Across a Star-Swept Sea

Remy could barely meet the older girl’s gaze. Her eyes watered with shameful tears.

“So here’s what I think. You hated what they were doing to the aristos on the Lacan estate,” the Wild Poppy said to her, rising and coming forward. Her hood fell back, revealing hair the color of frangipani and eyes as bright as the scales on that long-dead sea pony. “You don’t want to admit it, but deep down, you know your guardian is no longer interested in helping Galateans. He just wants to punish his enemies.”

Enemies like Lacan. Enemies like Justen would be if Uncle Damos found out what he’d done. . . .

“The revolution has betrayed you, has betrayed your whole nation. You are not a traitor, it’s true. But your loyalty lies not to the leaders destroying your country but to its citizens—all its citizens—who have the power to make it great.”

Remy found she could muster no response to this enemy of the revolution. It made no sense at all. This woman—this girl, really—stood for everything Remy hated. She rescued aristos. She was an aristo herself. She undermined the revolution. How often had Remy heard Vania and the other soldiers complaining about the Wild Poppy?

So why was she saying things Remy agreed with?

The Wild Poppy made a quick motion with her left hand, and Remy’s ropes fell loose. If she wanted to flee, now was the time. But her heart thrummed in her chest as the spy’s words settled into the space between the two girls. How did this Albian know exactly what had happened to her? She looked only a year or two older than Remy, she was clearly an aristo, and yet it seemed she could see right through to Remy’s soul.

All she’d wanted was to save her brother, and this was where she’d ended up. In the throne room of a monarch, kneeling before a young girl who was the embodiment of the aristocracy Remy had wanted so hard to fight, the embodiment of the spy Remy had tried so hard to be. This girl who was making her question everything. Everything.

All she’d wanted was to help her brother, but now she wanted more. To help the people the revolution had harmed.

The Poppy held out her hand, and Remy saw the flash of her palmport. No wonder she’d been hiding it under her glove when they’d met in Galatea. There was no way folks would fail to recognize her as an aristo with that hardware in her hand.

“Will you join us?”

“Yes,” Remy said, though it was more like a sob. “Yes, I’ll help you. Tell me what I have to do.”

Eleven

“THAT WENT WELL,” PERSIS said as Andrine led the sister of Justen Helo away.

“It went somewhat differently than expected,” said Isla, “but at least you got a well-connected spy.”

“I mean for your first interrogation,” said Persis, smiling at her friend. “You scared her cold.” Remy would never have given them her name if she weren’t certain they were going to kill her otherwise.

“Do you think?” said Isla. “I was afraid I sounded a bit comical with all my threats. As if I needed a mustache to twirl like some sort of ancient villain.”

“Oh no,” Persis said. “It was perfect.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Don’t change a thing—except maybe . . .”

“What?”

“The eels.”

“Too over-the-top?”

“Not at all. The only thing was, you threatened to kill her where she lay, and then you mentioned eels down in the dungeons—it was confusing. To a prisoner. They can’t be intimidated if they’re busy trying to parse your geography.”

Isla waved her hand. “Semantics.” She plopped back on a cushion. “My father used to make threats look so easy.”

“Kill many people, did he?”

“Oh no, he was a softie.” Isla shrugged. “Then again, he didn’t rule in the midst of a war where he had to send his best friend to rescue tortured prisoners, so . . . who knows what he might have done?”

Persis smiled. “Would you really avenge me with neuroeels, Isla?”

“For you, darling, I’d gengineer a neuroshark.”

“Aww.” Persis pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s very sweet.”

“Well, you’re very special to me, Persis. I hope you realize that.” Isla’s voice was serious—true serious, not the royal serious she’d used on Remy, and Persis’s smile slid off her face.

Rescuing the Galatean prisoners was a worthy mission, and Persis bore no illusions that, were she to be caught by the revolutionaries, her punishment would be Reduction or worse, but she’d always figured she was only risking herself and those who’d chosen to join her cause. This was something they were doing to help the people of Galatea. To help Isla, who couldn’t manage to convince the Royal Council that war could come no matter how much you tried to pretend it wouldn’t, and that helping the Galatean people didn’t necessarily mean bringing war to their shores as well.

But Isla’s words had cast doubt in her mind. If she was captured by the enemy, what would Isla do? Would the ruler of Albion fight to free her? Might Persis be reason enough for her to defy the Council and jeopardize the very makeup of the government?

“Neurosharks might be overkill,” she said at last. “What’s the point of their teeth, if their bite contains neurotoxins?”

“True,” Isla replied. “Well, I’ll leave the details to the gengineers.”

Persis wanted to say, “Isla, if they catch me, don’t you dare do anything rash.”

She wanted to say, “Isla, I know what I’m doing, so think of our country and not our friendship.”

She wanted to say, “If I thought this might cause a problem for Albion, I’d stop.”

But she didn’t. Especially that last one, because the truth was, Persis didn’t know if she could. People were being hurt. Innocents. Children. Aristos and regulars alike. Maybe Isla should force Albion to take a stand against the atrocities happening in the south.

But until she did, the Wild Poppy would do what she could.

Isla saved her by changing the topic. “Do you really think we can trust her?”

“Yes.” Remy Helo was a lot like her brother. Persis remembered what Justen had said last night. How passionate he’d been about his hopes for his country, for a cure for the Darkened. The propaganda from Galatea said the Helos were model revolutionary citizens, but Aldred had no idea how accurate that was. They were true revolutionaries. They believed in justice for all Galateans, regular and aristo.

“And are you sure we shouldn’t keep her here to appease your little boyfriend?”

“Does he even have to be my boyfriend now?” Persis asked. “There’s no need to keep Justen’s reasons for being here a secret if we have his sister safe.” Persis could already visualize the look of joy on Justen’s face once he was reunited with his sister. And it would make everything easier on her, too, if she was no longer forced to squire him around and keep her mask on at home.

“Oh, Persis. Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying his company just a little bit. Justen is handsome, politically motivated, and the grandson of the savior of New Pacifica.” Isla tapped her finger against her lips thoughtfully. “Isn’t that pretty much your dream boy?”

Persis found it highly aggravating how well the princess regent of Albion knew her. “Yes, but I’m Persis Flake, remember? He can barely tolerate me.”

“Give him time. He’ll fall prey to your charm, just like everyone else.”

Persis shook her head. No, not Justen. He needed something more than she was allowed to show him.

“Fine,” Isla said. “Beyond trusting her, do you think Remy can actually help us?”

“Living in the palace with Citizen Aldred?” Persis pointed out. “Definitely. She’ll have information about new prisoners before anyone else. And you heard Justen. He thinks his sister is a helpless little girl. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what she’s been up to.”