Across a Star-Swept Sea

“I don’t get it,” said Lady Blocking, her head cocked, her mouth slack. Perhaps Persis should spend more time studying the woman’s behavior to make sure her own act achieved proper authenticity. She was never quite successful at playing dumb.

“Unfortunately, they can’t all be works of art,” Persis said, lifting her shoulders in pretty defeat. “And I did warn you I was out of practice.”

“Better luck next time.” Isla pointed at Justen. “Your turn, Justen. Challenge our girl.”

His expression was as flat as his voice as he replied, “Reduction.”

The guests began to fidget with their cups and plates.

“I—ah—don’t know if that’s quite the topic we’re looking for, Citizen. A little serious, perhaps, for our purpose.” Isla gave an apologetic smile. “Perhaps a different topic springs to mind?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t think of anything else right now.”

Good, thought Persis. When it came to Justen Helo, neither could she. Persis lifted her hand. “Oh no, I’ve got this one.” She stared straight at Justen and began to recite.

Though long forgotten by the kind,

Lucky enough to keep their minds,

The threat sadly, remains most keen,

To those who are called Galatean.

Justen rose, not breaking eye contact, and recited back,

The world’s content to sit and wait,

While those in need suffer sad fates.

And while we laugh and ride the waves

Our negligence will dig their graves.

Persis blinked. Well, that was unexpected. Who knew Galatean medic students had time to fit in lyric lessons amid RNA transcription classes?

Whatever had remained of the party atmosphere, however, had vanished. Andrine chuckled nervously. “We seem to have gone far off course.”

Persis narrowed her eyes at Justen. “My dear Justen is, perhaps, not entirely used to the way we do things in Albion.”

“But he’s so well-suited for it,” said Dwyer. “A Helo and a poet. Almost as good as a real aristo!”

At least three of the people on the deck rolled their eyes.

Persis smiled broadly at the guests. “Please excuse me. I’m going to pass my turn along to Andrine, who I recall spent many a night at school keeping us in stitches with her limericks.”

She crossed the deck, took Justen by the arm, and led him to the upper deck, out of earshot of the rest of the party.

“Your agreement with Isla demands not only that you accompany me to social events but that you look happy about it,” she reminded him softly but firmly.

“You first.”

She drew back. Who would have thought he was paying so much attention?

Justen looked out over the water in the direction of Galatea. “Those refugees are suffering and every moment I spend here playing your devoted admirer, I’m not able to help them.”

And every moment she was forced to spend playing hostess was one she couldn’t use to get to the bottom of Justen’s lies.

He turned back to her. “Does Isla really think she’s impressing the regs of Albion by setting off on a yachting trip with a bunch of aristos and a few token court regs? Is that what she thinks is going to keep the populace happy? Wouldn’t they be much happier to know that we’ve found a way to protect the regs in Galatea?”

“Shh!” she hissed. “Lower your voice.” The last thing she needed was for the Finches to find out the real reason she’d drugged Andrine. She leaned up against the rail and drew Justen against her. “People are watching.”

“So?” He leaned his body toward hers. “We’re supposed to be arguing.”

She draped her arms about his shoulders and arched her back. Behind her, the sea spray frosted her skin, but heat radiated from Justen’s body. The last time she’d held him this close had been in the star cove. It seemed like a world away. Then, she’d let down her guard, acted almost like herself, imagined that Justen was the sort of person she could tell things to. It had been her most serious lapse in judgment in a week that seemed full of them.

“Well, now we’re making up. Isla hasn’t authorized any fights.” More’s the pity. How she’d like to have it out with him here and now. How she’d like to pitch him over the side of the Daydream and sail away, no matter what secrets he might discover in his grandmother’s files to help her mother. If Justen could find a cure in them, someone else could, too.

“I don’t care what she’s authorized,” he whispered. “All I care about is my countrymen. I can’t stand by and watch them suffer.”

“You were happy enough to do so before.” The words slipped out, unfiltered. He began to jerk away from her but she held him tight. “When you were in Galatea, there were citizens being Reduced all around you. Why was that all right?”

“It wasn’t,” he replied. “And there was very little I could do in Galatea with my uncle breathing down my neck. Here I can help the refugees in that sanitarium.”

Persis was sure that was a great comfort to those regs already damaged by Justen’s pinks. She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek, when what she’d rather do was smack it.

“Oh, lovebirds,” called Lady Blocking, “are you going to rejoin the party or find someplace more private?”

He looked into her eyes, pain furrowing his brow. “You sound angry with me, Persis. If I’ve done something to hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Vania came to your house. I didn’t invite her, believe me. I respect your family’s privacy.”

“And what about the princess’s good opinion?” Persis said. “Entertaining her enemies—”

“Don’t worry about Vania. All she cares about is the Wild Poppy.”

That was plenty to start with.

“I thought,” he said, “that we were becoming friends. In the star cove—”

“I made it clear what we’re doing here,” she finished. “At least, I thought I had. If there was any confusion . . .” She shrugged. “This is a role, Justen. Play it.”

He glared at her, his jaw set, his dark eyes burning. And then he kissed her.

She couldn’t pull away, not with half the party watching and the other half judging. And after a second, she didn’t want to. There was something desperate and wild about the kiss, about Justen himself. In the star cove, he’d touched her gently, tentatively. Now he cupped her face in one hand, tangling his fingers in the windswept strands of her hair, while he slipped the other around the small of her back, pulling her up from the rails and holding her against his body.

This was not the Galatean medic she knew, cautious and serious and sarcastic. The petals of her skirt whipped in the wind, molding about his hips as tightly as her arms wrapped around his back. He moved his mouth over hers, hot and hard and hungry for understanding or absolution or something else entirely unexpected.

And then, just as suddenly, he lifted his head, and there was no pleasure in his face. “There,” he said. “Satisfied?”

Not even a little. Persis caught her breath before speaking, afraid of how she might sound otherwise. “It’s . . . a definite improvement.”

Down on the main deck, Princess Isla pointed at the sky and screamed.

Twenty-one