. You were captured by a sea mink. You’re hardly a crack soldier.”
“But the Wild Poppy assures me you have potential, and his is an opinion I trust.”
