Chapter 33: Find My Honest Face
I look good in a certain light
So don't look too closely at me tonight
- Elijah Hewson
Demetri accompanied Eden back to the entrance of the Women's Quarters, and again, their walk was silent. This was as far as he could accompany her; the rules of the mansa's palace seemed to be paramount. The pale man was leaning against the pillar which divided the Men's Quarters from its counterpart – Eden still wasn't sure she could say exactly what Liara seemed to see in the guy. He always had such a dour expression, like he had just seen something he wished he hadn't.
"Lady Eden," Demetri said, as their farewell. "Thank you for our discussion. I appreciate it – and you."
And Eden, trying to ignore the fact that Täj was clearly not a person who ignored the words of those next to him, simply said, "I suppose I'll see you in a few hours, your Majesty?"
"I suppose," he agreed, and looked to his old friend with a raised eyebrow. "Shall we?"
Täj murmured something dourly in what Eden thought was Russian, as he often seemed to do when he was uncomfortable around the Selection – which was, as far as Eden could tell, nearly all the time. He straightened, gave Eden a nod that was either respectful or dismissive, and went to Demetri's side as the two men went down the hallway towards the Men's Quarters. Eden watched them go, for a split second, and then turned down the hallway opposite. She was, at first, uncertain about whether she knew the route back, but the sound of conversation and laughter was unmistakeable; it soon became very apparent that the Quarters were desolate but for the chambers into which the wives and the Selected had moved to prepare for the reception, so it was easy to trace them.
The chamber they had moved to was a broad bathing room, like one of the saunas Eden's mother had occasionally brought her to as a teenager – a wide, long room with carved stone baths set into the ground at short intervals. The walls were all rippled, clouded stained glass in shades of red and green and blue, like they were bathing in the shell of a hollowed-out chapel. There had always been something cold and sterile about the bathhouses in Angeles, Eden thought, something white and serene about it. This was earthier, warmer, like they were in some room hewn underground from the surrounding rock.
Perhaps part of that association was the fact that the baths were filled, not with water, but with a thicker liquid, dyed somewhere between lilac and baby pink, little constellations of changing colours swirling within as the attendants poured new colours into it – blues, Eden saw, blues and reds. In the bath nearest to the door, the only visible parts of Yue were her head and her thin shoulders, curled inwards as though she was tightening over on herself, eyes tightly shut as the attendant beside her poured green water over her hair, rivulets dripping across her eyes and lips. Eden said, "is it warm?" and was answered with a fervent nod from Liz, who was pushing her hair back from her eyes.
"It's heavenly," she said, and that was enough to spur Eden to try it out for herself. If she was going to accompany Demetri to the reception, she thought, she needed to look perfect. This was how she could be useful; this would be what she turned her focus to. She had never been self-conscious about her body, and the long months with the rebellion had eroded any sense of embarrassment yet further, so that she felt quite able to undress and slip into the bath between Yue and Liz, which seemed to have been left vacant for her.
At once, it was as though she was waking into a comfortable bed – enveloping, warm, as cosy as a bath could be. Somehow thicker than water, and of a subtly different texture, almost grainy from whatever they had added to it to make it smell so sweet. She ducked her head beneath the surface, and then rose, and flicked back her hair, and felt tension ooze from her like something physical was draining away. Wow. She would almost be sorry to leave for the reception.
The attendants nearest her gestured that she should move back in the bath, so that they could massage her scalp with the jars of oils that they kept in a basket at their side, and she did so gratefully; after what had been a fitful night of sleep in the chateau, she was half-afraid she would fade away into rest from the rhythmically relaxing sensation, but after a few minutes, they rinsed her hair, rose, and left.
And then it was just the four of them, waiting, wondering, and wishing they did not have to face anything else that evening. Or, Eden thought, at least, she imagined everyone else was feeling that way.
So she chose to break the silence first: "what did I miss?"
"Not much," Liz said, softly, for the cavernous space threw their voices around as so many echoes. Though it was not clear if there was anyone else around to hear them, it still seemed somehow gauche to speak too loud. "They served us an Illéan lunch. Said they didn't want us to be homesick."
"They're nice," Yue said, but she sounded exceptionally uncertain as she said it. She had seemed lost for most of the day, Eden thought, like she was missing Saran and missing Vardi Tayna, to whom she seemed to have been close. In their absence, she tended to turn first to Atiena or Liara for validation, as she did now, her voice laden heavy with an unspoken suspicion. "Really nice."
Liara threw her a look. "Yue, are you, of all people, being cynical?"
A small smile. "I had to learn from all of you pessimists eventually, right?"
"I'm very proud." Liara looked down at the water, and smiled. "Sometimes I think that we've been a very bad influence."
"Think?"Yue smiled. "I know."
"What about you?" Liz asked Eden. "Atiena told us you were with Demetri..."
And just like that, all eyes on her. Eden smiled. "I got a little bit lost," she said, her voice sounding a little bit apologetic and embarrassed. "I think he might have been as well. I ran into Enhle as well. He was… yeah, I think Yue said it best. Nice."
"We shouldn't be surprised that they're being polite," Liz murmured. "We're their guests. Niceness is like… the absolute minimum."
Liara said, "I was a little worried we'd end up as hostages. I can live with the absolute minimum."
And Yue said, "it's early. Let's not speak too soon." She glanced at Eden. "How is he? Demetri?"
"He seemed fine," Eden said, slowly, turning over their interactions in her mind again, spinning them like she might derive some new wisdom from further interrogation of their sparse interaction. "I think his conversation with the mansa went well."
Yue nodded and Liara said, "that bodes well for us, I suppose?"
Liz said, "I'm not sure there's any point trying to tell what that means. I've mostly given up on trying to predict what happens next."
That, Eden thought, sounded like a special kind of hell.
The attendants returned, a few minutes later, with stacks of fluffy pastel towels. In the same moment that one woman helped Eden from the water, another wrapped her in a towel and a third handled her hair, enormously carefully. She could see that Liz and Yue were both a little uncomfortable with the attention being lavished on them by servants, but seemed to accept it for fear of insulting their hosts or creating an awkward moment; Liara was deep in thought and, although she gave her attendants a smile and a quiet thank you, she seemed a little more at ease as they were helped into dressing gowns and guided out of the bath chambers. They were returning through the lounge into which they had originally met the wives, where now there was only a single rack of clothes remaining, occupying one wall of the room with silks and lace. The other girls must have already chosen their dresses, Eden thought idly; she rather hoped this didn't put her at a disadvantage in finding something to wear.
The attendants' attention did not end there; in the next room along, four high stools in the centre of the room stood under the direction of warm lights. Eden was directed to the one on the farthest to the left, where a black-suited woman wielding a hairbrush said, politely, with a strong accent, "do you have any preference about your hair?"
Eden stared at herself in the mirrored wall in front of her. Yue was hesitantly agreeing to let her helper trim her hair but warning away from any attempts to dye it; Liara was inspecting her nails and discussing whether she wanted them to match the colour of her dress; and Liz was sitting, very patiently, as her helper massaged more hair oils into her scalp and eased a comb through her wild red locks, looking… mostly confident in her ability to do so without ripping Liz's scalp off.
She had never liked this part. She was good at it, but she had never enjoyed it – putting on costumes, putting on a show. It was ostentatious. It was gauche. It was, functionally, useless. You survived the same in boots as in heels, Eden had always thought, but here was a moment where that wasn't true, and where she had to get her act together and put on a good show.
"I usually wear my hair in braids," she said, tilting her head, watching her reflection move within the wall. "I suppose that would be too… plain, for this event?"
"How about two braids," her attendant said, her hands already moving, knotting the hair with the speed and precision of one who has had a thousand thousand chances to practice. "Down to nape of neck and here..." She was twisting the braids as she spoke; Eden could barely feel it, so carefully was it done. "...here, a bun, like so." Not a simple knot, Eden thought, but one with multiple interwoven strands so that it looked as though it had been knitted together and simply sewn to her scalp. "Acceptable?"
Eden nodded. "Beautiful," she said, and that seemed to be the cue for the makeup. She was surprised to find that she was getting back into the pace of things; as her attendants began to search for the right shade of makeup, discussing the matter quietly in their own language. So much went into crafting a mask, she thought, so much care and so much time. There was much discussion ongoing about which of her feature to highlight; beside her, it was apparent that Liara's cheekbones and eyes were favoured, just as Liz's freckles and lips were being emphasised. Her attendants seemed to like Eden's freckles as well; they set to the task, the brushes moving over her skin extremely soft and gentle despite how rapidly the women around her were moving.
"What colour will you wear?"
Eden paused. "I don't know. I haven't seen the dresses."
Her attendant looked as though she would have sighed, if she wasn't on the job, but merely nodded, and said something to her assistants about the colours they were going to use, and Eden returned her eyes to meet her own gaze in the mirror, hoping again that she wasn't putting herself at a disadvantage with all of this. Well, she thought, after she got a look at the dresses, she might be able to ask them to retouch her makeup with some spots of colour. She had a strong-featured face; less was always going to be better.
"Oh," Yue said suddenly. "Atiena, look at your hair!"
The door had swung open; although instincts told her to look over, Eden didn't want to disturb the work of her helpers, and merely slide her eyes over in that direction. Atiena had cut her hair, she saw, though cut was not exactly the right term – she had shorn it to a tight crop, no more than an inch or two remaining on her scalp in tight, ringlet curls. "You make it sound like I committed a murder, Yue."
Yue laughed. "I love it."
Atiena ran her hands ruefully over her head. "I foresaw difficulties," she said, wryly. "Less upkeep this way."
"Don't tempt me," Liz said with a smile. "Should we make it a group look?"
Liara closed one eye, and tilted her head, as though conjuring the image in her head. Her stylists had given her a veritable crown of hair, every lock woven delicately atop another; she looked regal, Eden thought. "I've had worse."
Yue shook her head. "My hair grows quickly," she said. "But even so..."
"Don't worry," Liz said, "we'll get you while you sleep."
Atiena checked her watch. "We have half an hour left."
Liara looked around. "Dresses?"
The other girls nodded, and Eden nodded with them. As they returned to the lounge, it became clear that she had been right – they had chosen their own dresses already. Liara was wearing a two piece garment which left a strip of pale skin bare at her waist, her black bodice deeply embroidered in silver and gold a set of repeating geometric patterns like the engravings on the ceiling of the room over them, her long black skirt a perfect swathe of clothe that emphasised her tall, thin frame. Her intricately knotted crown of hair made her look, Eden thought, like some fearsome queen of myth; with Yue's help, she was stepping into heels some four inches tall, which made her seem even more imposing, if that was even possible.
Eden had to find her own dress now, and that was more daunting a prospect than any since they had left Layeni. She scanned the racks quickly, keenly aware that the minutes were slipping away – many of the same patterns and styles that the girls were wearing was repeated here, but Eden was far from keen to replicate the choice of the others. She wanted to stand out, she thought, stand out or at least not meld with the others. What would Demetri be wearing?
Liz had chosen a much brighter jumpsuit made of characteristic ankara waxprint, a veritable chaotic mesh of colours compared to the darkness of the similar garment worn by Tewedaji – oranges and greens and blues jostled for prominence, making her red hair seem ever more vibrant, and the halter neck emphasised her collarbones, the freckles scattered about her shoulders like dice during a bar game. She was patting down her pants, looking self-satisfied, and grinned broadly as she caught Eden watching her. She demonstrated by way of explanation, thrusting her hands into the cloth and spinning slightly, her voice slightly ironic: "pockets!"
"Pockets," Eden agreed dryly. "If only you had something to put in them."
Beside her – well. If Liara appeared regal, and Liz was vibrant, then Yue was ethereal. Her dress was a full length garment of pale pink lace, underlaid with a silk shift in sea blue, the lace delicately embroidered with the tiniest blue and pink flowers and creeping green leaves. A line of tiny buttons ran from throat to ground, and she had slight, bell-shaped sleeves laced tightly at her elbows. She looked paler, and more perfect, in this dress; her hair had been left long, and loose, around her shoulders, silky straight, and her makeup was slight, emphasising her long dark lashes and the pink colour of her lips. Beside Liara in her heels and the fiery Liz, Yue seemed so much smaller and daintier than even she usually did.
Seeing the Selected lined up and adorned like this, Eden rather thought that the Saharans were at risk of thinking Illéa was a nation of supermodels.
She had chosen her garment – it was, on first glimpse, more like a heavy robe of a deep scarlet velvet, overlaid with heavy gold fretting that ran in curlicues up along the buttons that ran, as with Yue's dress, from throat to toe. This fretting was thickest on her chest and shoulders, before dripping like falling stars down the length of her skirt. It had full sleeves, along which these golden decorations twined themselves to her elbow; there was a thick belt, of the same material, bearing the golden emblem of a laurel crown. As she stepped into it, her attendant showed her that it had been designed with the intent that the bottom set of buttons, from the ground to mid-thigh, should be left open, creating an impromptu slit in the dress that bared her leg every time she took a step; she was helped into a pair of black heels, identical to Liara's, to make her legs look longer. Eden looked at herself in the mirror, and barely recognised herself – she looked older than her twenty-one years, and this was so different from her usual style. She looked mature, and mysterious, and monarchical.
She looked like she was ready.
Atiena gave them all a smile as she saw that they were ready, adjusting her cuffs as she waited by the door. Eden didn't know her well, but she was grateful that the Tammins rebel was still with them. She was a reassuring presence. She said, "I'll be on the balcony if you need me. Keeping an eye out."
Yue said, "that doesn't seem fair..."
"This is my job, Yukimura. Making us look good… that's yours." Atiena winked. "Just give me a shout if anything exciting happens."
"We'll try," Liara said, "not to let anything exciting happen."
Uzohola was in the hall outside, wearing the broad, vaguely conical hairpiece that Eden thought was called a izicolo, and what looked like traditional dress from much further south in the Federation: a long skirt formed of broad strips of black leather, and an intricately beaded bustier in reds and greens which emphasised the makeup around her eyes and the colour of her lips. She was wearing a flat pendant that drew the eye to her throat and décolletage; the pendant had two symbols on it that looked like some of the Amharic letters that had flashed up on their plane's display screen the day before: ኡን
Had it only been the day before? Eden found herself exhaling deeply. Only a day, she thought. Well, it had stretched out like nothing else.
"You all look so beautiful," Uzohola said with a smile. "Okay." She had started to walk; the girls hastened to keep up with her as they advanced out of the Women's Quarters. "Here's the skeleton of the night: we're going to enter together. Then we have a dinner, then a few hours of dancing and drinking, and then we're officially guests of Kemet. Does that all sound fine to you?"
Nods all around. Eden nodded as well, hoping she wasn't dislodging her hair.
"Perfect. Demetri will be introduced first, with Eden..."
Liara cocked an eyebrow and Yue looked at Eden with something in her eyes, but it was Liz who spoke first. "Eden?"
Eden said, calmly, "he asked me to accompany him."
"Like a date?"
"Something like that."
Liz looked perturbed, but nodded; Liara, eyebrow still raised, looked away; and Yue seemed to be on the verge of saying something but had decided better of it as Uzohola reached for Eden's hand and guided her, in her heels, up a set of stone steps and into a narrow hallway that seemed to link the Men's Quarters with the Women's. In the middle of the hall was set a pair of broad mahogany doors, and in front of them – Demetri.
Unlike the girls, he had not made any concessions to the Saharan styles of their hosts; Eden supposed that, as King of Illéa, he was less able to show fealty or kowtow to the fashion sensibilities of a foreign nation, like the Selected had. He was wearing, perhaps less plainly than might have been feared, a tuxedo which appeared on first glance to be black, but as Eden drew closer, she could see that there were veins of very dark purple running within the fabric, almost like it had been shot through with byzantium lightning. His hair had been trimmed, Eden thought – it was no longer as natural, or touching his collar, but more clean-cut, more shaped. It somehow seemed less rich in colour in colour, less golden. His eyes, even in the dark, were intensely watchful.
Uzohola released Eden, and Demetri took her arm, like it was utterly nothing. She was vaguely aware of the other girls lining up at a short distance behind them.
"I presume you know how to handle this by now," Demetri said, sotto voce.
Eden's brow creased. "I've been to a few events in my time."
He looked at her, and smiled, and she was still for a moment struck – oh, how could she have been so stupid – but by then it was too late and the doors were sweeping open and there was a voice, somewhere, in the cavernous space beyond declaring the entrance of "King Demetri of Illéa!"
Liz was good in heels – she liked to think so, anyway – but the stairs onto which the doors opened were step, and stone, and there was no handrail, and so she found herself staring directly into space and just counting her steps very carefully, as though if she thought carefully about each motion, it could not go wrong. The lights were blinding; the applause was deafening. She should have expected that she would be, again, the least adept at this particular physical task: Yue had the grace of the ice-skater she had been, and Liara was clearly accustomed to the difficulties of palatial staircases, and Eden at least had Demetri to lean on –
Eden and Demetri. That still rankled, and Liz wasn't entirely certain why. After all, she hadn't joined this Selection in the hopes of anything except getting a look at the rebellion herself. Demetri was a handsome man, she thought, and sometimes when she spoke to him he said all the right things, but…
But he wasn't Wyatt. Sometimes, at the end of the day, that was all it came down to. That was all it could come down to. He wasn't Wyatt, and he didn't even come close. Liz thought he seemed like a nice enough fellow – when they spoke, she found herself enjoying the particular way he picked between phrases, always keen not to betray too much of what he truly meant, and yet managed to be kind nonetheless – but he was a bland, secretive person without any of the amiable contrariness that had so characterised Wyatt in life, or any other attribute to make up for it.
But the reason she entered meant little, because it was rapidly becoming clear that out of the four of them, Yue Yukimura was the only person interested in Demetri, rather than the rebellion, the crown, or the prince he had been. But nonetheless, Eden had been picked out again and again as favourite – the first kiss at the festival, the room next to his in the château, the introduction at his side at this reception. King Demetri of Illéa and Lady Eden of Fennley – and after a while, Liz thought ruefully, it was just a question of what she and the others were doing so wrong.
She had spent so long thinking it, she and the other girls had reached the bottom of the stairs, and a sea of people were still applauding, so fervently that Liz could not help but wave, slightly shyly, to thank them for the gesture – and was answered with more enthusiastic cheers. Beside her, Yue was smiling shyly, and Liara was giving that practicedly aloof look of hers that, Liz had to imagine, never showed up poorly in photos.
They had been introduced in alphabetic order – Lady Elizabeth of Midston, Lady Liara of Angeles, Lady Yue of Whites – and there were still more people to introduce, so they were guided to a position, slightly to the left of the stairs, where they could join in the applause as someone named Jephté was introduced, and then someone called Kifu, and finally Enhle's wives, those who had not entered on his arm – Lady Ishtar of Zirid, Lady Kahina of Sao and Lady Inyoni of Kalahar – in a manner so reminiscent of the way that the Selected had been introduced that Liz started to understand why so many of the Saharans seemed unable to distinguish between a harem and a Selection.
Eden had been designated the seat opposite Demetri, further down the table, with the man named Jephté who was, Liz thought, a mansa, and a woman who had been introduced as the representative sent by the Federation's president. The others had been dispersed across the banquet table, obviously in the hopes that they would socialise with the Saharans rather than speaking to each other for the whole night – nonetheless, Liz needed to only turn her head very slightly to the right to catch Liara's watchful eye, keeping an eye on them all.
"Lady Elizabeth, this is a fellow mansa." Enhle was indicating the beautiful, statuesque woman sitting beside him, her hair a perfect halo of curls, her face a study in shadows and relief, dressed in a dark jumpsuit with dark red veins of embroidery running along her sleeves and neckline. She was accompanied on either side of the table by two tall, thin youths in their late teens or early twenties, with similar dark skin and natural hair, wearing the same black garb embroidered with golden highlights along their arms and throats. "May I please introduce Nyguzi Kifu, mansa of Manden, our dear cousin and neighbour to the west, and her wards – Nyguzi Maseli, Nyguzi Tewedaji."
"Enchanted." Kifu had a very slight smile; it looked as though she typically didn't find reason to change her expression. She reminded Liz, if not in appearance, then in posture, of Tewedaji, whom they had encountered earlier in the Women's Quarters, and who maintained the same razor thin smile now that she had previously.
"It's lovely to meet you," Liz said. She was unwilling to try pronouncing Kifu's surname, and knew little about the mansadoms to make any clever comment or ask a question, but in saying so little, her voice sounded somewhat stilted, even to her own ears.
The silence had hung too long.
"And nice to see you again, Daji," Liz finished, rather lamely, in the hope that the use of the affectionate name would earn her some small amount of friendliness.
It was not fated to be so. Daji offered her the same thin smile as ever.
The black-suited attendants who seemed so ubiquitous had begun to dispense food along the table to the diners. Liz could not name most of the dishes, but they fascinated her nonetheless: baskets of flat bread embedded with herbs and spices; bowls of artistically sliced meat stewing in velvety dark sauces; skewers of tripe and game meat that Ulpia informed Liz was ostrich; fermented cassava wrapped in cocoyam leaves; and trays of golden couscous and mashed fava beans and roasted peppers.
Liz was grateful for Ulpia's presence, for the Illéan princess was quick to provide some further conversation when she said, "am I correct in saying, Kifu, that you wished for Demetri and the Selection to visit you in Manden before they returned to Illéa?"
"The king of Illéa is always welcome," the mansa agreed. "We shall keep a house prepared for him in Kotoko."
Ulpia smiled. "A safari trip, then?"
"If that's what he would like." Kifu steepled her fingers and looked at Liz from over them. "And you are all at about the same age as Maseli and Daji, so I imagine it would not be so difficult to keep you entertained."
She made them sound, Liz thought, like bored pets.
"Yes," Enhle agreed, rather distantly, "the harem would enjoy –"
"Selection," Ulpia corrected him, enormously pleasantly, smiling placidly.
"Yini umehluko? Bengazi ukuthi ngifuna ukukushada, sithandwa, angidingi ilotho noma i-Selection..."
"Not in public, darling." She cast Enhle an affectionate look that reminded Liz of the way Wyatt would look at her, right when she was on the verge of losing her temper, and he found himself fond of her nonetheless. "But yes. That sounds like an excellent idea. Of course, only after they have fully appreciated the hospitality of Kemet."
"Cousin," Kifu said wryly, "you make it sound like a competition."
Liara had not expected to be speechless when it came to the grand hall to which they were directed after the conclusion of the dinner, but the sheer scale of this space utterly defied all the words she might have usually utilised to describe a chamber of such intense beauty – grander than grand, more beautiful than beautiful, on such a scale that she couldn't quite comprehend it from the threshold. She thought it was the size of the Schreave Football Stadium in Angeles, or maybe twice that – the immense galara marble columns throughout the hall made it difficult to estimate for certain, while the perfectly polished floor, sheened like a mirror, reflected the space back onto itself time and again so that it seemed like the room was a moving painting of itself.
When she tilted back her head, she could see the ceiling, very high above her – she thought it must have been five storeys high – dripping with golden chandeliers and diamond lights emitting a very pale silver light so that the whole room was bathed as though in starlight. The ceiling itself was a tessellated mosaic depicting important events in Kemet's history, wars that Liara had no name for, victories that she could not understand. Balconies studded the walls, opening out onto the night, connected to the main floor by staircases that spiralled dizzyingly tightly onto themselves; between the balconies, the walls were carpeted with enormous oil paintings in a vaguely baroque style, depicting dark-skinned men and women engaged in dancing and dining, swathed in the same bright colourful clothes as the guests that milled around Liara, chatting cheerfully in languages that she had no frame of reference for. She occasionally caught the word "Illyah", which even she could translate, and something that sounded like Selection, as glances were thrown in the direction of the girl from Angeles and the girl from Whites.
The crowd swelled and split; they were divided between what the third wife, Ishtar, had called the colloquy, and what the fourth wife, Yoni, had called the tripping, which Liara took to be the distinction between the guests who were dancing in the centre of the room and those that were milling around at the edges, networking and speaking quietly about the world outside the golden walls of the mansa's palace. Enhle was amongst the former, waltzing peaceably with Yoni, who was wearing a garment that superficially resembled a sari, with a long, daisy-patterned pink sash, layered over a paler slip dress, expertly pinned under her arm as her husband spun her about the room.
Demetri, however, was still with Eden, standing to the side and speaking to the other mansa, the statuesque woman from Manden with a face like flint. Eden was smiling and saying something that had the Manden woman nodded in fervent agreement and moving her hands as though words alone could not convey the intricacies of what she had to say. Liz had been directed by Ulpia over towards the bar which occupied the north side of the room, where there might usually have been a stage for a band, or a dais for a keynote speaker; the actual band had been dispersed among the crowd, the strange acoustics of the room making it sound as though their songs were emanating from the walls and ground, coming from all around. Liara scanned the balconies briefly – there was Uzohola in the company of who might have been her aunt, saying something and looking in the direction of Uzo's nomarch cousin Uzokuhlenga, who was gesturing to one of the paintings on the wall and explaining its components to the watchful Atiena. And beside Liara – Yue, who did not seem to be cataloguing her surroundings with quite the same interest as Liara was.
Well, Liara didn't want to admit that she was looking for someone in particular.
But that someone had not manifested, and so Liara turned her attention to the person who was with her, and saw that Yue was watching the dancers with a thoughtful expression. How did Layeni feel so long ago, Liara thought, that this levity seemed like such a strange turn from the usual misery and tragedy which dogged their heels, and Yue seemed to be thinking something similar, for she said, slowly, "you know, I remember you taught me some dances in Layeni but I can't for the life of me remember what they were..."
Liara laughed, and was keenly aware that many of the guests were watching them, almost idly, as though they were curiosities. "A refresher, then?"
Yue smiled, and took her hand, and the crowd parted as they went to the dance floor together. Liara led – she was taller than Yue, tall enough that spinning Yue was as easy as thought and that spinning Liara was an awkward endeavour that ended in much laughter from the smaller girl and the slight smile that was the closest Liara let herself come to mirth, knowing that there were cameras and eyes upon them from all angles. Liara had been wrong – this dance was not quite a waltz, but a close cousin thereto – but Yue was light enough that guiding her around the dance-floor felt rather like a storm directing a feather, and Liara did not expect anyone was looking too closely at their feet to realise that they were not quite doing it right.
"Remember Wick and Vardi at the competition in Layeni?" Yue sounded wistful. "I wish I could dance like that."
"I reckon if we put you on ice," Liara replied. "You could."
They were a few minutes into it when Yoni appeared at their side to show them a dance she had learned during her time as a shikha in Zirid – or at least, that was what Liara thought she said – which involved a rhythmic undulation of the hips and a relaxed, broad movements of the hands. Liz bounced over with drinks for all four of them, and Ishtar came to join them, and correct them, at intervals, wearing a dark green tunic embossed with golden embroidery running down its sleeves that Yoni called a takchita, similar to the red one worn by Eden – who was, throughout it all, moored on the sidelines with Demetri, greeting diplomats and representatives with a warm smile and a few words of greeting that Liara supposed were well-rehearsed.
Enhle appeared briefly to spirit Liz away for a dance, and then Yoni disappeared to try and tempt the dour-faced Nyguzi boy onto the floor, and Yue and Liara had returned briefly to their dance, slowly enough that they could speak to one another – "those drinks were strong," Yue murmured, almost as though she was surprising herself with the news, and Liara laughed and said, "remember the last time we got drunk?" and Yue blushed to her roots – and they were about three minutes into this when there was a tap on Liara's shoulder and she turned to see green eyes and blonde hair and a smile.
Of course. Demetri.
"I hope you don't mind if I cut in," he said, in that vaguely ironic way that he had, like he knew that was engaging in a cliché but was going into it head-first anyway.
Liara nodded, and smiled, and dropped Yue's hand, and stepped back, and said, "of course not," and Demetri nodded, and smiled, and took Liara's hand, and stepped forward, and said, "do you mind if I lead?"
They went. Over his shoulder, Liara caught the look in Yue's eyes.
On some level, she was angry at Demetri for that as well.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to speak to you earlier – I have been chastised by certain members of my retinue for neglecting you." Translation, Liara thought wryly: Uzohola told me to come and make conversation with the Selected. "So, tell me - are you having a good night, Lady Liara?" As with Yue, they moved in the thick of the crowd, where they were less subject to the prying gaze of the cameras manning the corner nearest the bar, and danced slowly, so that they could speak softly.
"It's lovely," she replied. "It feels like a dream."
"I can't quite believe it myself."
He spun her, a quick and dizzying spin that had her hair and skirt flaring out, and caught her again at the waist. If Yue had been so light as to remind Liara of a feather, then Demetri was something very solid indeed, stronger than she had quite realised, and it felt rather as though he could have buoyed her the whole way around the dance-floor without her heels touching the ground once.
She said, because she felt like she should say something, "is there any news from Illéa?"
"Lady Saran is safe," he replied, very softly. "Lady Marjorie is safe." Liara was just thinking how strange it was that he still appended lady even to the names of those girls who had no way of continuing with the Selection whatsoever when Demetri added, "we have broken the Angeles line."
Liara's heart jumped, almost into her throat, at these words. "That's… wonderful."
The palace was in Angeles. More than that – her parents were in Angeles. Mordred was in Angeles. All at once it seemed very real, like something dark and clawed had perched on her shoulder and dug its talons deep. The rebels were in the heartland, she thought, and then wondered why they were still the rebels when the Crown had long ago become the Crown, rather than Illéa. She called Demetri Majesty, and she knew that if she was, in this instant, returned by magic to Angeles, then she would call him Majesty as well.
One foot in either world, she thought, strewn halfway between them both. Or, in this case, some thousand miles away from either.
"Our hosts have been treating you well?"
"They've been wonderful. Inyoni is a delight. It will be lovely to get to know them a little better."
"Indeed. I believe they are organising a few events to show us around their kingdom before we depart."
"When will that be?"
Demetri hesitated. "That is difficult to say. The situation in Illéa is volatile."
"But?"
"But," he said, slowly, clearly turning his answers over in his mouth. "What kind of a king relies on the kindness of strangers forever?"
"Strangers," Liara repeated. "But Ulpia..."
"My aunt," Demetri said, and the word sounded foreign when he said it, as though he had long ago forgotten the precise way these terms were shaped: mother father brother uncle aunt. "Is the wife of a foreign mansa. I understand that her allegiance will, ultimately, be with her family."
Liara wondered what they had spoken about, the previous evening, when they had shared tea in the garden and spoken for the first time in… more than fifteen years, she thought. Ulpia had married Enhle very shortly after Trajan and Jael had married, or maybe even while they were still courting; her visits to the palace in Angeles thereafter had been sparse. Hard to blame her, Liara thought, looking at the opulence with which they were currently surrounded. Even competing with three other wives for attention, she imagined Masr to be a whole world away from Angeles.
"Besides," Demetri said, with a slightly strained smile, "she's Mordred's aunt as well."
That was true, Liara thought. She wondered if Ulpia was still in touch with the family that was left in Angeles. She wondered what Ulpia thought about this whole war, uncle against nephew, brother against brother.
She wondered if Ulpia thought the Demetri dancing with Liara now was the real Demetri, the Demetri who had been stolen, the Demetri she had loved.
Demetri spun her again. She found herself scanning the room again, searching the balconies – and then he caught her and she smiled, and he said, "what about you? Is there anything you want to see or do while we're in Kemet?"
Liara said, "truthfully I've never thought about the Federation much. The pyramids of Tipersis, perhaps..."
Demetri nodded. "It goes without saying."
"Can you recommend anything?"
"I have always been told that the Bridge of Sighs in the nome of Ta-Mehew is quite beautiful."
"The Bridge of Sighs?"
"The path taken by the condemned to their place of executions. It was said that they would weep at their last glimpse of Masr and then die happy, for the view from the bridge is the most beautiful of all."
Liara said, "that is exceptionally morbid, your Majesty."
"Don't blame me. It's Täj that won't stop talking about it."
Liara smiled. "Well, it makes a little more sense when it's your executioner recommending it."
Demetri laughed ruefully. "Yes, I suppose so." He looked at her thoughtfully; Demetri Dunin had the kind of gaze that made it feel as though he were looking straight through you, down to the stars your bones had once been. He was looking at her like this now, and Liara resisted the urge to look away. She met his gaze, quite levelly, and did not waver as he said, keeping the same rueful tone, "do you speak any Russian, Lady Liara?"
Liara shook her head. "Hellos and goodbyes, sir." She wondered if he was hoping for a translator for dealing with Zaria Yahontova, and, if that was the case, why he would ask her rather than ask Taj. Between the executioner and the spy, Russian seemed to have been something of a second language for the whole Inner Circle – certainly, Vardi Tayna had resorted to the tongue when frustrated or drunk, often whole sentences of it that had Raphael chiding her for rudeness. It sounded harsh when Vardi spoke it, like she had learned a half-formed variant of some Siberian dialect, but when Taj broke into the same language it always sounded so… melodious, softer than his voice in English, somehow sweeter. "Maybe thank you, if I really focus."
"Then you won't know what odnolyub means."
He was right. She did not.
"Are you going to tell me?" Liara began to say, but was interrupted in the middle of going by the end of the song and the appearance at her side of Daji, the thin, pretty girl from Manden, adopted daughter of mansa Kifu. "King Demetri," she said, offering Demetri the same deep bow that Uzokuhlenga had offered on the runway the previous day. "May I be so bold as to ask his Majesty for the next dance?"
The wattage of Demetri's smile seemed to have been dialled up to eleven – it was blinding. He was handsome, Liara thought, but not at all in the same way Mordred was, or that Trajan had been: all strong features, like a jawline that could cut steel, like cheekbones that could have planed oak. "Only if Lady Liara allows it, Ms Nyguzi."
Liara nodded, and, as she had with Yue, dropped Demetri's hand, trying to hold onto the word he had mentioned – odnolyub. "Of course. I can't keep you to myself all night long."
"You didn't hear me complaining," Demetri replied, with a smile, and then took the Manden girl's hand. "Shall we, Daji?"
They disappeared into the crowd like mist into fog, and Liara watched them go, and wondered why it was that Demetri seemed happier to spend time with some strangers than with members of his own Selection – than with his own childhood friend.
She was starting to think she might have to just fall back onto the explanation that he was just a very strange man indeed.
"How's it going?"
Uzohola nearly jumped out of her skin. "I've told you a thousand times, don't do that to me, Täj."
The pale man had appeared like a spectre behind her, and seemed unapologetic about it. She was surprised to see him in a suit – he usually avidly avoided being a guest to these sorts of things, preferring to don the garb of an attendant to watch over Demetri and avoid attention as best he could – but as she looked more closely, she realised that he was actually closely mimicking the dark red-and-black uniform of the bartenders below. As though out of dedication to the role, he handed Uzohola a martini glass full of a liquid that smelled suspiciously like absinthe, garnished with strawberries and tiny red chocolate shavings.
"What's this?"
"Death in the Afternoon."
"Delightful."
"Well," he said, "you looked like you needed a drink."
He wasn't wrong. She downed it.
Täj said again, "how's it going?"
"It could be worse." She didn't dare imagine how, but she had faith in them all. It could definitely be worse.
"Oh," he said, "well, that's not saying much."
The scene below could have been a painting, but would have taken a master to produce – the colour, the life, the music. It reminded Uzohola of the ubumbanos that her father had thrown in their family compound in Bamako or in Saharan embassy in Angeles, when she and Uzokuwa had been young and dreamed of little more than this for ever. She didn't have the heart to be disappointed of her young self for that. Little Uzohola – she had been Uzoguqula then, before the change, the transition – had been given plenty of reasons to dream of just glitz and glamour until the end of time. She and Uzokuwa had never dreamed of the rebellion until it had been their hard reality.
And now, she thought ruefully, she had returned to the land of her childhood a refugee, a fugitive, a stranger. It hurt, though the pain was lessened by the fact that she was not of Kemet, did not know Masr as a local must. The Ndlovukazis were of Manden; the mansa of her childhood had been Kifu's father, an imposing man with the same strong features and cold eyes his daughter now directed towards the dance floor from her position on the sidelines, watching her ward and the beggar king of Illéa dance, slowly, closely, smiling.
"How are you finding it?"
"I haven't found it yet," was the executioner's reply, which was a quintessentially Täj answer that had Uzohola rolling her eyes and reaching for another drink.
The pale man was watching the crowd as well, though Uzohola sensed it was with a less appreciative eye than she; she had always been the one to notice culture, colour, cheer. He had always been the one to note their escape routes and who was carrying a weapon. She wondered if his eyes had started to stray, of late. Well, she thought, they'd been fighting long enough. Some amount of softness was to be welcomed in their world.
"Have you spoken to Dimi?"
Uzohola tried not to let the strain leak through to her voice. She was unsuccessful. "Dimi isn't speaking to me."
"He'll come around." Täj's voice was quietly assured and deeply reassuring. Uzohola wondered what that must feel like: to have a certain, indelible, guaranteed place at the king's side, by virtue not of his savagery or smarts – though, of course, Täj had plenty of both – but because of the blood in your veins. Demetri could be resentful of the whole Inner Circle, but Täj was the one person he could not amputate from his side. Not without haemorrhaging, not without the whole rebellion bleeding out. "He'll come around."
"Should he?" Uzohola wasn't entirely sure her oldest friend was wrong to be suspicious of her now. If the roles had been reversed… no, she thought, she would not have doubted him, but she was, had always been, a more trusting person than the king called Demetri. "Is he wrong?"
"You don't share the sins of your brother." Täj sounded darkly amused. "Trust me when I say that. Otherwise… well. I'd be in some trouble."
Trouble. One of his usual understatements. "Does Demetri know that?"
"Of course. He's just… stressed. Sad."
Uzohola was quiet for a moment. "Raphael?"
Täj's jaw tightened. "They're having trouble identifying the bodies that Uzokuwa left behind him."
Uzohola almost flinched to hear her brother's name. Täj sounded venomous.
He was right to sound so.
"And… Vee?"
"As I said." Like he was talking with a noose around his throat, or speaking against a knife. "They're having trouble identifying bodies."
Venomous, but there was no blame in his voice. She valued that.
From the balcony, certain words floated up to them from the milieu below; Demetri was laughing, and Daji was saying, "you came all this way and you're not going to see the ruins of Musa the First? That simply won't do, I'll drag you there myself..."
Eden was engaged in a lively conversation with the two visiting mansas, Jephté of Sao and Kifu of Manden, and seemed to be holding her own – or, at least, not betraying the fact that she might not be. It made sense that she would thrive in a situation like this, Uzohola thought, not only because she had spent the whole Selection in an unspoken apprenticeship to the Report's Director, Enyakatho Imfazwe, but because Eden Lahela always seemed to be at her best when she was put up against the wire. This would be, from her perspective, a matter of survival; Uzohola had spent long enough observing these girls to know that the Selected from Fennley thrived on feeling useful.
"She'll make a wonderful queen." Uzohola spoke the words almost to herself, affirming Demetri's choice of date in thought as well as words. "A perfect queen."
"Who," Täj said, "Eden?"
"Who else?"
"Does he even like her?"
This was an abrupt question, abrupt and unfriendly sounding, and so out line with what Uzohola had expected that she had to look over at Täj in disbelief. He was reclined against the balcony; his words had been spoken with such detachment that Uzohola wondered for a second if she had imagined how odd the question had been.
"Does he..." She shook her head. "What are we, ten years old?"
He folded his arms. "No," he said, "I mean…."
He paused. Below them, the band had struck up another tune. The Ballad of Erren Grey. Uzohola knew this one from childhood – it was a Kalahari song, light and full of joy, repurposed with lyrics from Sao about a beautiful girl who had been torn between two lovers and drowned herself in Lake Chad so that she never had to choose between them.
"I mean," Täj said, "On a personal level – if it was just the two of them, no cameras, no facade, no public image, off in some quiet corner of the world…. would he have anything to say to her? Would they enjoy being together?"
Uzohola said, softly, "that's not what this Selection is about."
"No," he agreed. "What's your point?"
"What's yours?"
Somewhere below them, beneath the drums, Mansa Kifu was saying, "they say that the lights of Masr are most beautiful at night, from the tower at Bayn al-Qasrayn. I'm sure Daji would be delighted to accompany you, Demetri, if you wish to experience it."
Täj said, "I find myself melancholy lately -"
"That's not an answer..."
"Please, Uzo. I speak slowly. Let me finish."
She almost laughed at how simply he put it, and acquiesced, merely returning to her drink while he seemed to put his thoughts in order. He looked ill at ease without something to distract himself, something with which he could busy his hands, as he usually employed the cigarette to accomplish; he seemed to have resorted to spinning his whiskey tumbler on the rail of the balcony, watching it pitch back and forth, threatening to drop some dozen feet onto the head of some unassuming dignitary below, but always returning to the pale man's hand, as though commanded to do so.
"Lately, I find myself melancholy," Täj continued. "I've been thinking about love. A dangerous consideration, to be sure," he added, pre-empting what was clearly on Uzohola's mind. "And… an unproductive one. And I've been thinking about Demetri."
"The two things together?" Uzohola teased.
"Wouldn't life be so much simpler." They exchanged a slight smile – well, Uzohola thought, he wasn't wrong – and then he continued. "I just think… well. As I said. The Selection is for Demetri, isn't it?"
Uzohola said, not quite sure she understood, "I'm not quite sure I understand."
"It's for Demetri," Täj repeated, "not for…" He paused, clearly aware that though the two of them were sequestered in their own little corner of the ball that there was the potential for spies to be anywhere and everywhere. The walls have eyes, the General used to say, and Täj would reply, quite dryly, and the stars, the floors, the doors and the windows… "It's in his name," he said finally. "It is in Demetri's name. But it is not quite… for him. For him."
Uzohola replied, softly, "that was always the agreement." Below them, Demetri seemed to have agreed to accompany Daji somewhere, and she had taken his hand; he had turned back to say something, ask something, but the girl from Whites had already turned her back on him. "This was always what it was going to be."
"Yes." She wasn't sure what had come over Täj so suddenly – it wasn't, couldn't be, the absence of VT, surely? – but she wasn't sure she liked it. "But it's sad, isn't it?"
"Yes," Uzohola agreed. "It's sad."
"Yue?"
Yue was lost halfway between dream and day, the haze of sleep drawn about her almost like a physical shawl, when she became aware - distantly, as though dreaming it - of her door easing open and a tincture of warm light from the hallway spilling in a narrow slice across the warped wooden floorboards of her bedroom. Her eyes were still half-closed as she said, "Täj?", for it had been in the pale man's habit to occasionally come to their door in Raphael's house to say something in Russian to Vardi Tayna, and then wish Yue a goodnight on his way out. In the half-fade of midnight, she did not blame herself for thinking he might have decided to perpetuate this habit, although in Vardi's absence there was little reason for him to do so.
She felt a weight on the end of her bed, like when Saran would come in, early in the morning, to try to convince her to accompany the orphanage's wards apple-picking or fishing. The Mongolian girl had despaired of the early mornings at first - if I have to put up with this, I'm going to make it your problem as well - but Yue had always suspected she rather enjoyed it by the end.
The end.
"Not Täj. I hope you're not disappointed."
She sat up. The shackles of sleep fell loose, and abruptly she was very awake, she said, "your Majesty," because she didn't really know what else to say.
In the dark, Demetri's features looked so much softer, and somehow less perfect, more believable as a person who was alive and breathing and here, now, in front of her. She could see the trace of some old scar beside his lip, where it had burst in some bout of violence years before; she could see the lines beneath his eyes that suggested he was not getting sleep, or that the sleep he was getting was not good; she could see the tiny spot of blood, just below the point of his jaw, where he had cut himself shaving. He had acne scars, she noticed for the first time, and was surprised that she had never noticed before - just there, on his neck, his throat, what she might have, in better light, mistaken for freckles.
Yue thought, just as she had thought that night on the river, when they had stayed up all night, watching the fireworks, discussing books and ice and childhoods, that Demetri was very good at seeming comfortable in scenarios where no one else would be.
"Daijōbudesuka?" His voice sounded as tired as his eyes seemed, but it had his usual kindness. His pronunciation was much improved, Yue thought, though she did not know how or when he might have improved. Though it seemed like a lifetime ago, their night by the river had been less than fifty hours ago. How, she thought, how on earth could that be so.
"Yes," she answered, a little stiffly, "I'm okay." She was abruptly aware that she was in her pyjamas or, rather, the pyjamas that had been left for her - a misshapen pyjama set of Kemetian cotton in an ugly purple and red pattern of zigzagging lines. She was positively drowned in cloth. "Can I ask what you...?"
"Täj told me you asked to go home early. I wanted to check on you."
Yue shook her head. That was true - she thought the other girls were probably still at the palace - but there, in the great hall, she had been overcome by such an abrupt and awful sense of claustrophobia, of being watched, of being very small and very breakable, that she had retreated in search of a bathroom and been found there by the pale man, who had accompanied her home on the skytrain very silently. He had not said a single word; somehow, that had made Yue feel better than a torrent of reassurance or comforting words would have. And it had been a brief moment of levity, to see ordinary Maşr residents, returning home from their own nights on the town, or their late shifts at work, or going on a late evening shopping trip, and to see these ordinary residents look askance at the strange pair - a white man dressed like a waiter, an Asian girl dressed like a princess of the highest order. To her surprise, no one seemed to have taken photos - someone had asked Täj, "Illéan?", and rolled their eyes knowingly upon his soft answer in the affirmative.
"Really," she said, "I'm fine."
"It would be okay if you weren't."
He had such an infuriatingly disarming way of saying the simplest things, she thought, almost despairingly, even in moments like these. "I know," she said. "I'm really sorry - if I disturbed anyone, if I shouldn't have left early, if the mansa is pissed..."
She still wasn't sure if she was allowed to swear in front of the king, but he hadn't corrected her by now and she was starting to think he never would. Indeed, all he said this time was, "don't be silly, Yue," and he still had that way of saying her name, like it meant something very precious, like he was afraid of what he might conjure if he said it but said it anyway.
"I was just tired," she said, folding her arms around herself. "That's all."
He clearly did not believe her, but he did not challenge her. He just said, "then I should let you get some sleep," and rose from the bed. She hadn't noticed before, but he had discarded his jacket somewhere, and his dress shirt was untucked, and his bowtie had been left untied around his neck. It had been strange seeing him in a t-shirt on the night of the Layeni festival, Yue thought narrowly, but this - she had no idea why, but this felt like seeing him partially undressed. There was something very vulnerable about it, like seeing a girl whose dress had been unzipped to her waist, or walking in on someone who is still asleep in bed past noon. She just couldn't put a word on it. It was such a sudden scene of imperfection, that she wondered what had made him so dishevelled, and then wondered whether she wanted the answer.
She said, more to keep him than out of interest, "how were the lights?"
He sounded rueful. "Layeni was prettier."
"Well," Yue said, "that goes without saying."
She wondered if he was thinking about the fireworks as well.
"Maşr is one of the great cities," Demetri said. "Did you get any view of it from the train?"
"It was dark," Yue said. "Täj said Tipersis nome has a mandatory blackout every evening."
"They illuminate the pyramids every night. It's meant to look more impressive if the area around it is dark."
Yue tried to imagine spending every night in total darkness, cooking in the dark, going to bed without being able to see where you were putting your hands or the person next to you, not being able to read as soon as it was dusk - and all so that a landmark some thirty miles away would look minutely prettier when viewed from the air. And these weren't the people they were fighting against, she thought - these were the people upon whose kindness they were depending.
She had found Enhle enormously, disproportionately, unpredictably, likable, but then, Liara had cared so much, so transparently, about Mordred. Cruel people were sometimes loved by kind ones.
"That seems..."
"Wasteful?" By the door, Demetri was more shadow than person. "I couldn't agree more." He paused. "But I can understand... the instinct. In the Wastelands, without the lights... the stars were always so much brighter. You could light your way with the thinnest sliver of the moon."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Of course." He spoke like it was obvious, but there wasn't any judgment behind his words - just an acknowledgement of the obvious. Yue imagined he had fled through the wastes any number of times, always a single step ahead of the Crown forces. "You know, there's an old superstition about lighting three matches in the Wasteland, because it's so dark and you can be seen for miles around. On the first - they sight you. On the second - they aim. On the third..."
Yue said, "is that from experience too?"
"No," Demetri said, "but we always used to tell Täj, to try and keep him from smoking..."
"You clearly did a poor job."
"I never claimed otherwise."
He was still lingering by the door, as though reluctant to leave. Yue imagined he was just trying to be polite, and find a respectful note to finish their conversation on. Some contrary part of her wanted to deny him that, if only to stretch out this silence. Not to keep him hostage here, but merely so that he would have to speak instead, rather than Yue persistently trying to perpetuate their interactions.
Finally, he said, "you looked very beautiful tonight, Yue."
She said, glad it was too dark for him to see her blush, "the palace stylists are absolutely amazing."
"You know, you don't have to be modest literally all the time."
"Is it modesty," Yue replied, "or honesty?"
"You're modest with me plenty. Are you honest with me?"
She hadn't thought he could take her aback again so soon, but as ever, he had stunned her. "Habitually?"
He tilted his head in a gesture Yue took to mean yes.
"Habitually," Yue said, "I try to be be honest with everyone. I don't trust liars."
"That sounds sensible."
"What about you?"
He seemed surprised to have had the question turned on him. "I don't think a pretender is usually in the position to trust many people."
"Honesty, I meant."
"That too. If you have to be tactful, diplomatic, charismatic... no room for truthfulness there."
He was so candid about it, but then, Yue thought, his best friends were spies and murderers and thieves. Sometimes she forgot - his words were so gentle, his smiles so sweet, his letters so thoughtful - but he was ultimately waging a war. Was there room for truth when it came to that? And yet, she thought ruefully, he was being honest about being dishonest. There was something oddly comforting about that fact - like a snake that shows its poisonous nature in the colour of its scales. A warning.
"But if you're being honest," Demetri continued and oh - his face was such a study of shadows and relief, features half-encased in gloom, one eye illuminated so brightly by the light from the hallway that it seemed almost incandescent. "Are you happy?"
"In the Selection?"
"In general."
"I try to be." Yue paused, and gathered her blankets tighter around her, and thought of how best to phrase her next sentence. She thought of Raphael's house and the fervent dream of a Layeni apartment of her own; she thought of Saran, perched on the edge of her bed, and Atiena and Agares making breakfast in the kitchen downstairs; she thought of letters from Demetri and little token gifts from Kün and reading poetry with Täj; she thought of that night, and the way Liara and Liz had danced with her, spun her, drank with her and cheered her on. And she did not permit herself to think of the shadows that had dogged even the most joyous of these moments, for even so - "it's the happiest I have been in years."
He smiled. It was slightly lopsided; it pulled higher on the right, revealing a slightly over-sharp cuspid. "I'm glad."
And she said, rather lamely, for she was highly aware that she was parroting back his own questions at him, "are you?"
He was thoughtful. "Sometimes."
"Only sometimes?" Yue frowned.
"Only sometimes," he agreed. "I think... it is a shame we didn't get to go skating yesterday. I think that would have made me very happy."
She said, "so why did you ask Eden to accompany you tonight?" She purposefully kept her voice free of any jealousy, or sadness, or resentment. She just asked. She just wanted to know.
Demetri looked like he didn't know whether he should shrug or frown. He gestured to the bed. "Can I...?"
Yue drew up her legs, so that he did not have to sit on the edge of the bed; he shut the door, and returned to her, the light nearly completely extinguished so that he was just a dark silhouette moving on the dark canvas of the room. She was suddenly aware that, although her bed was queen-size, that it was nonetheless a dark bedroom, and the middle of the night, and a handsome man sitting down beside her to speak, softly, as Demetri always seemed to speak to her.
"I know I've been... distant." He sounded like he knew this was an immense understatement. "But I didn't think making you hang on my arm at a political event... was something that you would enjoy, Yue. Certainly not something we could do, and get to know one another any bit better, and have a halfway decent time, and do the job we were sent here to do."
"Yoni seemed to think," Yue said, "that inviting Eden was an indication that she is your favourite. Your willow."
"Ulpia isn't Inkosi's favourite because she's the willow," Demetri said. "She's the willow because she's his favourite, his first, his..."
"Beloved?"
He shook his head. "It's different in the Federation."
"How?"
"Because I don't expect to marry more than one of you."
"Might be a better idea," Yue said, "better suited to you, if you're so indecisive."
She remembered what he had said, that night on the river, about indecision being one of his most fatal flaws, and how she had thought that indecision seemed like quite the downfall for the king, for the leader of the rebellion. It struck her as an even worse quality now, when they were all in this strange foreign kingdom, relying on him to keep them safe and sane.
"Indecisive," Demetri said, "might be the wrong word. Might make more sense to say... disliking the decisions I make."
"Have you made any recently that you dislike?"
"Would it be cheesy to say 'disappointing you'?"
"Enormously cheesy," Yue said, "cheesy, and dishonest and untrue."
"Untrue?"
"You haven't disappointed me."
"Then you have shamefully low expectations of me."
"I'm a romantic," Yue replied, "not a moron."
For a split second, she was convinced that she had insulted him, that he had taken this as cruelty, that the words were hanging in the air like venomous needles ready to wound - and then he smiled, and lay back across the bed, and said, "oh, good. That makes one of us."
Yue said, "I don't think you're a moron. Just..." She shook her head mutely, and thought of what she had said to Täj the night before. "Sometimes I question if we are... on any level... friends."
"Why would you question that?" Demetri frowned. "I would like to think we're friends at this point, Yue. I don't exactly have many of them left."
"It feels like," Yue said, trying to parse through her thoughts even as she spoke. It was utterly unnerving, she thought, how bold the gloom and the dusk seemed to make her - how more willing she was to bare parts of herself, if only in pursuit of protecting other parts. "You... everything public, every time the Selected are on display, it's Eden. Eden, or Liara, but Liara is... am I wrong?"
"Is it so wrong," Demetri said, "for me to want something for myself? Not for the world?"
"Not at all," Yue replied, "but am I a thing?"
"No," he said, his voice so soft and deep it was more like the suggestion of sound. "No."
For a long moment, they were silent. The whole house was so quiet, and Demetri was such a warm, solid presence on her sheets, palpable from even this distance, very real and very tangible - and his hair, splayed on her sheets (her sheets), was, in the shadows, some shade of grey, not the true golden she knew it to be in the light. The way he was lying, head tilted back to consider the fabric of the four-poster bed, exposed the tendons of his neck, the line of his jaw, the arteries of his throat.
"This is the longest we've gone without me interrogating you about a book," Demetri said at last, thoughtfully.
"Sounds like you're about to start."
"I think we should expand our conversational topics."
"Do you have any ideas?"
He moved on the bed, very carefully, so that he was lying in the same direction as her, the space between them wide enough that there was no risk of them touching accidentally, narrow enough that they could touch purposefully very easily indeed. "I'm a very boring person, Yue."
"I doubt that."
"Did you manage to bring any of your art with you?"
Yue again blushed deeply, remembering the night he had carried her home, and put her to bed, and she had begged him not to look at her drawings. "No," she said, "they're all back in Layeni." What was left of Layeni.
"What do you usually draw? Portraits?"
"Portraits," Yue agreed, "natural landscapes... you know, the Anfractuous Way, or the Wastelands, or the garden here..."
"We should get you some good drawing paper," Demetri said, rather sleepily. "Pencils... or do you prefer oils?"
"I've mainly done pencil sketches," Yue said, "since the start of the Selection..."
"Yeah, but what do you prefer?"
She laughed at how insistent he seemed about getting this precisely right. "I honestly don't mind, Demetri. I leave it to your judgment."
"Then be prepared for me to get it wrong."
"Okay," she said, softly. "Sure."
She turned her head on the bed, so that she was looking at him; he was lying lower on the bed, so that his head came just to her shoulder. He had closed his eyes; she wanted to ask him about Raphael, about Vardi Tayna, about how the rebels handled it all, how they kept going when the people who were kind to you, the people who braided your hair and told you to stand on your own two feet just... fell, and were left behind, and were lost.
Lost. She still thought lost, like it was all temporary, like they would be found again, like it was all going to be okay.
But she didn't really have to say anything, because it seemed like Demetri had been thinking something along the same lines. He said, "Rafa used to be artistic as well, but not... not pretty stuff like yours."
"I'm sure it was beautiful."
"It was graffiti." His tone was blunt, but there was an undeniable fondness in his voice. Yue thought of the photos she had seen in Raphael's house, of a very young and pale Demetri with his arm around poor, lost little Gabriel Smertisko, who seemed to have inherited his older sister's golden good looks. They rather looked, Yue thought ruefully, like one had drained the colour of the other, as the years had faded by. "Graffiti. But she always needed to put it in the strangest, most creative places... she got into trouble so often, trying to put the sigil of the Kingdom on Illéan landmarks, Crown tanks, when we were young..."
Yue said, "how much trouble is trouble?"
"She nearly lost her head once."
Yue winced against the sheets. "She got out of that?"
"The General got her out. He was like that. He was always there, in the shadows, ready to grab your collar, haul you out of the coals..." Demetri shook his head. "Sometimes I think that's why everything's falling apart now. Not having him."
"He sounds like he was a great man."
"He was a mean bastard ninety percent of the time," Demetri said softly, "and a very sweet mentor to me the other ten, and the greatest man I've ever known for the whole damn time."
"Vardi Tayna always spoke highly of him."
"She ought. He took this group of fatherless, motherless, lost waifs and made us a kingdom. And it didn't matter what shit we got into, whether we'd got pinned down on the field or put in handcuffs in a sky cell or mauled by dogs..."
"Dogs?" Bizarrely, Yue's first thought was of the little sheepdog, Feste.
"Leaving the palace," Demetri said, by way of explanation. His voice was very soft and gentle; Yue could shut her eyes, and it felt like he was telling her some sort of a strange bedtime story. "Tayna knew her way in and out of that place like it was her own house, back in those days. But one day... well, they set the dogs on her while she was climbing the wall..."
