her calm, talk her back into rationality. She could do this. If there was anything she was good at, it was making people behave the way she wanted.
Heloise’s hair had escaped its clips, sending bronze spirals cascading down her back. Persis brushed one aside. “Mama?” she asked softly. “I’m here to help you. What are you looking for?”
Heloise Blake turned and her eyes went even wider, if that was possible. “You.”
“Yes, Mama—” Persis began, when her mother grabbed her by the throat and threw her against the wall.
“You!” Heloise growled, shoving her against the stone. “You stole it! Who are you?”
“Mama!” Persis said, though her voice tripped over the syllables. “It’s me, Persis.”
“
Her muscles relaxed. Here was the heart of the episode. She’d seen this one before. “Yes, Mama,” she said calmly, blinking until the threatening tears subsided. “I’m your daughter. We’ve heard that all my life, remember?”
Heloise’s hands crept up to Persis’s cheeks, her fingers curved into claws. “Give me my face back.”
Persis neatly caught her mother’s wrists before she did any more damage to her inflamed face. “Mama, please. Look at me. I’m Persis.” She moved Heloise’s hand to her own face, let it caress her own cheek. “We look alike. We always have. You’re the most beautiful woman in all Albion, and I’m lucky that anyone thinks I resemble you.”
Sometimes this worked. Sometimes her mother remembered. But Heloise’s eyes were still wide, her pupils constricted to tiny points. Her nails were now raking across her own skin. And then, suddenly, she slumped against Persis. Justen stood behind her, a pricker in his hand.
“What did you do?” Persis cried as the maids rushed to help support her unconscious mother.
“Sedated her,” Justen said. “She needed it. You did your best, Persis, but—”
“You had no right to medicate my mother,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. She’d been getting there. She just needed more time. And Justen Helo was never, never allowed to give anyone she loved a drug.
She swept by him and followed her servants to the bed, where they were laying Heloise down. At the edge of the platform lay the cracked remnants of a hand mirror, its rotating lifters bent and clicking as they tried to turn. That was probably what had set the whole spell off. Sometimes her mother lost track of the passage of years and failed to recognize her own reflection. She tapped the mirror off, swallowed, and said in as steady a voice as she could muster, “You may be a medic, but you aren’t ours.”
“I have a little more experience dealing with DAR than you do,” he replied. “When they reach a certain point of confusion, they can’t be reasoned with. There’s a feedback loop that happens in their brains, and—”
“Save it for your lab reports.” The maids had wisely retreated, and Persis took her mother’s limp hand. Her parents’ bed was suspended from the ceiling on long lengths of silk, and swayed slightly as she perched on the edge. Her mother was sleeping, her face so relaxed in repose that she looked much younger than forty. She looked, indeed, like Persis herself. “You don’t know her.”
“Do you think that’s the first time a member of a patient’s family has said that to me?” he asked softly. “It’s true. I don’t know your mother. I wish I’d known her when she was well, when she was all the things she wanted to be, all the things you love about her.” His voice came from very close now, but Persis would not turn toward him. “I don’t know—I can’t know—how you and your mother feel. But I have seen people go through this before, and I do know the best ways to help.”
Her heart pounded in her chest and her skin burned from more than the chemicals she’d used to remove her genetemps facial hair. Justen’s voice was sweet and soothing. He was surely trained for that—bedside manner, they called it. He knew just how to talk to patients and their families. Just how to keep them calm.
He was a bigger liar than she was.
“You can go now,” she intoned, still focused on her mother. “My father and the night nurse will be along shortly.”
“I can stay.” She felt his hand on her shoulder, pressure and heat searing right through the silvery fabric. “This is what I’m good at, Persis. Let me help.”
She bit her lip. A day ago, that would have been all she wanted. The grandson of Persistence Helo, dedicated to the cause of helping Darkened. Ministering to her mother. Recruited into the League of the Wild Poppy. Kissing her in the star cove. But it was all a lie. Justen wasn’t here to help—he was her enemy, and he had no idea what Persis was truly capable of.
“Here,” Justen said, though she’d offered him no answer. He had a tube of ointment in his hands, and he was dabbing it on the scratches marring her mother’s perfect cheeks. He offered her another cloth. “You could use some of this on your rash, too.”
She took it, but the words “thank you” stuck in her throat, the aristocratic manners of Persis Blake warring strongly with the Wild Poppy’s need to flatten this man.
“She’ll sleep for at least four hours with this sedative,” he said. “When the nurse gets here, I’d like to consult with him about what just happened. My observations are from a clinical standpoint, so they might be more useful—”
“Than mine,” Persis finished. “I understand.” Like it or not, Justen knew how to care for Heloise far better than Persis did. “Excuse me while I see how soon my father can be expected.” She also needed to send in a maid to clean up the room before her father returned. It would upset him far more than necessary.
Torin Blake always put on a brave face, but his wife’s bad spells were destroying him, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing that Persis could do to help. If anything, he would rather not see her whenever things got bad, as if dreading the day Persis followed the same path.
Secretly, Persis wondered if that was why her father had let her drop out of school and was indulging what he called her current “phase” of parties and dresses and silly court intrigue. After all, the prospect of losing one’s intellectual capacity hurt somewhat less if you’d spent your life wasting it anyway.
Her mother, on her better days, was less understanding. “Fashion is certainly art, Persis,” she’d told her the last time they’d discussed her sudden apathy toward intellectual pursuits, “and worthy of your time. But I always thought you were more interested in politics. I’d hoped, someday, you could finally become the female voice we need on the Council.”
Persis couldn’t pursue politics. At least not until she was done being the Wild Poppy. But she could hardly explain that to either of her parents. If Papa wouldn’t let her go to Galatea on shopping trips, he’d flip if he learned she was risking life and mind every time she crossed the sea. No, they’d just have to spend a little while longer being utterly baffled that their previously book-ravenous daughter refused to talk about anything in public except her ever-expanding wardrobe.
Lies upon lies. She lied to her enemies as the Wild Poppy and to her friends who didn’t know her secret identity. She lied to her parents when they asked her why she no longer wanted to join Albion’s intellectual salons or continue her studies at school, and to Isla when she explained away her mother’s absences from court. She lied when she pretended to the public that she was in love with Justen Helo, and to Justen when she pretended that she didn’t know exactly what he’d done to his countrymen. There was almost no one left now who Persis could tell the truth to.
The night breeze blew across her heated face, bringing with it the scent of sea spray and frangipani. She heard a few playful barks and Slipstream darted up the stone path threading down the pali. His coat was wet from the sea as she scooped him into her arms.
“You know it all, though, Slippy.” His big otter eyes shone in the starlight, his fish-scented whiskers tickled her cheeks as she nuzzled him. “Now tell me what to do.”
Instead he stretched out his long neck to sniff at the golden flutter that had halted above their heads and was drifting slowly downward. An orchid. Persis opened her palm.
