“It is tempting,” Persis agreed, waving her hands through the water and watching gold drip from her fingers. “Of course, you’d drown. And wouldn’t
More like struck down before he could ruin any more lives. He grimaced. What right did he have to relax in a geothermal pool while the refugees suffered in the sanitarium, while prisoners were tortured in Galatea? There was a rule that medics had abided by since time immemorial: first, do no harm.
He needed to fix his mistake. There was nothing more important than that right now. He’d sleep for a few hours, then head back to the lab.
Ahead of them, to the west, the sun melted into the sea, and already, the dusk had gathered here in the shadows on either side of the cove cliffs. “So why do they call it Scintillans?” he asked, more to change the subject than anything else.
“Wait.”
He waited. It wasn’t difficult to do, snug on the rocks with the warm seawater all around him. Persis didn’t speak for once, and when he looked, she wasn’t consulting her palmport, either, just sitting and watching the sun set, her expression devoid of its usual false cheer. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, making her look like an actual mortal for once, as well as the two years younger than Justen that she really was. He wondered what she might have been like had she not been born an aristo in Albion. Like his sister Remy, perhaps. She wasn’t stupid, just unconcerned with any weighty matters.
Then he thought of what she’d be like had she been born an aristo in Galatea. How she’d probably even now be Reduced, imprisoned, working herself to death in a field, her silly giggle extinguished like the mischievous spark in her cinnamon eyes.
And it would be his fault.
He was staring. He stopped, and returned his attention to the sun. Persis Blake was beautiful, but she wasn’t a sunset.
A moment later, the sun sank below the surface. Justen made a hissing sound before he could catch himself.
But Persis was already grinning. “What was that?”
He shrugged, sending the water into eddies around his shoulders. “Something my sister and I always do, ever since we were kids. When the ocean puts out the sun, it hisses, like water on a hot pan.”
“I like it.” Persis nodded, as if giving him permission to hiss in her cove. “You must miss her.”
“Remy’s the only family I have left. Of course I miss her.” Missed her and wanted to take back everything he’d said the last time he’d seen her. Remy was just a kid. Of course she wouldn’t take kindly to his doubts about the revolution. Of course she would be shocked to learn that he was trying to undo the damage he’d caused.
What had he been thinking, leaving her alone in Galatea? He wanted to believe nothing would happen to her there—that no matter what, Uncle Damos would be kind to her. But he realized more each day how little he truly knew about the man who’d raised them since their parents died.
Now the midnight blue of the night sky was rushing after the coral line of the setting sun. The trail of sparkling gold across the surface of the water narrowed, and the waves turned dark. He felt her hand, warm from the water, in his hair again.
“It feels so weird,” she said, brushing it back against its natural direction. “Prickly. Fuzzy. Like Slipstream.”
Justen jerked his head away. “I feel like your
She pursed her lips, considering it. “Your hair does. A little. Slipstream is softer.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“He’s gengineered that way. To be soft, to be fast, to be playful and clever and cute. To be perfect for me.”
“Sorry I can’t oblige.” Unlike so many of his friends, Justen had never indulged in the gengineering that had become so popular since the revolution. There wasn’t enough regulation right now—as he’d argued to Persis when she’d been messing with her genetemps. Human gengineering was a dicey prospect. He knew that better than anyone.
“I’ll live.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed, then shook her head in confusion. “Why do men wear it so short in Galatea? And everyone so dark. Don’t you get bored, having everyone’s hair just be black like that?”
“I like black.”
“As your wardrobe proves,” she scoffed.
“Don’t you get tired of bleaching yours all the time?”
“I’ll endure a little boredom for the sake of beauty.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder. “If only we were all lucky enough to have juvenile canities like Isla’s royal line.”
Justen rolled his eyes. “Give them a few years, and the gengineers will make an argument for it.”
“Not in Albion—the royals would never allow it. It’s become such a signature.” Persis shrugged. “This color is new—or relatively. I’ve only had it about a year. Used to be a lovely deep magenta, but I found it was clashing with Slippy’s coat.”
“Can’t have that,” Justen murmured. “Where is your sea mink anyway?”
“On the cold side. It’s too hot over here for him.” Persis slipped off the ledge and treaded water in front of him. “Why? Do you find conversations about hairstyles that dull?”
“Deadly dull.”
“Then I fear you won’t have much fun pretending to be in love with me.” She shifted closer. “Since, to sell our ruse, you’re going to have to pretend every word out of my mouth is utterly fascinating.”
He leaned in, too. “I think there are enough people who think that around here, Lady Blake. Maybe what you find so fascinating about
She murmured something incoherent.
“What?”
“I do find that fascinating,” she said more loudly. “If annoying.”
He shrugged.
She glided back and forth through the water inches from his legs, every bit as graceful and sinuous as Slipstream. “But we should figure it out. What could someone like
He shrugged again. There were some, he supposed, who would fall for this silken, silly goddess.
“That’ll never do. We have to find something.”
“You’re rich and beautiful and the heir to this entire estate,” Justen pointed out. “That should be enough.”
She looked skeptical. “Not a very revolutionary sentiment.”
“Well, I’m a traitor to the revolution, so—”
Suddenly, Persis lunged forward, hooked her arm around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
“Guh—” he said against her mouth.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, her tone urgent.
He did. Her lips were as full and lush as he’d expected. She tasted of sea salt and flowers. His hands skimmed her sides, bare and slippery, and the wet hem of her suit as he steadied her in the current. Her skin was firm and smooth, just as he’d imagined. She moaned a little as his fingers pressed into her thighs, holding her just the tiniest bit away from his body for his own sake. Her lips parted and she slid her tongue along his bottom lip.
Justen jerked away. Enough was enough. “Per—”
She laughed again and splashed him. “What’s wrong, Galatean?” she asked loudly. Very loudly. “Am I moving too fast for you?”
Even over the sound of the surf, he heard snickers. He looked back to see a group of figures huddled on the steps near the entrance to the cove. As soon as they realized he’d spotted them, they turned and, laughing, scampered back up the steps.
“Who—” he asked under his breath as he watched them go, neck craned to peer over the lip of rock.
“Some children from the village,” Persis whispered, still on his lap. She sounded oddly breathless, as if the
