CHAPTER FOUR

GRANDMOTHER’S SCARLET MACAW greets us with a squawking, “Hello.”

“Hello, Winifred,” Mother replies. After we hear her own mother’s muffled voice in another room, Mother takes a seat on a large leather chair facing the floor-to-ceiling windows which frame the Halcyon Sea.

I feed Winifred a handful of seeds from a pink seashell near her cage and notice her long, red tail feathers have grown. I’ve always loved giving the cantankerous bird treats, even when I was so short Jonalyn had to lift me up to reach the cage. The few fond memories of this place dispel some, albeit little, of my unease. Finca del Mar has always conjured in me equal parts awe and terror. Whether more due to its own splendor or to Grandmother’s formidable presence, I can’t say.

When minutes pass without Grandmother’s appearance, I meander the perimeter of the room, pausing to glance at each sculpture and painting displayed. Tristan Pierce, our first Matriarch, so wise and determined. Her daughter Acacia, second Matriarch, with wild curls and thick eyebrows. A large depiction of Phoenix City, before our foremothers rebuilt the concrete, mismatched buildings into the jewel of Nedé. In it, I recognize the tallest, cube-shaped building as the predecessor of our current Center for Health Services. The canvas portrays an unappealing, uninviting city, a shadow of its present splendor. I’m pondering the next portrait, a masterful painting of the modern Alexia Arena, when I overhear Grandmother’s voice, rising with anger.

“I don’t care if we lose a hundred head, Adoni. Fear brings questions. Finish this, or I will find someone who will. Do I make myself clear?”

Despite her volume, I’m confident we weren’t meant to hear this conversation.

“Yes, Matriarch Teera,” replies a strong voice. “We’ll return to the site immediately and continue our search.”

A door opens, and heavy boots click against tile toward the front entrance. I resist the urge to turn around, partly to remain inconspicuous, and partly because I’ve already guessed whom Grandmother was addressing. There is only one group of people in Nedé who wear heavy boots. Only one destiny who prefer not to be addressed as Dom, regardless of their distinguished status. And there is only one Adoni: leader of the Alexia. She doesn’t bother to close the door softly.

A moment later, Grandmother emerges from her office.

“Welcome, Leda, Reina.” Her voice is calm and stately. She allows us to kiss her cheek but doesn’t offer an embrace. Grandmother has never been one for unnecessary affection, at least not since I outgrew her lap.

“How are you?” Mother asks.

“Well enough. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

By phrasing it as a statement rather than a question, I notice, Grandmother avoids continuing the conversation.

Their expressions divulge the effort it takes to keep even this trivial small talk civil. Mother’s face is guarded but without malice. Grandmother’s wrinkled face shows precious little emotion. But the sharp arc of her eyebrows conveys an air of superiority. I wonder if she has them groomed that way.

“Well,” Mother says, “I have business at the Center I must attend to. I’ll be back late, Reina. No need to wait up for me.”

I kiss her cheek, just shy of reluctantly. I may not covet Mother’s company, but all that is familiar and predictable in this room is about to walk out the door.

When she leaves, Grandmother turns her attention to me.

“I have a few unexpected matters I must attend to. Domus will show you to your room so you can . . . freshen up. Meet me for dinner in the garden promptly at five.” She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning back toward her office.

Domus, the well-dressed Gentle who showed us into the house, reappears.

“If you would follow me,” he says, starting toward the large marble staircase leading to the guest wing on the second floor. I know Major Domus —Domus for short —from my yearly visits. I believe he’s the only Gentle at Finca del Mar given a name, and even his counts only if being called by your occupation —“chief household Gentle” —qualifies as a name. It likely serves more as a convenience for Grandmother, who would view rattling off his number a waste of breath.

As we ascend the stairs, I notice a scar over Domus’s left ear, a bare squiggle through his gray hair. The old wound is as familiar to me as he is. I remember the night Grandmother gave it to him. She had bumped into Domus after consuming one too many glasses of chicha at dinner. She flew into a rage, culminating in smashing her glass against his head. Domus has yet served Grandmother faithfully, and he is getting old, maybe close to forty. I wonder how much longer Grandmother will keep him.

On the second floor we pass a dozen wood doors before approaching the room I have always shared with Ciela during our visits. Surprisingly, Domus carries on, stopping instead before high, double doors at the end of the hall.

“Matriarch Teera welcomes you to Finca del Mar, Reina Pierce.”

As he swings the large doors inward, a word I’m not proud of slips out. It’s the room’s fault.

The space is almost as big as the Bella Terra stables, but that’s where the comparison ends. Floor-to-ceiling windows encompass most of the east wall, trimmed with delicately embroidered curtains and boasting magnificent views of the rippling turquoise sea beyond the expansive, lush gardens. The bed —which could fit me five times over, despite its mountain of overstuffed, gem-colored pillows —beckons me like a silken cloud. Jasmine flowers creep up trellises on the attached balcony, their thick, sweet scent pouring in through the open windows. Everywhere is gleam and richness, and I just stand there awestruck, taking it all in.

Domus seems amused by my speechlessness.

“The Senator’s Suite is reserved for the Matriarch’s most honored guests,” he explains, interrupting my stupor.

“Then why . . . ?” I cut the question short, reprimanding myself for forgetting where I am. At Finca del Mar —anywhere other than Bella Terra, really —Gentles are only addressed when one is giving commands or needs information. I’d best not forget that, especially within Grandmother’s earshot.

Once, when I was very young, she saw my eldest sister conversing with a Finca del Mar stablehand while he prepared our horses for a ride. Jonalyn engaged him in her kind way, laughing innocently at an unintentional joke he made. Grandmother stormed across the lawn like a hurricane, her jaw bulged from clenching her teeth.

“You’ll do well to remember the Articles, Jonalyn,” she said, her pointy eyebrows raised to the sky. “This is not your mother’s feeble excuse for order.”

I was embarrassed for Jonalyn, and more, for all of us. I didn’t run and hide in my room like Jo did, but I suddenly lost the urge to ride. And even my six-year-old self rarely missed that opportunity.

The next day, we heard the stablehand was in the stocks for his impudence.

Appropriate or not, I wish I could ask Domus why I’ve been given the high honor of staying in the Senator’s Suite, because I bet he’d know. He must hear things, secret things, as he passes through the villa’s rooms, noticed little more than the lavish finery by the Matriarch or her distinguished guests. Why I would now be numbered among the latter baffles me.

He doesn’t acknowledge my unasked question. “The Matriarch will expect you for dinner at five o’clock in the garden.” And with that, Domus exits, leaving me to, as Grandmother put it, freshen up. I’m as grimy as a pig after a mud bath.

I pull open a drawer in the high wooden dresser opposite the windowed wall. It smells of lemon and beeswax. I feel guilty emptying the contents of my dusty bag into it, contaminating its grandeur with my things.

As I change out of my riding clothes and slip into the claw-foot tub, already filled with cool water, I turn possibilities over in my mind. Why would Grandmother treat me differently than any other time I’ve visited her finca? Maybe she wants to give me a send-off before I choose my destiny. Did she do that for Jonalyn or Ciela? I don’t remember. Though, if she did, why would Mother be nervous about my coming? And what of the heated exchange I overheard between Grandmother and Adoni?

I sort through unanswered questions best on the back of a horse. But as I can’t very well come riding to dinner on Callisto, I slip into the simple linen dress I brought, twist my hair into a side knot, and then pass the few remaining moments until five o’clock on my balcony, chewing on a thumbnail and watching the sun play catch with the waves.

A mosaic path leads me from the villa to the gardens. It meanders through plumeria, heliconia, cohune palms, bird-of-paradise, and two topiaries pruned to resemble pineapples. A tunnel of papery-pink bougainvillea finally deposits me at the outdoor dining room. I assume I am alone until I hear Grandmother’s voice, her body obscured by a high-back chair.

“You’re late,” she says, her voice as steely as the utensils glinting on the table.

“I . . .” I’m about to tell her that I am right on time, but wisely abort the challenge. “. . . am sorry, Grandmother.” And then add, for good measure, “‘Freshening up’ was more daunting than I anticipated.” I kiss her cheek —hollow compared to Mother’s —then sit across from her, in the only other chair at the long table. She sits tall and stern in an airy, deep purple dress. I didn’t realize we would be alone. I’ve never been completely alone with Grandmother.

She eyes me silently for a moment, as if trying to decide something.

“Good,” she finally concludes, whether to my apology or another inner consideration, I can’t tell.

I bow for prayer out of habit, remembering too late that Grandmother has no use for religion. I casually lift my head, hoping she didn’t notice.

No such luck. She raises a disapproving eyebrow at me. “When you get to be my age, Reina, you realize you could die at any moment. I no longer have the luxury of frivolity.” I can’t help but notice the contrast between her philosophy and Mother’s, the latter believing that the older you get, the less you have the luxury of ignoring religion.

Get it together, Rei. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

As Grandmother unfolds a starched napkin onto her lap, a Gentle sets a plate of exquisitely garnished lobster tail in front of her. The scents of butter, cilantro, and garlic mix with the balmy evening air.

“I am interested to know if you have decided on your destiny.”

So that’s it. She wants to know what I’ve chosen to do with my life. I sigh a little inside, relieved my worry has been needless, then remember that I am not entirely sure how I do plan to spend my life. I hope she won’t be too disappointed that she has wasted her efforts —the summons, my gorgeous room, this mouthwatering dinner —on an indecisive seventeen-year-old. Still, I must answer. Why not the truth?

“I believe you know me well enough to guess I’m not meant to be a Materno,” I begin, surprised by my own candor. “I’ve always been drawn to the Alexia, and I know Mother wouldn’t stop me, but even so, they’re . . .”

“Slightly intimidating?” Grandmother offers, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. I see the first hint of a genuine smile I can remember —maybe ever —on her face.

“Yes. Exactly.” My shoulders relax a little, and I lean on my chair’s armrest. Maybe Grandmother understands me better than I realized. Perhaps she and I really are alike, as Mother says. Is that so awful?

“I can ride, and I’m not afraid. I find their fierceness beautiful. But sometimes I wonder if . . . I don’t mean to sound prideful, but I . . .” My mind works furiously to put words to the inklings I’m still sorting through myself. “Part of me feels I was made for something . . . else. I want to serve Nedé, and do something good, but I’m also hesitant to be confined to any one destiny. Am I wrong to feel that way, Grandmother?” I’m eager now, almost hopeful. Perhaps this woman understands my uncertainties in a way no one else can.

My question hangs in the air. The glimmer of normality in Grandmother has already dimmed, the crack sealed. She seems in no hurry to answer. I sense I’m being measured, considered, weighed, much like the bite of lobster she turns over in her mouth. Finally she swallows, then looks directly into my eyes.

“I once felt as you do now, Reina. I learned, however, and you must always remember, that the success of Nedé depends on its leaders valuing the good of all above the desires of one.”

“Of course,” I say, lowering my eyes. Don’t be stupid, Reina! Why were you so frank? You know better.

“However,” Grandmother continues, “if you can learn that one, all-important lesson, your unconventional attitude will serve you well. I see promise in you, Reina. And I have an opportunity that might be of interest.”

I place my fork next to my untouched plate and sit up straighter, determined to compensate for my recent lapse in judgment.

“As you know, it is every Matriarch’s duty to select and train a successor to carry on the traditions of Nedé, maintain order, and ensure our prosperity. Despite my protests, my age continues to advance. As such, I’ve decided to begin the Succession. I will announce my selection of Apprentice at our country’s two hundredth anniversary celebration in two months’ time.”

She pauses to take a long drink of bubbly amber chicha before continuing. My nerves prick in the interim. Tre was right: she’s ready to begin the Succession —call on each of the Provinces to select a Candidate who will compete for the honor of replacing the Matriarch after a one-year Apprenticeship. Though “compete” is a loose term. I believe the Matriarch simply trains all four Candidates for a few weeks, then selects whomever she deems most qualified. But what does that have to do with me? My palms stick to the thin fabric of my dress. Why would she tell me . . .

“You are aware that each of the four Provinces has the honor and obligation to vote on one Candidate to represent them. You may not be aware that a . . . recent amendment to the constitution allows me to select one additional Candidate, a wild card if you will, to compete in the Succession.”

My fingers tremble with adrenaline. I twist the cloth napkin in my lap to steady them.

“I have decided to exercise my right to a Candidate, and I have chosen you, Reina.”

She has got to be kidding.

“I have seen and heard enough about you to believe you could one day make an excellent Matriarch.”

The garden spins around me, flowers and lights swirling in glowing arcs of color. This is a dream. It has to be a dream.

“The station of Matriarch requires four essential qualities: intelligence, courage, strength, and . . . the fourth is the principle I just mentioned. A Matriarch must put the good of all before her own desires —whatever the cost.”

She accentuates the words, as if willing them to penetrate my skull.

“I’m taking a chance on you, Reina. You will contend with four qualified Candidates, and I make no promises. I will select the best choice for Nedé. Only time and training will tell whether you can overcome Leda’s influence and meet my expectations.”

She pauses. Is she waiting for me to say something? Yes, I should definitely say something. But what? I scramble for a response, hoping to exude humble gratitude instead of the complete shock that threatens to spill out.

“I’m . . . honored you’d choose me. I’ll try to make you proud, Grandmother.” I attempt to sound as fully confident as I am certainly not.

“Try? You will do more than try. Whatever the final outcome, I will not be embarrassed by you, Reina. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Then it’s settled. The Provinces’ senates have been instructed to provide their Candidates for training, beginning in five days’ time. Have your mother send anything you require from home. Only essential personal items. Suitable clothing will be made for you. If you are to represent me, you must shine.” Her last words carry the tiniest hint of sarcasm.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

When she speaks again, I don’t detect even a hint of sympathy for the turmoil she has just unleashed in my world. “One last matter: from now on you will address me as Matriarch, not Grandmother.”

At that, she drains the last of her chicha, stands, bids me goodnight, and leaves me to stew with my uneaten dinner.

Evening light washes the wood frame of the open stable in a subtle glow. Callisto stretches over the crossbeams of her stall as I approach. Her white patches shine with ethereal light. Fitting. She’s the salvation I need tonight.

I didn’t know where else to come.

Anything was better than sitting alone at that table, left to sort through the overwhelming implications of Grandmother’s offer under the watchful eyes of the servants. I need something familiar to ground me —ideally the smell of an open barn and well-worn leather. I want to touch the rough hair of my mare’s neck, be carried by her strength beneath me.

I don’t bother with tack, just swing onto Callisto and go. She doesn’t mind the familiarity, and I feed on it. Thankfully, my breezy skirt bunches easily around my waist.

I find a groomed path behind the stables. If I remember correctly, it leads through a palm grove and down to the sea. That suits me just fine.

My stomach churns as if I ate shock for dinner. Grandmother asked me to be a Candidate. No, she didn’t ask —she told. Did I have a choice? Do I want a choice?

I might be the Matriarch’s granddaughter, but I have never once considered what it would be like to fill her role. She was always . . . other. We had our life at Bella Terra, and the emotional distance between her and Mother underscored that otherness. No, entering into Grandmother’s world was never the remotest possibility. Now it is. And the question is, Do I want it to be? Could I, a seventeen-year-old from rural Amal, take on the duties and pressures of Nedé’s Matriarchy?

Maybe I’ll never have reason to find out. Grandmother made very clear she offers no promise of actually choosing me as her Apprentice. Each Province has at least one elite school to educate, train, and prepare women for the remote possibility of being elected to represent their home. I won’t stand a chance. So all I really have to do is hold my own and not embarrass Grandmother. Then I can join the Alexia, push down the foolish inkling I’m somehow above the system, as Grandmother rebuked, and meet my destiny as if none of this ever happened.

The evening wind sweeps cool against my bare arms and legs. I unpin my hair and let the salty gusts have their way.

Still, Grandmother chose me. She wasn’t required to select an additional Candidate. She must see something in me that warranted the risk. She must. I might struggle to believe there’s anything exceptional about me, but if the Matriarch of Nedé is willing to take a chance on this headstrong girl, I aim to prove I’m even more than she suspects.

We reach sand, and I sense Callisto’s urge to run. I let her give in to the impulse, for both of us. Flying across the beach, my heartbeat races in time with her four-beat gallop. We glide above the sand, above the water, above my insecurities. Here, in this moment, the wind whipping past me, my fingers wrapped in Callisto’s tangled mane, I am brave. I’m strong. I will prove to Grandmother, and to myself, that I have what it takes to succeed.

Dusk gives way to darkness as we reluctantly leave the beach. I lingered as long as possible, knowing we could count on electric-powered lights to illuminate the path back to the stables —another luxury unheard of at Bella. Yet even Finca del Mar’s stables smell of horse and manure, just like home. As we enter the breezeway, I almost expect to find Tre there, greeting me with a one-dimpled smile and, if we were alone, a question about my ride.

Instead of my confidant, the Gentle who took our horses earlier sits atop a three-legged stool, oiling a saddle. He startles at my approach, then scrambles to take Callisto off my hands, his gaze never meeting mine. He is as short as I remember, but he seems younger —maybe twenty. His dusty, earth-colored clothes fit this setting better than the villa entrance. He belongs here. Then again, I suppose I do too. I certainly feel more relaxed standing between horse stalls than sitting on cushioned furniture in the villa. Maybe I’m a little too comfortable here, because when he reaches for Callisto, I don’t ignore him like I should. Instead I insist, “No, I’ll groom her.”

The Gentle’s eyes grow round. “Yes, Dom.”

“My name’s Reina.” My voice dwarfs his.

He gives a slight nod. “Yes, Dom Reina.”

“No —” I start, about to correct his confusion, but I kind of like the familiar-formality of mixing the proper title with my given name. It inspires me to ask, “What’s your name?”

“Gentle 549 —”

“No, I mean, what do they call you? The other Gentles?” This is a question no woman has likely ever asked this stablehand, and I understand his hesitation. But growing up at Bella, where Mother always gave her Gentles names —it gave them dignity, she would say —I can’t bring myself to address him by a number. I suppose you don’t realize which curiosities of home wear off on you until you leave.

He turns a cloth over in his hands twice as he considers, but I know he’ll answer me eventually. He has to. I’m Dom Reina —his superior —even if, presently, we’re both tending to horses.

Finally he says, “They call me Neechi.”

“Neechi? I’ve never heard it before. Does it mean something?”

“Friend.”

“Then I’m in luck,” I say. “Where do you keep the brushes, Neechi?”

He retrieves a boar-hair brush from a rack on the far wall. As he places it in my hand, his gaze lifts slightly above the ground. Progress.

As he returns to the saddle and oil, I cross-tie Callisto and busy myself brushing the sweat and loose hairs from her coat. Only now, noticing a few dozen horse hairs stuck to my linen dress, do I realize how absurd I must seem to Neechi. Not only am I taking over a Gentle’s job, I’m doing it in my dinner clothes.

The exhilaration of the beach gallop quickly fades as I consider the possibility of Grandmother discovering her recently appointed Candidate lingering in the barn with the stablehand.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, okay? Grandmother would have a fit.”

Neechi doesn’t look up from his work. “Yes, Dom Reina,” he says, but even his caramel-smooth, quiet voice can’t hide the amusement he finds in all of this. He seems kind. It shouldn’t surprise me —nearly every Gentle I’ve met is kind. And why shouldn’t they be? They live for the good of Nedé. Still, that they remain cordial when it’s rarely reciprocated —does that show weakness? Or strength?

We work silently for some time, he on a series of saddles and me on my beloved mare. Neechi breaks the quiet with a question.

“You always ride bareback?”

“Mostly.” I’ve already answered before I realize how much courage it took him to ask me anything. Perhaps my boldness, my irreverence for formality, gave him the nerve. Well, if he’s not afraid, then neither will I be.

“Old Solomon . . . I mean, Solomon, taught me. He’s —”

Neechi cuts me off, “I know who he is, Dom Reina. Every groom in Nedé knows ’bout Solomon, and what Dom Pierce did for him.”

I didn’t realize. “Oh. Well, he believes a horse is waiting to be understood. And if a rider will take the time to get to know her, earn her trust, speak her language, she’ll do anything for you.” I nuzzle my face to Callisto’s. “And I would do anything for her.”

It’s quiet again for a time.

“Will you use the saddle when you ride with the Alexia?” Neechi’s second question stops my hand midstroke.

I don’t know much about the Succession process —I’ve never had need nor curiosity. But this much I do know from my Nedéan History class with Dom Bakshi: to aid the Matriarch in the selection of her Apprentice, each of the four —or in this case five —Candidates takes an abbreviated training in Nedé’s core industries. The rationale goes that any Matriarch of Nedé must be competent in various fields if she is to rule the people wisely and represent them fairly. One of those trainings will be with the Alexia, the peacekeepers of Nedé.

“I guess I’ll have to,” I say, the bigger reality of what lies before me sinking in. I’ll have to train like an Alexia after all. And, pure irony, like a Materno too. “But riding on a saddle is the least of my worries. Wait, how did you know . . .”

Neechi looks bashful, though no blush shows through his earth-toned skin. “Among the Gentles, news travels like a river in the wet season.”

The servants at dinner. They would have overheard our conversation. That their scavenged news would reach Neechi in the time it took for me to ride the beach is rather impressive, in its own way.

“Then you probably know more about it than I do,” I say.

I wonder how much the Gentles gather about the inner workings at Finca del Mar. If Domus hears everything in the villa, and they have some underground gossip network, what else might Neechi know? I decide to test it out. Trying to look absorbed with selecting a pick for Callisto’s hooves, I toss my next question lightly into the air.

“Adoni was speaking with Gran . . . Matriarch Teera when I arrived this morning. Does she come to the Finca often?”

His silence validates my theory. He has information but thinks better of sharing, or he wouldn’t ignore the question. I don’t press. I’m risking Grandmother’s rebuke for my candor with this Gentle, but Neechi could be put in the stocks or whipped.

Directing the precarious conversation to a somewhat safer topic, I ask, “I’ve ridden in saddle some. What should I know about the Alexia way?”

Before Old Solomon came to Bella Terra, I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking advice from a Gentle. But his wisdom with horses proved I’d be foolish to refuse learning from an expert, Gentle or not. And if Neechi works at the second most prestigious stable in Nedé, surpassed only by the Alexia’s equine facilities, there’s a good chance he knows more about it than I do.

Neechi rubs a set of reins with the oiled cloth. “Like you said, you have to speak their language. Alexia saddles and stirrups free their hands for weapons, but distance them from the horses. You have to close the separation.”

“A different way to communicate,” I muse. “Callisto can handle that. It will just take some getting used to.”

“You have a fine horse, Dom Reina, but . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t see them letting you ride your pinto in the Arena. Their Lexanders are as much a part of their . . . presentation as the rest of their uniform.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. Not surprising, given I hadn’t considered any of this before dinner. But riding into the greatest challenge of my life on a horse other than Callisto? That might put me over the edge. I slide my hand down her freshly-combed mane, trying to smooth the agitation welling up inside.

“Don’t let it worry you, Dom Reina.” He really looks at me, for the first time, and adds, reassuringly, “You’re strong and you know horses. That will serve you.”

“Thanks.”

He gives a small nod, then returns to rubbing the saddle.

I stall Callisto but can’t leave her just yet. She nudges my shoulder with her velvety chin, and I rub her nose in turn. I’ve ridden other horses, but they didn’t understand me like this one. None have her spirit, or anticipate my commands like she does. If I must enter the Arena, how can I do it without her?

I suppose I should take Neechi’s advice and not waste worry on what can’t be changed. Four other Candidates will arrive in less than a week —a more imminent obstacle.

I can handle obstacles. I can overcome them.

Yet my newfound confidence rings false, flimsy, probably just remnants of the salt wind and free riding on the beach. Deeper down I’m scared. But acknowledging fear won’t do an ounce of good now. I have to make Grandmother proud. I don’t want to find out what happens if I don’t.

A soft knock startles me where I sit at the vanity in my nightclothes, combing out the repercussions of riding with my hair down. I know that knock. It’s the same I heard last night, a million miles away, before my world was turned upside down.

“Come in.”

Mother enters the suite, looking a bit wilted, as she always does after a shift at the Center. She lowers herself onto the bed.

“How was your evening?” she asks, watching my reflection in the vanity mirror as I wrestle with another wicked snarl.

“You first.” I’m taken aback by the pleasantness in my own tone. But that makes sense —it’s often easier to be agreeable away from home. Or perhaps my tightly-wound attitude has loosened a bit, knowing I won’t be returning to Bella Terra with her.

“Fairly routine,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I had a directors’ meeting with Dr. Novak, checked several birthers’ progress, and catalogued the vaccines for this week’s infants. The new Materno Finca in Fik’iri Province opens next month, so we had preparations for that as well.” She sighs. “Enough about all that. How was dinner?”

I place the comb on the polished stone counter and turn to face her. I’m at a loss for where to start, or how to phrase it, so I just blurt it out.

“Grandmother wants me to be a Candidate in the Succession.”

She closes her eyes, lets out a slow breath. I’ve seen her do that only once before, and the memory pricks me.

Three years ago one of Mother’s Gentles —we called him Tiny because he was —went missing. Three days later, Dom Bakshi had rushed into the living room, sobbing that a village down river found his drowned body caught on a log. Mother had this face then, had let out the same slow breath, as if reminding herself to inhale and release oxygen.

At least this time it doesn’t appear tears will follow. In fact, her next words are respectably even keeled.

“And what do you think about that?”

Now I’m the one who must fight to keep my emotions in check. Her seemingly simple question is, in fact, the most complicated she could have asked. I have very little idea what I think about it. Will I do it? Yes. Am I scared? Absolutely. But try to dig below the obvious and my mind sinks into a thick muddle, unable to tell up from down.

“I don’t know,” I try. “I’m honored she’d select me. I doubt I’m Matriarch material, but she must see some strength, or skill, or something in me to risk it. But she’ll have four perfectly good options from the Provinces to choose from, and I’m only turning eighteen this week. Why would she want me to join the Candidates?”

“Reina, she’d be crazy not to want you. You are sharp and capable, strong and kind. Nedé would be lucky to have you as Matriarch.” She says this forcefully, with conviction. “But my mother . . .” She pauses, looks to a corner of the room, then lowers her voice. “My mother likes to be in control, Rei. She has always surrounded herself with people she knows will do what she wants without questions.”

I try to process this, but the connections come slowly. When they do align, I’m hurt by the assumption, and it shows in my volume.

“So you think she wants me only because I’d be easy to manipulate?”

Mother puts a finger to her lips and responds even quieter, probably so I’ll get the hint. Is she worried about somebody hearing us, all the way up here?

“No, Rei. Not only. I know you’re strong. I also know my mother. You look up to her, but . . .” She stares at the ceiling, once again carefully deciding how much to share. She still doesn’t trust me with whatever she knows. She sighs, then says, “Everything isn’t always as it seems.”

The words hang in the air because I have no rebuttal —no experience to confirm or deny —no way to pull them down.

She moves toward me, kissing the top of my head.

“You can do anything you put your mind to, Rei of Sunshine. That has never been a question in my mind, and it shouldn’t be one in yours. Anyway, you’ll need that brain space to find answers to other questions —questions maybe you don’t even know to ask just yet.” She crouches down so she can look me in the eyes. The urgency in her expression surprises me. “Remember who you are, Reina. Please remember. And may God go with you.” With that, she kisses my head again and leaves the room.

I think about her last hope —that God go with me. I’ve never given much thought to Mother’s religion —to her mealtime prayers, or to the crusty book of scriptures she keeps on her nightstand, a relic from the old world. Not many Nedéans believe in God. Most of the foremothers, I understand, thought that if he existed, he wouldn’t have let the Brutes of old wreak havoc on the world. Safer to trust in themselves. So we trust in ourselves. But I’ve seen how Mother believes in something bigger than us, and now, in the face of an unknown future, I figure it can’t hurt to try. I bow my head and mumble a silent plea for help.