Chapter 11: Whitebeams and Wasps and Honey-scented Buddleias
I knew winter was in store for every leaf on every tree on that road. Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me. It is winter and the stars are hidden.
- Eavan Boland
We gotta stay cool tonight, Eddie, 'cause man, we got ourselves out on that line... and if we blow this one, they ain't gonna be looking for just me this time...
True to his word, Demetri had switched on the radio once they got back onto the road, and between the music and the movement of the car and the deep gloom of the space within, it was impossible for Nina to stay awake for long. She knew that she should stay awake, especially in the presence of the king, but all that adrenaline that had flooded through her during the air-strike had dissipated just as quickly, and left her drained and sluggish and more than willing to just set her head against the window, cushioned by Demetri's jacket, and let her eyelids slowly flutter shut. Every so often, she would wake and look about and exchange a few soft words with Demetri, and then sleep would take her again and she would fade out for another few hours. Demetri seemed happy to drive - one hand on the wheel, one hand on the radio, spinning between old CDs with scratches that distorted the songs in glitchy tunes and whatever faint radio stations that could be picked up in the Wastelands. Mostly, he stuck to the music; it reminded Nina of the kind of music that would play in the mining bars in Allens, old and heartland.
Honey, we came to dance with the girls with the stars in their eyes... strike up the band, play a song that everybody knows, if I'm not your kind, then don't tell a soul...
It was approaching dawn when they reached the new safe-house. The sun was just rising over a distant horizon, a pale imitation of the violent fireworks display that Demetri and Nina had watched together the night before as the scarlet-and-orange light bled over onto the land and stained the grass golden. The car bounced over the earth as they left the desert behind and drove across wide grasslands, churning up wildflowers and clumps of red earth. In front of them, what seemed to be an abandoned military installation rose up, a behemoth of iron wire fencing and cement walls. There were no guards visible, no security measures of any kind surrounding the compound, but Demetri slowed the car anyway as they approached.
Nina glanced at the king. The spectre of sleep still lay heavily on her, but she could not escape noticing how serious Demetri looked, quite abruptly, as they came to a high, wide gate and were waved through by a lone rebel in khaki with a rifle on his back. They pulled in front of one of the smaller buildings, and Nina was equal parts surprised and gratified to see that Sol was standing outside, looking a little harried but no worse for the wear. She had made it out okay. That was good.
"Lady Nina." Demetri's voice was soft. "Thank you very much for accompanying me. It was a pleasure to travel with you."
"And you. Demetri." The familiar name still felt foreign.
"Again? Some time?"
"I would love it."
Demetri smiled at her. "I'll see you soon," he promised, and Nina took that as a key to slide out of the car again, pausing only to set Demetri's jacket back onto the seat. She shut the door, and he leaned over to call through the open window. "Lady Soledad. Lovely to see you again."
"And you," Sol replied politely. As Nina passed her, the two girls clasped hands very briefly in acknowledgement of the other being safe and present and still in the Selection, and then Sol moved to take the seat that had been Nina's, and Demetri accorded Nina just a quick wave before he wrenched the ancient car's gears back into place so that the car spun in an arc, sprayed gravel, and was gone again in the merest moment.
And Nina was left outside an old military bunker in her pyjamas, watching the gates shut in their wake.
Vardi Tayna was waiting for Wickaninnish Harjo on the top step, outside the watchmaker's door, in jeans and a hoody two sizes too large for her, her dark hair disheveled. She looked more well rested than she had done for several weeks - shadows still present, but not so dark as before. "You know," she said without preamble. "This is a terrible, terrible idea."
"Suits you just fine, then." Wick grinned broadly. "I don't think that's your sweater, VT."
"I highly doubt that's your lipstick on your collar, Harjo."
"Touché."
VT fell into step next to him as easily as breathing, hands in her pockets, shoulders set against the world like she was ready herself for a boxing match with the clouds. Wick rubbed at the collar of his shirt as they made their way down the serpentine cobbled alley on which Raphel's shop lay, and emerged out onto a wider thoroughfare, lined on both sides by cafes surrounded by hanging baskets. VT said, "I can't help you, you know I can't help you" and Wick rolled his eyes.
"Can't or won't?"
"I'm in the Selection."
"I had noticed that, yeah."
"Yeah?"
Wick shook his head. Yeah, and what a baffling, confusing, frustrating decision that had been. He doubted it had been VT to come up with that idea - she wasn't smart enough for it, bless her - which meant that Täj had asked her, or Demetri had told her, or the General had planted the idea in her skull while she slept, like some sort of germinating seed. VT didn't play by the rules, but there were a few people that she always listened to, and those three were usually good candidates for blame. Those three. Thiago. Sometimes Uzohola, if the mood gripped her.
VT never listened to Wick.
"We need you out here. In the rebellion. That air-strike..."
They walked past a bakery already all abustle with customers despite the relative youth of the day, the air outside fragrant with the scent of fresh bread, its warmth almost palpable even from the street. The library beside it was still closed, its windows shuttered with its blue volet brightly painted with tiny white and yellow daisies. Those had been Wick's idea - something for the children in the orphanage to do in their arts and crafts class, something to brighten to the town. Each business had their own set of shutters, each one brightly coloured in some uniquely colourful and chaotic design. Take this one, the doctor's clinic - all geometric designs in red and dark purple, and an asklepian drawn in broad, clumsy strokes by a child with more enthusiasm than talent, stretched between the two like a bar holding the windows shut. Some of the children had signed their windows - he could still see their smudged initials by the hinges.
At dusk, when all the shops were closed, the town was much brighter and more colourful than it ever was during the day. Wick liked that. It made the entire space feel much safer than it should, with men like him around. They were started to flutter open now, in a wave down the street, just as the gaslight lamps that had lit the night were beginning to die, one by one, almost as though Wick himself were dousing them simply by walking past.
"That air strike," Wick said, shaking his head. "We would have heard about it sooner with you in the field, Vee. I just know it."
"I've missed stuff before."
"Not like this."
In the square, men and women were starting to set up their stalls for that morning's market, fruit spilling across table, fish lying dead-eyed and staring in heaps, bracelets stretched out to glint in the sunrise and books heaped high with pages sticking out at every point. There was a stall selling love potions and a stall selling bullets and a stall selling piping hot coffee and freshly baked marranitos, for which Wick began to fish in his pockets to see if he had any coins. The question of the Kingdom in Exile's currency was a controversial one; most rebels still carried coins stamped with the face of the false king, and excused any liberal spending with the same fact. Couldn't stand to carry him with me any longer. Wick produced one such coin now ("ugly fucker, int he"), and went over to the nearest stall, while VT paced by the clocktower and glowered at the idea of secrets lying unknown. She kept her head turned away, like she was afraid of the marketholders recognising her face as one of the Selected, who ought not be fraternising - not even with men like the hero Wickaninnish Harjo.
The ladies at the stall were unwilling to take Wick's money, though it was not borne of mistrust or suspicion - they simply threw up their hands and turned their heads and argued with him when he tried to pay, and all but chased him from the stall, saying, "he liberates our children, he builds our town, and now he wants to pay for his breakfast, can you believe?". He left the stall with enough food to feed a small army; as he walked back across the square, he volleyed a piedra rock scone at VT's head, and laughed as she ducked without looking.
"Wasteful," she tutted. "There are children starving in Illéa."
"While the liar queen grows fat." He handed her something pink and sugary, which she regarded with some suspicion. "On stolen food. On stolen secrets."
VT peeled a bit of white icing off the cupcake he had given her and put it between her teeth, looking thoughtful. "Thiago and I vetted the girls. All of them. And we've kept them so isolated. Nothing in or out."
"So?"
"So I know what you're suggesting, and you're wrong. None of them are spies. None of them could be."
"You heard what Thiago caught?"
"I heard what Täj killed. Before they could reach any of the girls."
They continued their walk, VT picking at her cupcake very delicately like it was the last thing she would ever eat and she wanted to make it last as long as possible, consumed crumb by crumb. There was confetti stuck between the cobblestones here, some bright powder staining the pavement yellow and orange, some glitter still clinging to the walls of the neighbouring shops. Someone must have got married recently.
VT said, "why are you talking to me about this? Why not Gogo?"
Wick laughed. He had never known Uzohola to give someone a dignified nickname - it was all Dimi this and Veeteethat and Wicky-my-darling. Gogo was a particular magnum opus in that regard. "He's busy."
"He's always busy. That doesn't answer my question."
Wick stopped at the corner of two streets. There was a small green area opposite, squeezed into what little free space the town could afford to sacrifice to leisure and luxury. There was a father and his child there, and a big yellow dog, and they were laughing, and the dog was looking delighted with himself as he charged in and out of the water to splash the child and provoke yet more laughter. It was nice to see, he thought. The inner circle would probably never know that kind of happiness, or peace, or normalcy, but helping to craft that for someone else was reward enough.
At least, in his opinion. He knew VT was not, could not be, so selfless. She was just lacking some small component of her heart which would allow her to make sacrifices for others. Wick loved her anyway. He loved all of the inner circle, despite their myriad flaws - because, not despite of, Uzohola's need to help, Täj's casual cruelty, Thiago's secretive nature, Demetri's indecisiveness, crippling at times. This whole Selection would have been over in a few days, if it had been Wick handling matters. Some of the girls still clinging in there were utterly unsuitable for Demetri, were utterly unsuitable full stop - and he was standing beside one of them right now.
"You need to drop out of the Selection."
"Excuse you." VT sank her teeth into the cupcake and almost immediately coughed violently as it went down the wrong way. "I know you're my superior but you don't actually get to tell me what to do, Wick."
"I'm not telling you anything. I'm asking you."
VT's left eye flittered. It frequently did when she was stressed, or about to say something she knew the listener would not like to hear. Not when she lied - VT relished subterfuge and secrecy. "I'm sorry. I can't."
"If you don't drop out, you'll be eliminated. Thiago will see to it."
Thiago's idea of protecting people was to pull strings behind the scenes and force people towards the path he had decided was best for them. "He can try. Demetri won't..."
"Won't get a say. You know he hasn't done a damn thing in this Selection just yet. Every decision has been taken by Givre and the rest of high command. If Thiago asks..."
"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it." VT shook her head. "I was never that good a spy."
"You evaded Thiago Wesick for years. You were that good."
"Says more about him than I."
The town's orphanage was tucked in between a small butcher's shop and a cobbler's, its windows the only unpainted ones in town - Wick knew from experience that the bright colours were on the inside of the shutters, not the outside. They walked towards it slowly, as though wishing to have their argument tidied up and done with by the time they reached its door. No use bringing this negativity towards the children.
"I want to stay in this Selection." Her voice was soft. "I don't just want to stay, I want to win. But..." She shook her head. "If you can convince Demetri to let me away from the competition for a few days, without eliminating me, I'll get to the palace."
"You know they won't allow that. It would be unfair to the others."
"That's not my fault."
"Vardi Tayna. My old friend." Wick leaned against the whitewashed stone of the orphanage, his brown eyes serious. "I know you better than that. If I told you that lives were at risk - truly at risk - the lives of those you care about..."
"Is that what you're telling me, Wick?" Vardi Tayna's eyes were sharper than any Wick had ever known. She reminded him of girls he had known on the streets of Angeles - make-you-bleed eyes, beg-me-to-listen eyes, you'll-regret-this eyes. Wick had rather had enough of those eyes. There were sweeter people in the world with which to spend your time, and yet, every once in a while, you needed someone a little bit sharper.
"That's what I'm telling you."
She stepped back. "Say hi to the kids for me, Wick."
"Where are you going?"
"You asked me to leave the Selection. I'll leave. I've always been a graceful loser, haven't I?"
Wick blinked. "I... I didn't expect you to listen to me."
"I'm not." VT smiled. "Listening to you, I mean. I'm bored to death, and I know I'm not going to win. Poor Demetri doesn't know how to tell me as much. Might as well step out now."
Wick shook his head. "You're up to something."
"Always."
"I'll tell the kids you said hi."
"Give Saran my love."
Wick smirked. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
He waved. VT waved.
He pushed open the door to the orphanage and she disappeared back down the alley, like she had never been there at all.
The train shuddered its way through the spine of the new Kingdom of Illéa, and as the door to the compartment slid open, Corvina Rouen glanced up from her book to see that Thiago Wesick, spymaster to the King of Ashes, had stepped into the space. He was dressed, as he was usually dressed, in a tailored purple coat, with the seal of the rebellion pinned tightly to his lapel, and he walked as he usually walked, as though he were on utterly solid ground and the train was not swaying back and forth like an epileptic. He wore his hair as he usually wore his hair: a side part that might have looked scholarly if you didn't know who he was, and pushed back out of his face, almost impatiently.
Cor would have known all of these things without looking, and she would have known that they were, indeed, the usual for Thiago Wesick - all without ever having met the man.
Corvina found it difficult to take her dark eyes from him, so intently was she set on carefully analysing his movements as Wesick slid into a seat a few rows away from where Cor and Marjorie were seated at the back of the carriage. He did not so much as offer a stray glance in their direction. He had a file in his hands that he set on the table, but did not open, and appeared to be alone. All of this was noted, and processed, by Corvina in the merest second it took to observe.
He had to know she was there. He had to know where all the Selected girls were, at all times. He would have made it his business to know.
That, again, would be usual.
Was he trying to make a point?
She turned back to her book, though it had rather lost its allure, her expression entirely unchanged. Marjorie was scrawling in her notepad, her characteristic looping script almost a manic outpouring of words, so messy that Cor could not have parsed it even if it were in full - and she suspected that the young journalist was likely using a shorthand, so swiftly did she fill up the pages. "Poetry," the other girl had said, quite offhandedly, when she caught Cor's eyes straying in her direction, and Cor had let that lie lie between them without word to contrary.
Underneath the train, the mountains opened up into broad cavernous canyons and crevasses, embroidered with threads of mist and cloud. Beyond, the lights of Sonage glowed dimly from far away, red and gold. Cor had never liked Sonage, though she had lived there long enough - despite the colour and action of the place anyone you passed on the street would sell you out for a single meal.
Cor was fond of lying, of betraying, but not of being lied to, of being betrayed. Most in Sonage knew better than to try their chances with Rouen by now.
Perhaps Wesick had his own business of lies and betrayal in Sonage, and this was all just a nasty coincidence, that they should be riding the same train in the same direction, just a narrow few feet apart. Not so close that she could throttle him, she thought. If she had her gun on her, she might have taken her chances with a potshot, just for the challenge. Her brother-who-was-not-her-brother, Knox, would have loved the idea. She could imagine him quietly egging her on, as though he were seated beside her, opposite Marjorie, legs splayed, hair askew, smiling lazily and saying, "if you have the chance to take the head off a snake, shouldn't you take it?"
Well, to call Wesick a snake might be to give him too much credit. Might imply an excess of skill and success on his part. He'd won a few points, here and there, but whatever he had done, Pandora had achieved thrice over, striking the Crown and the Kingdom in Exile with equal savagery. For every one Wesick or the black widow had killed, Pandora had killed three.
Cor often thought that people living in one realm or the other might have missed that there were, at least to her eyes, three separate worlds co-existing on the continent that had once been wholly Illéa. There was the conventional nation of Illéa, with the bitch queen at its head and her son a puppet on her strings, dancing to a tune that grew more panicked with each passing day - there was the Kingdom of Dust and Ashes, with Demetri, king of the people, and his pack of dogs tearing the country to shreds in his wake - and there was Pandora, the organisation that had flourished in the gaps left between the two, like flowers grow in cracks on the sidewalk, the group to which Cor had pledged so much of her life. A fraternity, Kanon usually called them, and Viridia would correct him swiftly - a sorority, don't you reckon?
Cor claimed to be a waitress - and she was, and a poor one at that, prone to spending more time in the back office than front of house, more time shuffling paper and making phone calls than ferrying plates back and forth. The restaurant she worked at was a most transparent front for Pandora's money laundering and a much-treasured source of plausible deniability, built on a foundation of stolen goods and trafficked arms and blood money. And Cor had never questioned it. Never strayed from her path.
She wasn't sure at this stage if she knew how to. She certainly knew she would never want to.
She could only see the back of his head, but Wesick looked as though he had fallen asleep, leaning against the window of the carriage. The file lay, unopened and unread, in front of him. If she was telling the truth, Cor felt a touch insulted by it all.
She would have thought he would want to sayhi to the girl who had evaded him more than any other in the nation. What kind of a cat and mouse game ended with the cat falling asleep when the mouse was right there?
Abruptly she caught sight of Wesick's eyes, open and reflected in the window of the train, and realised that he was looking at her. There wasn't even a challenge in those eyes - just a curiosity.
Cor stood and walked over to him.
Simple as that. Cor could play games when she wanted to, but there was nothing that threw people off more than directness, in many cases. She ignored Marjorie's surprised look, and dismissed their companion, Mikhail, as he said, "Lady Rouen, do you...?" She walked with purpose, with the flawless and decorous mien of a woman destined to be queen, no matter how many she had to hang or quarter to achieve the same.
She sat down opposite Wesick and he said, quite without preamble, "was thinking we never would meet." His gaze was extraordinarily steady, it had to be conceded. He seemed to be almost looking through her.
"That might have been preferable," Cor said softly, venomously.
"You approached me, Rouen." Wesick had reached for the file in front of him and flipped it, but not before Corvina caught sight of the symbol upon it - a golden box, with its lid open, a symbol of chaos rising from its depth. The symbol of Pandora. Had he wanted her to see? Perhaps the file was filled with blank papers, and its presence intended just to send her thoughts into a flurry. "Not vice versa."
Well, his behaviour certainly suggested he knew who she was - or at least, to whom she owed allegiance. She had hoped to remain anonymous a little longer than all that, but she had to allow for changes to the plan when changes were required.
Cor's lips twitched upwards in a tight smile. "You know, you're meant to refer to me as Lady Corvina."
"Lady Corvina." Wesick's expression did not change. "A pleasure."
"Thiago Wesick." Neither did Cor's. "The feeling is mutual."
She extended her hand. With a slight smile, the king's spymaster accepted it, and kissed it, and said, quiet softly, so that it could be heard only by the two of them, "you know, we gutted your men like dogs."
The look in Cor's eyes could have killed, if any ever could.
Because, of course, the truth was and had to be that Corvina was not merely a waitress. She never had been. If she had her way, she never would be.
The finite resemblance between the Crown and Pandora was that most ancient rallying cry -long live the queen.
Liara was very surprised, when she rose the next day, to find the kitchen of Raphael's little town house entirely empty but for the pale man leaning against the counter and having a cup of tea. The hour was late enough that she had thought the place would be abuzz, given how many of them had been crowded into such a tiny space, but everything was quite quiet and peaceful, the only disturbance the persistent tick-tick-ticking of clocks overhead. Raphael's wife was a watchmaker and horologist - it made sense that the place should be so filled with clockwork, but it was such a persistent accompanying heartbeat that Liara could not help but feel that they were counting down to something quite awful and quite unknown.
The dog without a true name was sitting at Täj's side, its head resting his knee, making small sounds in a vain attempt to get his attention. Liara had to avert her eyes when she realised that the pale man was not entirely dressed - his shirt was open, and he was barefoot, like he had rolled out of bed and gone in urgent search of caffeine before even arranging himself to seem presentable. It would have been utterly unthinkable in Angeles, Liara, for anyone to even consider attiring themselves in such a manner where they might be seen. She had certainly never seen Mordred dress like this. It was so casual.
He was very casual as well. He looked irritated to have Liara join him, but said nothing and only moved away quite agreeably as Liara crossed the kitchen in search of a bowl. He did not take a seat but gravitated towards the nearest counter, where he was joined after just a second by the nameless dog, and then moved with a slight smile again as Liara, hands raised apologetically, had to displace him in search of a spoon. "I feel chased," Täj said darkly, and this first few words from him helped put Liara enormously more at ease. So he did speak. And he didn't seem all that unfriendly.
"Well, I do rather feel lied to."
Täj's smile showed his cuspids. It was a strange, suddenly transformative expression from an otherwise humourless man. "Do you? That is unfortunate."
"The dog." Liara took a seat at the tiny table and traced her fingers around the patterns that had been carved there by years of use. Everything in this house seemed so alive, and vibrant, and lived-in. Not like the palace, where all was cold and sterile and perfect always, and you could never breathe, or relax your spine. The tablecloth was threadbare, unravelling at its patched edges, and left the corners of the table bare; the bowl had been shattered and put back together with cheap gold paint tracing the seams where it had been repaired, in a pale imitation of kintsukuroi. Even the cup Täj was holding was stained brown and yellow by many years of making tea. "You told me his name was Vovve."
Täj's brow creased. "I assure you that it is."
Liara smiled. "Well, Raphael calls him Cuckoo. And Agares called him Juk. And his collar says Feste. And Vardi Tayna calls him a her and calls her Bruce."
"I don't," Täj said softly. "See your point." He had folded his arms. Liara found it a little difficult to figure out where to put her gaze, and fixed it on his unfolded collar. His shirt was unironed, a pale green colour that matched his eyes. He had a scar on his collarbone, twisted and ugly and edged in a deep black that made it look as though it were rather festering. He had white bandages around the fingers of his left hand, like a splint. "Do you have a point?"
Liara had to hold back a laugh. It was like something Mordred would have said. If Demetri was acting decidedly unlike himself, then she was glad to find some small amount of familiarity in this strange place. "Everyone keeps telling me a different name for him."
"Things can have lots of different names." Täj reached down to ruffle the nameless dog's ears. Whatever its name was, it looked delighted to have this attention lavished on it, and stared adoringly up at him. "He'll answer to anything."
"So I can give him a name?" Liara turned to the food that Raphael had laid out on the table for the girls - it was something of a paltry offering, and certainly nothing compared to the immense barbecues that the rebels had put out for the girls earlier in the Selection, but she appreciated that people like Rafa and Agares probably didn't have much to offer, and was grateful for their thoughtfulness. There was, as Raphael had said, newly baked bread, and home-made butter, and little bowls of cream and jam that seemed fresh, and little plates of home-cured ham and Sultanate cheeses laid out on a little wooden board.
"I think that's something you have to earn."
"Well," Liara said. She picked up a piece of cheese and flicked it to the dog, and was delighted to see him rear up and snatch it from the air with a look of thinly masked delight in his dark eyes. "I'll work on it."
Täj made a sound of assent and went to put the kettle on again.
There was a photo frame on one of the bookshelves, set between what might have been a Bible and a tattered copy of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, with two pictures within it: the first, what must have been Raphael, and what must have been Raphael's family, a set of tall, beautiful blonde women in rebel khaki, with a single small, blonde boy standing, a little to the side, looking rather bemused at it all. The little boy, who must have been Raphael's brother, appeared in the second photo as well, where he had his arms around a small, glowering Asian girl and Demetri - Demetri as Liara had known him, all pale blonde hair and childishness seriousness, looking a tad worse for the wear in borrowed clothes too large for him, with shadows under his eyes. Demetri, after he had been taken.
Liara tried to keep her voice light. "What does Demetri call him? The dog?"
Täj relaxed back against the sink and shrugged. "King gets the collar. His Majesty calls him Feste, when he calls him."
Liara thought. "Like Shakespeare? Like the fool?"
"He's not a clever dog."
"Raphael let the king name her dog?"
Täj cocked his head. "Wouldn't you, Liara?"
Liara had to hide her laugh a second time. Well, she had - not her dog, but the kitten she had adopted after the palace's stable cat had produced a litter quite unexpectedly and the staff and scrambled to find homes for them all. Trajan had made a rare appearance in the stables, which was traditionally Ysabel's domain, and had busied himself handing out little mewling creatures to the court's children, who had all crowded down to see. "Mordred, a little black one like your little black heart... Cecilie, this white one rather looks a diva, can you handle her? Orpheus, here, this tabby, and Liara..." Trajan had put his hands together and handed Liara the tiny black-and-white kitten like he was spilling gold into her hands. "Be very careful, my dear, she's the runt of the litter. I wouldn't trust anyone else with her."
Liara's father hadn't approved, and had threatened to drown it in a bag in the river, until the laconic Set, on a rare social call, had pointed out that killing a gift given by the king himself was never a fantastic look for a general who protested his loyalty given any opportunity, and that Trajan might have words if anything were to happen to the kitten. "He wants it to be named Nerva," Set had added, standing on the threshold, right before he left the Lee household. "The kitten, I mean. Something to do with a Roman emperor... Liara, that suits you alright, I hope?" Set and Trajan were alike in many ways, and one of their similarities that Liara had always treasured was the way that they spoke to her like a full-fledged adult.
So Liara had called her cat Nerva, because the king had said it was so.
She supposed that meant that she had to call this dog Feste, for the sake of symmetry.
"You make a fair point, Mr...?" She searched for his name, and realised abruptly that it had either never been given to her or he did not have one.
Täj frowned. "Täj."
Liara said, "is that your first or your last name?"
He shrugged. "Most recent," he said simply, and Liara decided to let that lie and turned to her breakfast quite quietly while the water boiled and the clocks around them kept ticking like a deathwatch.
Sol really had not been sure what to expect from her hastily arranged date with the king, and was rather dismayed to find that silence reigned for those first few long moments in the car as they left the old army barracks and sped towards the city on the hill. It felt like so long since Sol had left the bright lights of Honduragua behind, that she had been rather taken aback to learn that it was a city, and not some cluster of rebels and trucks with their headlights on - as had been the only oasis of illumination in the Wastelands, habitually. Sol could not say she was sorry to leave the desert behind. It had not suited her, and she had found herself rather lonely throughout, too refined for the rebels and too common for those who came from court. Too southern for the northern girls and too northern for the southerners.
A perpetual paradox.
"I am sorry to be so quiet," Demetri said abruptly, his voice rueful. He had changed his shirt at some point since the mad rush to escape the last safehouse; Sol rather thought this was the most casual she had ever seen him, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, baring sinewy arms and a slowly fading tan borne of the Wasteland's sun. It was an odd green tartan colour, what looked soft cotton, worn at the elbows and wrists. He wouldn't have looked out of place in Honduragua, Sol thought, in one of the cafes frequented by students and young professionals, with a laptop and a coffee. Demetri wouldn't look out of place anywhere. She had never spoken to him before, but she was able to see that clearly enough.
She had never spoken to him before, and yet, in the long idle hours at the last safehouse, she had allowed herself to wonder what he might be like. Whether he would be like he appeared on the Report. If that was all script, and he would turn out to be a brute, or a liar like Emilio, or some other form of odious and distasteful. Maybe he would be perfectly lovely and polite and chivalrous but just not Sol's type at all - that seemed like the worst option of all, truth be told, because if that were to happen then Sol wasn't sure what she would do. Of course she wouldn't marry someone she couldn't stand, she had enough dignity for that, but someone she didn't love, someone who was nonetheless kind and thoughtful and sweet, well, that wasn't a matter of dignity but of honesty, and Sol was such a fervent believer in honesty that she didn't want to test her own loyalty to the concept, lest she be found lacking - and an enormous hypocrite as well.
"That's alright," Sol said. "I tend to be quiet too."
"Nothing more boring," Demetri said thoughtfully. "Than two boring people stuck in a car together - nothing more comfortable either."
That aligned quite closely with Sol's experience as well, and she agreed with a smile as the capital city of Paloma abruptly enveloped them - the suburbs had been eroded and scoured entirely away by the war that Demetri's people had waged to win it, so when you reached the city it was, quite truly, the city in true urban splendour, all broad green avenues and tall apartment buildings in steel and concrete and old fashioned cars on the street that ought to have been relegated to the annals of history long ago in candyfloss colors of pink and orange and lime green. Men in suits and women in heels. It was like she was back in Honduragua all over again.
They pulled up outside a glossy blue-panelled building, its windows elegantly arranged in a perfect pyramid of books, glossy magazines out in a wide fan. The letter were laid out, big and broad and bright, above the door. "Uzo mentioned you had to leave your books behind in the rush to leave," Demetri said, by way of explanation as he slid out of the car. Sol similarly stepped out, having somehow failed to notice that Demetri was coming around to open her door for her, and there was a slightly awkward laugh that became much more genuine quicker than Sol would have thought possible. Demetri offered her his arm, and she took it gladly as they went into the library. He waved off the staff as they approached and said, very softly, in a tone that suggested he had been ejected from libraries in the past and knew the wrath of the librarians, "please don't worry. We're quite alright, we know our way around." He glanced at Sol. "You're a lawyer, right? You know your Bliss from your Dewey Decimal?"
"I think I can manage," Sol said with a smile, and Demetri led them into the stacks. High, towering piles of glossy books - these were not the relics of a town that had been, but newly printed tomes. The Kingdom in Exile clearly had presses for this sort of thing, but their choices of publication seemed eclectic at best - here was the Sultan's collection of quotations, and here was a book of Saharan poetry, and over there was a whole collection of scientific proofs. Despite Demetri's jokes, there didn't seem to be any classification system. Sol slid an engineering manual out from between two copies of poetry, and shook her head in mild horror as Demetri went wandering down the aisle to pull books, seemingly at random, from seemingly random shelves, at seemingly random intervals, making it look entirely arbitrary. She caught sight of only one title - some translated Chinese novel - and the cover of another - photography, she thought, something about tribes in the Sahara.
They were not the only patrons. That surprised Sol a little, but every so often she saw readers pass like ghosts between shelves - a rebel on a day off, perhaps, her arm in a sling; a student with big glasses and messy hair; an older, maybe retired gentleman reading up about botany. They seemed to take absolutely no heed of their king and the girl from the Selection, only exchanged polite nods when gazes met and then moved on again quite peaceably.
"So," Sol said, after there had been another long silence, and Demetri laughed.
"I am so sorry," he said again, and shook his head. "I've been up all night. I'm not sure I have the energy to talk."
"We could have postponed."
"No, no, that wouldn't have been fair."
He should have chosen his words more careful, Sol thought, for there was no matter on which she had more keenly whetted opinions than that of justice and honesty and fairness. Sol had spent enough time around the rebels by now to know that Demetri's ideas of protocol did not seem quite so strict as those of the Angeles court, so she felt within her rights to soften her words with only a title and no true appeal to enormous deference. "And you think this is, your Majesty?"
Demetri clearly had a habit of rolling his tongue across his teeth when he was thinking, or taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I just think..." Sol plucked a book from the shelf and flicked through it with a violence, as though by redirecting her gaze she could detach herself further from the words she was about to utter. "You've met a handful of us, and you've eliminated so many others, and then you have dates with us one after another, Nina and then me and then probably someone else this evening, like clockwork, like we're a chore."
"I meant what I said on the Report. Now that I've narrowed the Selected down to those that I can..." Demetri shook his head and traced a thumb over the cover of the book he was holding. "Those that I can stand, I suppose." He met Sol's gaze, quite deliberately. "I want to spend time with you."
"Well," Sol said stubbornly. "I still don't think it's fair to do it like this."
"And fairness matters to you?"
"It should matter to everyone."
She had forgotten herself, and Demetri could clearly see that realisation in her eyes as she blinked and shut her mouth, very abruptly, but he smiled and held a hand out for the book she had chosen with one eyebrow lifted. "You are absolutely right, Lady Soledad. It should. It is good I have people like you to keep me in check when I am risk of being... unfair."
"I don't mean to speak out of turn..."
"I don't recognise turns in conversation, Lady Soledad - if I did, I never would get a word in edgewise. Allow me to buy you that book, as an apology."
"This is a library," Sol said. "You don't buybooks at a library..." She paused. "Unless you're French."
"Or," Demetri said with a smile. "The king. So, it's to be Hemingway?"
Devery Atiqtalaaq was not a classically beautiful woman, but what Saran thought might be called handsome, with a broad, flat face and very bright brown eyes, her long dark hair worn in two braids. She reminded Saran a little of her grandfather, Bataar, but it was a superficial resemblance; she smiled too easily for any comparison to Saran's övöö to ring true. She was sitting on one of the low wooden benches that lined the long tables at which the children were fed their breakfasts and lunches every day. She was still wearing clothes with a slightly northern flair - her jacket hooded, her sleeves too long to truly belong to the south, a silk scarf folded on the table in front of her.
"Miss Altai." Devery stood, and smiled. "A pleasure to meet you." To Saran's surprise, Devery did not reach to shake her hand, but held out her arms to grasp Saran by the elbow, as elders might have greeted her if she was still on the steppes, at home. The zolgolt,her mother had always called it, the traditional greeting. Somehow it was more soothing than a handshake, almost as familiar and comfortable as a hug with a family member."Amar mend üü, Lady? Were you safe and happy?" The two northern women leaned in to touch their cheeks to one another - Devery smelled like the north, Saran thought distantly, of the Yukon river and cotton grass and green tea.
"Tiim shüü, Warden, I have been safe and happy." They stepped back from one another and Devery gestured that they should sit together, so Saran slipped onto the bench on the other side of the table. The dining hall of the orphanage was small and cramped, but made larger by the clever installation of mirrors on either wall, which made the space seem to triple in size if you didn't look too closely. High windows set into the top of the wall allowed light to pour in, seemingly from every side, illuminating the tiny dust motes stirring in the air and causing a bouncing shine to glare from the mirrors. Devery slid back onto the bench and, without preamble, began to pour the tea that had been set out for them and pushed a plate of sugar bread towards Saran.
"You are looking slender, Lady Altai. Wickaninnish Harjo was good enough to get us some fresh pastries for our meeting - he recommended you try the besos."
"Mr Harjo is here?"
"He was. He always comes to visit the children when he comes to this town. He built this orphanage after we took the province, and considers it his patronage." Devery took a deep sip of her tea. "You know, the Kingdom faced a serious problem some years ago. Too many children were being named after him, in gratitude. The whole class was Demetri this and Wick that - so many that teachers had to number them."
"He must have made quite the impact."
"You've met him. I imagine you've noticed the effect he can have."
If Devery noticed Saran blush, she was polite enough to say nothing. "May I ask, Warden, what brings you so further south?"
"I have come to see you, Saran, and the other northern girls. To ensure you are being cared for, and are happy here."
"I am, Warden, thank you."
"And to offer you my sincere encouragement and congratulations. You know, everyone in Yukon couldn't be prouder of you. To see you on the Report, and field every obstacle."
"I haven't done much, Warden. It's nothing." She hadn't even got a date with Demetri, or indeed met him in any truth - and now that the girls had been scattered into so many different and diverse locales, she knew that his time would be more limited and exclusive than ever.
"Please, call me Devery. And, Saran - you've lasted. That's not nothing." Devery slid a teacup across the table, as though encouraging Saran to drink. "You girls from our northern provinces are at such a disadvantage, and you are doing so well regardless, down here in the south. You, and Yue Yukimura, should be proud of yourselves."
"And Ekaitza?"
Devery was silent as she looked down at the mug in her hands and shook her head. Her braids twitched with the abrupt motion. "I am sorry. Miss Jones will not be continuing in the Selection. I learned this news only yesterday."
Ekaitza had been eliminated? That wasn't such a surprise - she was a creature of such subtle savagery, there had been times Saran wasn't sure why she was even in the Selection. But how could Demetri have known that, without speaking to her? Ekaitza had her good qualities, her amusing tendencies, her fascination with bizarrely cynical conspiracy theories and her tendency to cut through conversations with a blunt brutality. Would she be going back north? To Baffins? Saran said, "I'm very sorry to hear that. She was a good friend to me."
"She seems a brave young woman. Her calling is to serve the Kingdom in other ways - but not as queen." Devery Atiqtalaaq had a way of speaking that made it seem like she was letting you in on a secret, like you were being treated to knowledge that precious few would be permitted to access. "If I may, Saran - I believe your calling does not so diverge." She stirred her teacup with a long silver spoon and encouraged Saran to eat with a gesture and a smile. "You know, I have borne witness to... very few Selections. Trajan's. And Demetri's. But it was clear to me, on the outside, that this is not a competition for a heart but for a crown. And with a crown comes a people. A people who must be protected."
Saran could not help but think of long-ago days of youth, playing in the garden with Qadan and Naran, pretending to be khans and climbing bodily onto whatever little pony strayed close enough to them to play folk hero and charge back and forth across the hilly plateau on which their house was set, practising their archery with the clumsiness of children. To be a khan had merely been to tell her older brother what to do, and wrap yourself in fur, and stand on the highest branch of the tree. A much simpler matter than what Devery seemed to be speaking about now. "I'm not sure..."
"I do not wish to put any sort of responsibility on you, Saran. You must trace your own path. But at night, I pray that our queen shall be of the north."
"I'm not of the north," Saran said, almost automatically. And she wasn't, not really. She had put down no roots in Yukon, had left no bones in its soil. She still belonged over the sea, under the same sky, yes, but on different earth, on the Altai mountains, with her family.
"But you know it. I have faith that, if you become queen, I will not have to beseech you to think of Yukon, and Whites, and Baffins, and Hansport, as I know I will have to plead with any queen from the south." She was speaking like she thought Saran had a chance. Saran had not expected conversations like this to take place until the Elite had been chosen, until the field had been narrowed, until Demetri had spent enough time to make it seem like any girl could have a better chance than the others. Did Devery know something that Saran didn't, or was she merely hedging her bets?
"I would like to think," Saran said slowly, choosing her words very carefully. "That I would treat all of the provinces with the dignity and respect that they deserve."
"Then you are a rare type indeed, Lady." Devery reached across the table to pluck one of the powdered pastries from the plate and inspect it carefully. "Wickaninnish always has the most wonderful taste."
Saran wasn't entirely sure she was speaking about the pastry.
"Please, do let me know if I can help you in any way."Devery looked at Saran. "I cannot interfere directly with the Selection, but if I can assist you otherwise, I shall, to the best of my ability."
"Thank you, Devery. That means a lot to me."
She waved this away. "It is my pleasure, I assure you. I had the pleasure of watching the last Report with your charming sister and your wonderful grandfather, and they both asked that I tell you they are both so proud of you, and wish you the best of luck." Devery smiled. "Yul misses you as well."
"I miss Yul!" Saran laughed. "It was such a disappointment to learn you couldn't bring pets to the Selection."
"Reform may be needed," Devery conceded. "There are some rules more outdated than the others." She patted Saran's hand. She had many rings glittering on her hand; the seal of the rebellion shone brightly from her first finger. "I'll be in touch. Please, enjoy your stay - this is a lovely town, and I am sure Wickaninnish will be taking excellent care of you."
"I'm sure." Saran hesitated. "And, if I may ask, Warden..."
"Devery."
"Devery. Do you know when I will see the king again?"
Devery looked thoughtful. "I am afraid I do not. But I am sure it will not be too long."
Saran nodded. "Thank you for speaking to me."
Devery smiled. "Thank you for listening."
"Opal."
She turned her face away, and stared out the window. And it was a stare, of that there was absolutely no mistaking. There was no anger in her expression - she wasn't sure she could muster any at this point - it was just a deep and profound tiredness that seemed to have set into the marrow of her very bones. "Don't," Her voice was one of exhaustion; her entire body seemed weary. "Theo, just..." She didn't seem to have anger, and she didn't seem to have words. "Don't. Please, don't."
She had almost forgotten just how blue his eyes were, or how soft they could become when they were looking at her. How lean and strong his arms. How infectious his smile.
But, of course, he wasn't smiling now.
"You have to let me explain." They had travelled in silence, the whole long journey, because Opal had got into the backseat while Theo and Mouchard had got into the front and Opal had pretended to sleep the whole way to the military barracks, silent and fuming and eyes-shining under the coat she put over her face to shield her features from the rebels in the front seat, lest she betray herself in the safety of the car's shadow. Mouchard had slipped out when they reached the military compound, and Theo had driven them to the barracks, and cut the engine, and now they sat together, quite frozen, unable to speak freely but unwilling, at least for now, to leave without saying something.
"I don't have to do anything." Opal's voice was a tightly wound coil. This was such a familiar scenario - not the anger, not the tension, but the physical geography of it all, like he was dropping her home from a late night at the laundromat, like she was propping up her knees and relaxing with her coursework on her knees on the long drive home, and Theo was regaling her with tales of his day at the garage and whatever it was the wrench-boys had got up to that day, be it a creative prank or a highly cantankerous customer or some outrageous instruction from the boss that had just made life more difficult. He had always managed to do so without complaining - Theo had always been the light to Opal's shadow, the bright spark to her eighteen-going-on-eighty attitude to all things in life. When she had, on occasion, glimpsed him about the place at the last safehouse, she had perceived that he had retained that quality. The rebels had not stripped it from him yet. "I don't have to. And I won't."
He was silent for such a long moment, she thought she might have finally left him at a loss for words. She wrenched the door open - he said, "Opal, you can't" and she said, "I assure you, I can" - and she slammed it shut behind her, unable to entirely hold back her frustration and bitterness and fury at the whole damned awful situation. She marched up the steps into the military barracks, where Liz was waiting for her, to see that she was okay, and ask her if she was comfortable telling her what was wrong, and whether there was someone whose ass needed to be kicked. Even as Opal smiled and shook her head and said no, thank you for your concern but no, everything was fine, thank you, Liz, you're a good friend, Liz, please don't worry but thank you for checking in, there was a small, powerful part of her that told her to go back, go back to the car, take him in your arms, tell him to explain, tell him to explain it all, and accept the explanation, whatever it may be.
But she didn't. He had left her - that had been his choice. Being in the Selection now, living with the rebels, seeing their passion, she thought that she could understand it a little. But he had made his choice. He couldn't begrudge her making her own.
Young love, she thought bitterly. First love. What a poison arrow it was.
There was a tap on the door and Atiena looked up to see Täj leaning on the door frame with his arms folded, looking more well-rested than she had ever seen him - almost healthy, she thought, but still just a little gaunt, just a little hungry, to seem fully human rather than something feral with a more civilised skin stretched over his frame. He reminded her so strongly of her family sometimes, she had to bite back the name Lethal as it immediately rose to her tongue. Instead, she straightened up from where she'd been doing sit-ups and said, quite dryly, "is there any point in knocking when the door's open?"
He shrugged. "Politeness?" He stepped over the threshold and glanced around at the cozy space that Raphael had accorded them - they were sharing their rooms, two to the space. Atiena's half of the room was sparse and bare and quite practical compared to the aesthetic remodelling Liara had begun on her side; there was a narrow channel between their two beds, just wide enough for one person to walk through. Atiena thought it was only a matter of time before they ended up at one another's throats, even if they got along famously; she highly doubted the general's daughter was accustomed to sharing a room with an Eight.
"Well," she said, jumping to her feet and dusting off her trousers. "It was, I must say, very polite."
"I do try." He had been trailed into the room by Raphael's dog, Juk, who seemed reluctant to ever leave him. "Thiago sent me to collect a letter?"
"He promised me he would." Atiena could not hold back the suspicion in her voice. "And you'll deliver it to my family?"
"If you tell me where to find them."
"I'll tell you where you can leave it, so that they'll find it."
"Paranoid, are we?" He said it like it was nothing, like it wouldn't be a total betrayal of the entire family to tell the rebellion where they were - especially when, as the air strike had demonstrated, the rebellion was not so leak-proof as they might like to pretend. Atiena might be able to trust Täj, but could she trust the rest of the inner circle? Every member of the rebellion which helped him get from her to Tammins? Every rebel which might be told where he had gone, or why he had gone there?
"Paranoid." Atiena's mouth twitched. "Glass houses?"
"Didn't say you were wrong to be." Täj glanced out the window and made the slightest of faces, a mere curl of the lip and depression of the brow, and somehow managed to communicate a wealth of cynicism as he did so. "All the wisest men were."
"Well," Atiena said. "It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you, right?"
She turned and pulled the letter from its place of pride on her desk - she had slaved over it, writing and rewriting it all, and burning every draft that had come before, never including too many details and yet, trying, at each juncture, to communicate as much as she could to the people that she cared about so much and was stranded so far from.
"Do you think we're out to get you, Lady Atiena?"
She smiled. "I'm not taking chances."
He took it from her and, as she had hoped he would, treated it as though it were a very rare treasure indeed. "Clever girl."
Eden could not be absolutely sure which rebel had done it, but she woke on her first day in her new safe-house to find a copy of the Axiompinned to the door of her bedroom. It was not an old copy - its front page bore yesterday's date. An evening edition. And there was, written in a deep black marker above its headline, just beside the little picture of its chief editor, three words in bold, scrawled letters:
COLABORACIONISTAS
SERÁN
AHORCADOS
Eden spoke a number of languages, but she thought she wouldn't have needed any Spanish at all to understand what this anonymous message was trying to communicate. Collaborators will be hanged.
Something tightened in her chest, just under her ribs, like a long thread of thorns curling around her heart and squeezing tight, threatening to drive all of the breath from her lungs. She forced herself to, as she always did, count very slowly in Italian to calm herself down, to slow the rush of blood in her veins and the pounding in her head.
Uno, due, tre.
She did not slam the door shut or make any sort of fuss, but pulled the newspaper from the wood, quite controlledly, and shut the door firmly. Vivian Lahela's daughter would not allow anyone who might be watching see how this act had affected her. Her movements were sure, and very steady, as she flicked the lock shut and pressed her forehead against the cool wood for one long moment, forcing the air in and out of her lungs. It was almost a violent act. Her hands curled tightly around the newspaper, and she had the sudden urge to tear it into shreds, rend it into pieces and fling every scrap out of the window. Let it flutter like snow onto the yard below.
Quattro, cinque, sei.
Eden turned. She walked. She sat on the edge of her bed, and smoothed out the pages of the newspaper, the ink smearing as her palm passed across it, obscuring her mother's face as surely as if she had scratched it out herself. The headline was a trite one, some company relocating from Swendway to Angeles to take advantage of new lax commercial tax laws that were greatly strengthening the province's economy and providing thousands of new jobs. Eden supposed most of it was probably true - the bulk of it. The Axiom had not earned its reputation by spreading falsehoods. Instead, it used the truth like a cudgel, distorted and twisted but so accurate in the main that it was difficult for their opponents to stage a strong critique. The first page was inoffensive - she recognised the hand of her mother in some of the more fawning pieces, and could almost picture her at her office in the Angeles headquarters, blue pen in hand - she always said that using too much red looked gauche - slashing out words and jotting in more emotive substitutes, carving out the image of a happy, productive nation engaged in a most holy war with a band of savages on their southern border. There was, on the second page, a picture of Demetri, and a condemnation of some bomb that had been placed on the St George border. That piece had been penned by Brooks. She could tell - he had a remarkably clear, crisp style of reporting that often contrasted with the way other journalists tripped over themselves to seem intellectual and win a word of praise from Vivian.
Eden could have told them it was an utterly pointless pursuit.
Sette, otto.
There was no mention of Eden. She almost tore the pages, so violently did she turn them, rip them apart and scan for her own name. No mention of the Selection at all. No mention of the air strike. Because it had been a failure? Because they had not killed any of the Selected girls?
Or because they had tried to?
Eden may have turned to the rebellion, but she was still Vivian Lahela's daughter. Collaborators must hang. She had been raised in Fennley, educated in Angeles. Collaborators must hang. She had been entangled in romantic relationship with the children of the Crown's courtiers and the celebrities that Illéan citizens worshipped. Collaborators must hang. She was not a rebel. She was still Illéan. And not even the Axiom would be able to spin a failed attempt to murder a group of young, beautiful women from their very heartland.
To that effect, there was an interview on page six with Fatimah. Eden's oldest friend had joined the army straight after high school, and had surprised all of Illéan high society by crossing no-man's-land into the rebellion encampment almost immediately after arriving on the warfront. She had returned to Fennley after a year, missing a leg and an eye and her innocence, and had been made an utter pariah for it. Yet, clearly Vivian had talked her into doing one of the Axiom's characteristic character assassinations, for here was Fatimah, the photo subtly altered to emphasise the grotesqueness of her missing eye, giving a thorough interview to let them know just how awful life as a rebel had been. She saw the words wanton massacre and the word cannibalised and had to turn the page and move on very quickly indeed, lest she allow her composure to slip.
Nove, dieci, undi.
More people to protect, when Angeles fell.
What was Fatimah thinking? Eden was in the lion's den now,trying to pluck out thorns, trying to win enough influence that her collaborationist families and friends might be spared the consequences of the vile lies that they spread in the name of the Crown, once Demetri's people began the purge that always followed the vanquishing, once bodies started dropping.
Collaborators will be hanged.
They couldn't, they wouldn't, hang their queen.
Or their queen's family, no matter how awful and manipulative and loveless they could be. They wouldn't dare.
My family. This will protect my family. The words that she had whispered to herself when she had first posted the application to the Selection came to her anew. My family. This will protect my family.
She almost had to smile as she shut the newspaper again and folded it along its crease and laid it neatly in her lap, her mother's eyes staring up at her. Under any other circumstances, she thought she might have finally impressed her mother. In contention for the hand of a king? She would have had a stroke if this was Mordred's Selection. Hell, she would have sent in the application form herself. There had been many a day Eden had picked up the phone to her mother, and heard her mention those dread words, we need to stabilize our image (translation: new fake relationship for publicity incoming). She had forever dreaded the day that Mordred's name might follow.
Well, she thought dryly, staring down at the newspaper. Collaborators will be hanged. She had a whole new set of worries now.
Dodici, tredici.
Thirteen. Thirteen girls left. Twelve girls to beat to the crown, and to the protection the crown would afford.
Eden was Vivian Lahela's daughter. When she wanted something, she tended to get it.
Raphael had brought them to the market just before noon, and Yue had lost herself for several long, happy moments in the maze of sights and sounds - the entire space was crowded with people, their stalls, their piles of rainbow-coloured fruits and vegetables, their little wooden boxes upon which they displayed yellowed envelopes containing written fortunes, their scented candles and intricately carved silver jewellery laid out like nooses, their little music boxes, some pastel and pale like little cakes and others crafted of a rich wood, fretted with gold and bronze around the edges. Lilting voices called out across the streets, in languages familiar and not-so. Agares had been there to set up a stall and sell some of her gorgeously crafted golden watches; Raphael was moving from merchant to merchant, chatting in that casual, charismatic way that she had, and Yue had been allowed to move around at her own pace. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she needed adhere to no schedule, needed to maintain her composure to impress no one. Raphael had slipped her a few coins, to spend on whatever caught her eye, but Yue had found that she had not spotted anything that justified the purchase and was perfectly content just to wander and look and listen.
At some point, her new roommate had appeared beside her at a stall that sold intricately woven baskets. The stall holder said something to Vardi Tayna in a language Yue did not understand, and the two began to haggle with an intensity that seemed entirely undeserved given they were arguing over a woven drinks coaster. As far as Yue could tell, Vardi Tayna came away the victor - in any case, she came away with the coaster and almost immediately handed it to Yue. "That's for you."
Yue was utterly bemused. "Um." She turned the coaster over in her hands. "Uh, thank you?"
"You're very welcome, Yukimura. Where's Rafa?"
"Um..." Yue pointed, and Vardi Tayna nodded, clapped her quite hard on the back, and disappeared between two stalls in the general direction Yue had indicated. Yue watched her go - she would never understand that girl - and could not help but tug the coaster into her pocket - it was a gift, even if it was from someone as abrasive as Vardi Tayna - and decided to head back towards Raphael's house to see if she could pull together a bit of lunch before Raphael and Agares came back. As far as she could tell, they weren't being compensated for opening their home to the danger of sheltering the Selected, so helping out with housework was the least that Yue could do to try and help out. And, as much as she didn't want to admit it, she was a little lonely without Saran and Ekaitza and Cor. She hadn't realised how accustomed she had grown to having them around, or how boring some parts of her day had become without the other girls to talk to.
To her surprise, when she got back to Raphael's house, there were two books waiting for her on her bed - at first, she thought that Vardi Tayna might have thrown some of her belongings onto Yue's side of the room, as heedless of personal boundaries as she was of all things, but there was a little note inscribed on the cover page of the first book, a shiny copy of the translated Dream of the Red Chamber, so new that its spine was still utterly rigid:
My dearest, Yue -
Hopefully one you haven't got around to reading this one yet - a personal favourite.
Let me know what you think of it?
With affection, Demetri
She traced her finger over the words my dearest, and could not hold back the smile that came to her lips as she gazed at the note. The second book was, as promised, a collection of Nizar Qabbani's poetry. This one was well-worn and well-loved, dog-eared and soft-spined, clearly cared for and yet thoroughly read to the point of utter disintegration. The name Gabriel was etched onto the first page; it must have already been second-hand when Demetri picked it up, and yet that did not make Yue love it any less.
"My dearest," she said softly to herself, "my dearest," and then had to shake her head at exactly how stupid she was being. One more time."My dearest!"
Well, she decided, that was that. She was going to have to find a book to return to him. If she wasn't going to get a date - and it was starting to look like she wouldn't - then at least she might be able to slip him back a note, to say some small words of gratitude for the thoughtful gifts.
She wondered if Raphael had given her enough coins to buy a book from the market.
Well, she thought wryly, there was only one way to find out.
But first, she was going to have to grab Vardi Tayna - and what a terrifying idea that seemed. But Yue squared her shoulders. Cor wouldn't be intimidated by her, and nor would Saran. Ekaitza probably already would have fought her to establish dominance. Yue was going to be sharing a room with the rebel girl (and a bathroom as well, an idea which terrified Yue even more than the bedroom situation), so she had to get over herself, the sooner the better. Not only did Vardi Tayna clearly have a skill - and a passion - for haggling with stall holders, she also seemed to be quite close to Demetri. She would know what kind of a book he would like. She would know how to make him happy.
Just as he had made Yue happy.