Across a Star-Swept Sea

Poppy to disappear forever.

There was no way Isla would ever allow Persis to go on a mission again. Isla or Persis’s parents, actually. She was about to be grounded for life. And it didn’t matter anyway. Her secret was blown sky-high. The guards knew who she was, and Vania would have to be returned to Galatea eventually. The Wild Poppy was dead.

And yet, did anyone really need the spy anymore? After all, once they spread the knowledge of the protection derived from the Helo Cure, the revolutionaries would no longer be able to use their weapon of Reduction. The people of Galatea would be safe. Without that threat, the refugees could return home, and the rumblings of resistance to Aldred’s government would grow into a roar. And Isla could help with that, too, especially with the bargaining power derived from holding Citizen Aldred’s daughter captive. The Galateans could form a republic now. A true republic, not a nation cowering under the rule of another cruel leader.

Perhaps it would serve as a model. Even for Albion. After all, with Councilman Shift soon to be a nonentity at court, perhaps Isla could finally rule alongside the Council, rather than in opposition to it.

No, the Wild Poppy was no longer needed in New Pacifica. And so, the only question that remained was, did Persis need him herself? He was her duty, yes, her service to her princess and to the people who were needlessly suffering. But he was also her love. As the Poppy, Persis could forget a future that included a marriage to a man who would control her life and her precious Scintillans, a court that expected girls like her to be ornamental and obedient, a mother she was losing a little more every day, and a future as misty as the steam rising off the sea. As the Poppy, Persis could be sure that, no matter what happened to her somewhere down the line, she had done something with her mind while she’d still had the chance.

Without the Wild Poppy, there was nothing to keep Persis from spending her days watching her mother slip into nothingness and her nights wondering if and when it would begin for her, too.

Slipstream chittered then slid off her lap, and Persis looked up to see she had company on deck. Justen.

There was another man whose place in her life had grown rather murky in the past few hours.

She watched the sea mink prance over to Justen, who reached down and scratched the animal behind the ear, then scooped him up and took a few steps forward.

“Do you want him back?” he said.

She stood, leaning against the rails for support. “No. Let him fish if he wants.”

Justen nodded and let the animal down. Slippy darted between his legs and over the side to swim in the wake. “I think your rat is growing on me.”

“Sea mink,” she corrected.

He smiled. “Sea mink.” He kept coming toward her and she scooted over to make room. Was she supposed to apologize for acting like an idiot . . . twice? Was he supposed to apologize for creating a torture device? What was going to happen now?

The sky was coral and pink and a brilliant, brilliant blue. It was going to be another gorgeous day in New Pacifica, but Persis wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body and shivered in the sea breeze. Justen was still wearing the black Galatean military uniform he’d used to sneak into the lab, though the gray flakes were almost completely gone from his hair.

“So . . .” he began quietly.

“So,” she said. “Do you think that Tomorrow will help you with your DAR research? I’m sure her experiences have given her a real fright, but if we have a little patience, we’ll be able to convince her that we mean her no harm. And your models show that her genetics might be promising, right?” She was babbling. Even flaky Persis never babbled.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I . . . don’t want to talk about work right now.”

“Really?” she asked, skeptical. “That’s a new one for you. For as long as I’ve known you, it’s the only thing you wanted to talk about. Your precious research and your beautiful revolution, and how it’s all so very, very important—”

“It is important,” he broke in. “And it’ll be there when we get to Albion. We’re going to fix the refugees, and we’re going to protect the Galateans and their revolution, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m going to get back to my research. And I’m not going to rest until I find a way to help your mother and everyone like her. I promise you, Persis.”

She swallowed heavily, then turned from him and took a deep draft from her supplement to calm her nerves. It was very sugary, though, so it did nothing of the sort. Instead, her heart pounded so hard she thought she might bruise. He promised. He promised he would save her. And, like always, she wanted to believe him.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” he said softly, very near her ear. “What are you doing?”

She turned back. When had he gotten so close? They were face-to-face on the deck, inches from each other. “What do you mean?”

“Come on,” he said, teasing. “We both know you’re not going to be the Wild Poppy anymore, and with my sister safely with me—”

“Your sister,” she pointed out, “can take care of herself.”

“So I see.” He frowned. “That’s something else we can talk about . . . later, the advisability of recruiting my little sister into your spy ring.”

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he replied. “Remy will be safe with me from now on, and Isla is going to be a huge hero after she reveals how we’ve saved the regs and the aristos of Galatea, so it’s not like she needs our help with her public image.”

“True.” Part of her wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. His eyes never left her face, and there was something in his gaze, something dark and unexpected that made her catch her breath. “I suppose I’ll go back to school. I know it’ll make my father happy.”

“The Wild Poppy taking classes in history when she’s used to making it?” Justen considered this, a small smile playing about his mouth. “It would be entertaining, at least.”

“Don’t act so superior,” she said. “I think I know some medic who isn’t quite officially finished with his studies, either. Without your uncle Damos getting all nepotistic, you’re going to have to finish school, too.”

“True,” he echoed. “But what I’m asking is, since all the reasons for having a fake relationship have evaporated, does that mean we don’t have to pretend to be in love anymore?”

“That’s what it means,” she said with a brusque nod.

“Good.”

“Yes,” she managed, though her throat was choking on the words. He was standing so close. She tried to back up a step, and he caught her by the hand. His thumb traced the outline of her wristlock, then slipped inside to rest against the golden disk.

She hadn’t yet finished the supplement, but every nerve in her palm buzzed to life.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, though, smart as she was, she already knew.

“It’s good,” Justen added, as he cupped her face in his other hand and tangled his fingers in her hair, “because, Persis Blake, the next time I kiss you, I want you to know it’s for real.”

Acknowledgments

I COULD PROBABLY POPULATE New Pacifica itself with all the people I owe thanks to over the course of putting this book in your hands. As always, seas of gratitude to Kristin Rens, who fought by my side for this book through all its iterations, and the entire team at Balzer + Bray (especially Sara Sargent, who actually did get a name-check this time around), with extra kudos to Ray Shappell and Colin and Sasha for actually capturing the hard-to-capture Persis. And, of course, my thanks to agent Deidre Knight, who among her myriad talents, helped me nail down the title.

My husband, my daughter, and my dog all sacrificed much (maybe too much) during the writing of this