“Not much on the Wild Poppy, no,” she said at last.
“Did you see Justen?” Remy pressed. “I heard he’s gone to Albion.”
“Yes.” They passed through the gates to the palace, the sound of the lifter fans echoing off the massive walls of the courtyard.
“Did he tell you why he left?”
Vania rubbed her temples with her fingers. She didn’t have time for a big dramatic scene with Remy. She needed to arrange her thoughts around this break-in. Like it or not, the Wild Poppy took precedence over whether or not her foster brother had decided to betray everything he’d ever believed in for some stupid rich girl.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “The gossip all says he’s in love with some idiot aristo.” There. That excuse would hold Remy for a little bit, until she had time to explain all the complex political philosophies involved. Hearts and flowers a girl her age could understand. “Her name is Persis Blake.”
“An aristo?” Remy sounded skeptical. “That doesn’t sound like him, and an idiot even less so.” She laughed awkwardly. “You know Justen—he’d sooner Reduce an aristo than kiss one, right?”
Vania looked at the younger girl. There was something odd in her tone—grasping and almost desperate, as if she was trying to convince herself of something she didn’t really believe. Had Justen already infected her with some of his traitorous ideas? Vania made a note in her oblet to screen all Remy’s messages from Justen. For now, let the girl think Justen was being guided by lust.
“This aristo’s especially rich and especially pretty,” Vania said. She accessed an image of the lady in question and turned the oblet’s display toward Remy. “Here. Take a look at her and tell me your brother’s thinking with his head.”
The display sparked to life, revealing Persis Blake in all her splendor. She was at some event or another, in a gown that sparkled like a sunlit sea, her wild yellow and white hair floating above her in a cloudy puff. She was holding a crystal glass of kiwine in her hand, and she had her head thrown back, laughing.
Not a care in the world. Spoiled brat. Vania started feeling sick again. She rolled her eyes and turned to Remy. “See what I mean?”
“That’s Persis Blake?” Remy asked quietly. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open.
Oh no, not Remy, too! They were supposed to be above all this awe-of-aristos nonsense. “That’s her. And believe me, she’s every bit as stupid as she looks. Don’t be too impressed, Remy. Trust me, your brother has made a huge mistake.”
Remy looked from the display to Vania and back again. “That, I believe,” she said at last.
THE DAYDREAM WAS AT full sail, the party was at full tilt, and they were halfway to Remembrance Island, but Persis was certain this trip would go down as the worst event a Blake had ever hosted. Half the attendees weren’t speaking to one another, and the other half couldn’t figure out why.
“Darling,” Isla cooed in Persis’s ear. Persis turned to see the princess wearing a diaphanous white wrap and her most disapproving frown. “You’re neglecting the party, and, worse, you’re neglecting Justen.”
“I’m sorry,” Persis replied. The poison-green petals of her skirt swirled around her knees in the sea breeze, and her split sleeves flapped like angry snakes at her shoulders. “Would you prefer I livened things up by dumping him overboard?”
Isla sighed. In deference to the bright sun, she’d donned an enormous white floppy hat with a hole in the middle that allowed her to pull her hair through and arrange it in layers around the brim. When Persis had picked up the royal entourage at court, she’d said Isla looked like a child’s shell art. Isla had said Persis looked like a clump of seaweed.
The party, in Persis’s opinion, had gone downhill from there.
Justen sat like a lump in the extreme aft, giving monosyllabic answers to every attempt at conversation. He was deeply unhappy that he’d been dragged out on the boat instead of being allowed to return to the lab, though he’d only registered his complaint once to Persis. Noemi, however, had reported to Persis that he’d sent her several messages overnight about the “new address of the refugees.”
Forget dropping him off the side of the Daydream. She’d wait until they got back to Scintillans and push him off the pali itself.
“You’re supposed to throw the best parties on the island, Persis,” Isla reminded her, “so act like you’re having fun or people are going to start to suspect you have something else on your mind.”
Which she did. And it wasn’t like Isla wanted to be here, either. “Fine,” she said. “Shall I arrange a game of spin the shell with, say, you, me, Justen, and Tero?”
Isla gave her a queenly look. “Tero and I have made up.”
“Kissed and made up?”
“Don’t start with me right now.”
“Then don’t complain about me and Justen,” she replied in as low a voice as she dared out here in the wind. “Those pictures of us kissing in the star cove probably did more for your campaign of equality than any five royal balls.”
Isla turned on her heel and went to talk to the other aristos aboard. The princess had invited Lady Blocking and her stick-in-the-sandflats Council-member husband in what was supposed to look like a show of support for the Council. They’d at first acted thrilled to finally score a ride on the Daydream, then dialed down their enthusiasm as the festive atmosphere failed to materialize. Then there was Dwyer Shift, who seemed much happier about attending than Isla was about putting him on the guest list. Dwyer was every bit as exasperating as his powerful uncle, and his unctuous behavior was not a particularly welcome change. His tangerine hair had been arranged in an artful swoop, and he’d chosen to dress from head to toe in a material that made him look for all the world like a molting brass crab. He’d spent the party either offering Isla an endless parade of sweets or telling Justen that it must be exceedingly wonderful to be descended from Persistence Helo.
Persis was quite sure neither recipient enjoyed his attentions and, quite frankly, she thought they both deserved it—Isla for forcing her to host this event, and Justen because being bothered by Dwyer Shift was the least of the punishments she fantasized for him.
Andrine and Tero rounded out the party, but neither was in the mood to help. Andrine had been giving Persis the silent treatment ever since waking up in her own bed, totally feminine and completely clueless as to how she’d wound up there, rather than in the middle of a spy mission on Galatea. Persis was surprised she’d even accepted the invitation, given how angry she was.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Tero had informed Persis as they’d boarded. “She’s got plenty to say to you later. But my sister, unlike a few people I can mention, knows the proper time to impart her feelings on issues. Which is not, I’d like to add, in the middle of a mission.”
“The beginning of one is better?” Persis had said. “Like that temper tantrum you threw with the princess the other day?”
“I didn’t slip her drugs.” Tero crossed his arms, probably because he knew how large and intimidating it made him look. “You know there’s a big difference.”
“There are complications that are making it particularly dangerous for regs to be in the League of the Wild Poppy.”
“Oh, so I can drop out, then?”
“You’re not that lucky, Tero.”
Her friend sighed and handed her a pill. “No, not as lucky as you. Because while you were off drugging my sister and causing a ruckus in Galatea, I’ve made you a new palmport application. Allows for hand-to-hand exchange—no flutters necessary. I’ve got one for Slippy, too. It’ll record input to his optic nerves. You’ll be the only one in Albion with a surveillance sea mink.”