CHAPTER FIVE

THE NEXT MORNING Mother and I take breakfast at a small table tucked in yet another corner of the vast gardens I’ve previously never explored.

Grandmother is away on business, which suits me fine. Maybe my unease will dissipate in the weeks ahead, but for now she still intimidates the bats out of me.

Mother looks fresh and cheery after a good night’s sleep, her skin dewy and bright, her dark hair wrapped up in a papaya-colored scarf. A small pendant rests in the hollow between her collarbones, a circular wooden carving of a tree, strung on a braided jute cord, thinning with age. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her without the necklace. We don’t talk much —Mother’s gift to me. She only comments about the exceptional sweetness of the dragon fruit, and I about Grandmother’s horses —safe topics that won’t spark another quarrel.

Despite our uneasy congeniality, her presence soothes my nerves. She is a single relic of home in this strange world of fine clothes and too much leisure time. With her quiet company, I let myself enjoy the sweet scent of plumeria and the relative cool provided by enormous manicaria palm fronds hovering over the space like umbrellas. Several pendulums of bright red and yellow lobster claw flowers dangle from heliconia shrubs, as gaudy as jeweled necklaces. In the Finca del Mar gardens, peculiar, fragrant plants are as common as cow pies at Bella Terra.

Mother used to belong here. It’s not so difficult to remember when she cuts her egg frittata like that —butchering the innocent dish into minuscule pieces, chewing each bite as if she has all the time in the world. Still, it’s strange to imagine her growing up here, being coddled and groomed, wearing silk serapes and taking her breakfasts alfresco.

She must have been very different then. Or did she leave this life because she was already different?

Like me?

She notices me staring at her and tilts her head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” I mumble. “Just thinking.”

She smiles gently, with the familiar kindness that heaps endless shame on my head, and returns to mutilating her breakfast.

If I enter this world —if I somehow become Grandmother’s Apprentice —will I wake up one day eating my frittata in itty-bitty bites? Will this strange opulence and bounty someday feel like home, the way Bella fits Mother like good riding boots?

When we finish our meal, Mother prepares to leave, promising to deliver the items I’ll need from home. I want to ask her to tell Treowe something too, but I don’t know what, and —even though she’s aware we spend time together —I’m nervous about bringing him up. Mother has proven compassionate, but admitting my best friend is a Gentle might cross a line, even for her.

I hug Mother, really hug her, before she mounts Estrella. The slightest glimmer of a feeling I haven’t experienced around her in years surfaces: love. Why must she ride away for me to feel it?

Perhaps we don’t realize what we have until change comes to steal it away.

As Mother disappears down the palm-lined driveway, Domus finds me.

“Dom Tourmaline is prepared to see you, per the Matriarch’s request, to undertake your . . . attire.”

I have heard the name before. If I’m not mistaken, Dom Tourmaline, a prestigious Ad Artium, oversees Grandmother’s own wardrobe. She styles the Matriarch’s hair and makeup for special occasions too —another frivolous “luxury” of which I’ve heard whispers. But the dissenters on this point have all been Amal women; we value simplicity and comfort perhaps even more than the other Provinces. Here in Lapé —particularly Phoenix City —women pink their cheeks and wear silks and embroidered scarves if they want to. Ad Artiums appreciate ample pizzazz most of all. I’ve never been one to fuss with such things, but apparently that’s about to change.

I smooth invisible wrinkles from my plain brown pants as Domus leads me back into the villa, through the three-story vaulted foyer, past the marble staircase, then, turning right, toward the north wing. This part of the villa is appointed primarily for entertaining: the botanical dining room on the right, followed by a large kitchen bustling with smartly dressed female chefs and Gentles in aprons; on the left, an enormous hall, used for dancing, parties, and plays. Past the hall, at the far north of the wing, Domus motions toward an ornate door with a bronze plaque labeled “Dressing Room.” I thank him and let myself in.

Dom Tourmaline reclines on a velvet couch, in statue-like repose, her back curved, chin tilted slightly up and to the right to counterbalance a large, blue-and-yellow-feathered fascinator. Her skin, generously dusted with pearlescent powder, is smooth as a statue’s too. Only the odd orange-gold of her hair, coifed in a bob beneath the plumage, reveals she isn’t made of stone. One gets the impression she may have been holding that pose for hours, waiting to be admired, because she waits a full three seconds after being discovered to come to life. I’ve never seen anyone like her.

“Dom Pierce, it’s my pleasure,” she says. Her words slide as smooth as her skin.

“I’m not a Dom yet.”

She holds out a gloved hand. I assume she wants to clasp my forearm —a Nedéan greeting —but instead she raises my fingers to her lips, which match the strange hue of her hair, and kisses them.

“Being chosen as a Candidate is a distinction in itself, wouldn’t you agree?”

She takes two steps back and assesses her new project. Her gaze flits quickly from one part of me to another, and as she makes internal calculations, her head sways slowly from side to side. In fact, her every movement resembles an iguana’s: slow, fluid, deliberate. She examines my arms and gathers my loose hair into her fist, inspects my eyes, squeezes a cheek, measures every circumference.

What has Grandmother sentenced me to?

We spend the next hour in relative silence, except for the swish of silk fabrics, the scratch of a feather pen against parchment, and Dom Tourmaline’s occasional “Hmmm,” or “That will do nicely.” Once satisfied with her notes, she ushers me to a station along the far wall where she applies a thick yellow liquid across parts of my face and each of my arms and legs. The substance begins to harden on contact, tightening and pulling against my bewildered skin.

“This may sting just a little, dear,” she says and jerks one end of the hardened coating, ripping off every existing hair in the process. I grit my teeth to keep from yelping.

Alexia training is starting to look less intimidating. This stuff —this might kill me.

I am genuinely curious to know the reason behind all this primping. “Why —?” My question is cut short by another yank on the tender skin of my upper thigh. I don’t stop the yelp in time. “Ow!”

“Matriarch Teera has given very clear instructions,” Dom Tourmaline says, without glancing up from her work. “You must outshine the other Candidates in every way, which includes abandoning your rural look for something more . . . regal.”

“Regal? Is that code for torture?”

She answers with another tug.

I decide right here and now that if I ever become Matriarch, I will banish this nonsense —whatever it is —from Nedé. The thought placates me . . . until the next yank.

When Dom Tourmaline is satisfied that my skin has been sufficiently stripped of hair, she examines the ones on my head. Her fingers slip through the long, smooth strands, letting them fall over my shoulders, then lifts a pair of metal shears. I’ve always loved my hair long, like a horse’s tail: thick and straight and blown by the wind when I ride. But I hold my tongue, along with my breath, and close my eyes.

Snip. Snip.

I shudder with each cut. Eventually I work up the nerve to peek at her progress. To my everlasting relief, she hasn’t cut more than a fingerlength.

When she opens a makeup case, my nerves return. Judging by Dom Tourmaline’s face, she enjoys a good slathering of paint. I find it silly. I don’t particularly want to look silly, even if it is “regal.” Having no way to tell what she’s doing, I close my eyes once again and focus on the soft brushes smoothing over my cheekbones, eyelids, and lips, while my hands soak in a bowl of warm liquid. This pleasure almost makes up for the earlier trauma. Maybe a little pampering isn’t so bad after all.

The minutes tick by. My stomach tells me we are nearing lunch by the time I change into a sleeveless dress the color and richness of chocolate and stand obediently in front of a mirror.

“Well.” Dom Tourmaline is clearly pleased with herself. “What do you think?”

What do I think?

Personal beauty rarely crosses my mind, regard for it even less frequently. In Nedé —at least where I come from —women value strength, smarts, and wit. Amal women don’t have time, and certainly no need, to fuss over our appearance. But now, the girl in the mirror enthralls me, like a sunset or a newly opened hibiscus. She’s . . . beautiful.

Apparently interpreting my silence by my expression, Dom Tourmaline beams. “Lovely,” she says. “I’ll have Domus take up a few items that will fit you for now. The rest of your clothes will be tailored and delivered in three days.” With that, I am dismissed.

I steal one more look in the mirror and stand a little taller. A new look for a new destiny.

Late-morning three days later, the selection of new clothes from Dom Tourmaline arrives. I rifle through the dresses, rompers, shirts, and trousers that line the armoire in nearly every shade imaginable. The different textures of silk, linen, and bamboo slide delightfully between my fingers. I’ve never seen so many clothes in my life.

After too many minutes deliberating, I reach decision fatigue and so settle on an outfit embarrassingly similar to my usual riding clothes. No matter: it’s my birthday, and even if the Articles keep us from fussing over such occasions, I will wear what I want. And I will spend it on a horse.

As I reach the second-floor landing, the stomp of boots stops me even before I catch the dark figure storm through the front door toward the south wing. The woman bangs a bare forearm against the first door, the Matriarch’s office. A network of tattoos covers most of her right arm and shoulder. Her hair is shaved on the same side, the rest trailing in a thick braid beginning above her left ear and ending at her waist.

“Come in,” Grandmother replies.

I assume the tall woman in black leather, a sheathed short sword hanging from her belt, a quiver of arrows strapped to her thigh, is Adoni, leader of the Alexia. When she speaks, I am sure of it. I recognize the deep tone as the voice I overheard the first day.

“There has been another incident,” I hear, just as the door closes.

I know I shouldn’t listen in, but as I descend the last few stairs, curiosity wrestles restraint and wins. I tiptoe across the great room and pretend to admire a large portrait of Matriarch Teera next to Winifred’s cage in case I’m spotted.

“Hello!” the blasted bird squawks.

“Shh!” I hiss, shoving a palmful of seeds into her cage. I squeeze my eyes shut, painfully aware of the quiet pause in the office, as if Grandmother is straining to hear something too.

Seconds pass with only the sounds of Winifred’s beak prying open shells.

Finally Grandmother asks, “Where?” with a coolness only she could effect.

I let out a breath and slip a few more seeds to the macaw to ensure her cooperation.

“Kekuatan. They are getting bolder, Teera. They took a number of metal items, some tools and animals, then burned the place down.”

Another pause.

“The women?”

“Three were . . . attacked. Another was injured fighting them off. And they killed two Gentles.”

Footsteps echo down the hall of the south wing towards me. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic. I move quickly toward the closest exit, which happens to be the front door, trying to appear intentional rather than guilty. I pull it closed, ever-so-quietly, behind me.

Kekuatan? That’s where . . .

Two figures and a horse stop me midthought. The first I recognize immediately as Domus. The second is a light-haired Gentle that belongs at Bella Terra, not standing by the pond. Treowe.

Our eyes meet, but we don’t say a word. Not in front of Domus.

“Dom Pierce had your things sent,” Domus explains.

Tre produces a leather satchel, which Domus slings over his own shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound uninterested.

When Domus turns toward me to ask whether he should take the bag to my room, Tre takes the opportunity to mouth one word: stable.

“Yes, thank you, Domus. I am on my way to the stables. I will show this Gentle where to take his horse.” I make my words tight, terse, trying to mimic the tone most women take with Gentles.

Domus gives a little bow before returning to the house.

Tre and I walk silently, acting the parts of submissive Gentle and aloof Nedéan. Not until we reach a long hedge of bushes does Tre chance stopping.

“Rei, listen to me,” he says, all muted and rushed. “There’s been an attack.”

I’m confused. Why would Tre know about —

“It was Jonalyn’s place.”

I hear a guttural sound; maybe it came from me. The conversation I just overheard comes rushing back: three attacked, one injured, two dead.

“Is she . . .”

“She’s hurt bad. And La Fortuna burned to the ground —the whole finca. The staff and Gentles are being relocated, but she was brought to Bella this morning with her daughter. Your mother had me bring your things so she could stay with her.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Ciela and I have always been too close in age and temperament to get along well, but Jonalyn, five years my senior, was distant enough for me to adore. Even when I outpaced her height, she looked after me, chiding me for my gloom toward Mother and Ciela, but in a way that made me know she cared. Once, she found me at the teak forest, soon after I set up my crude training elements. I thought for sure my secret shire had met a premature end, but Jo didn’t tell Mother. I always figured she understood better than Mother or Ciela that I was different —that I had my own path to follow.

I don’t realize my eyes have filled with tears until they spill over with warm grief. Tre puts his arms around me, pulls me into a hug. I suck in a breath, taken aback by the foreign feeling. He’s never hugged me before. And I have certainly never hugged him.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Everything will be okay.”

His embrace feels akin to a mother’s hug when a child has scraped her knee. No —more urgent, like if he holds me tight enough he can unravel all my pain. Tre has never done anything this bold. He risks much to give me the gift of solidarity.

Voices interrupt our strange collision of warmth and grief. I pull away, quickly wiping my face with my hands.

Two gardeners duck through an arbor a stone’s throw away. They’re preoccupied with a bundle of withered palm fronds they carry between them, but their presence reminds us both that we don’t have the luxury of privacy. Finca del Mar doesn’t offer safe nooks for chance meetings, not like Bella. I don’t need to say it; I can tell Tre is thinking it too.

His words rush together. “Rei, I probably won’t see you for a long time. Maybe never, depending on how things go for you. So I need you to know something. It . . . has been an honor to be your friend. And I think you’d be the best Matriarch Nedé’s ever had. You’ve got what it takes, Rei. You have to believe that.”

I don’t know if I agree, but I can tell he’s sincere, so I try to accept the words for his sake.

Before I think about it, I kiss his cheek, lightly, quickly. “Thank you, Treowe,” I say. And I mean it.

Tre smiles bashfully, the way he always does when he finds a way to brighten my life with his thoughtfulness.

We walk on toward the stables, playing our parts once again. I try to follow the pattern in the mosaic tiles underfoot —hexagon, hexagon, diamond, repeat —so my worry for Jonalyn doesn’t spiral into panic. For the briefest moment I consider asking Grandmother for more information, to make sure my sister is okay, but that would incriminate my eavesdropping. Hardly the impression I want to make. No, Mother will ensure she has the best care. But the words “hurt bad” keep bobbing to the surface of my mind, dragging with them a host of questions. I’ve never heard of anything like this, not even in my history studies. Nedé has always been peaceful. Always. Could Gentles be involved? What kind of monster would . . .

I nearly pitch forward, tripping over my own foot. Siyah almighty —what if the people in the teak forest had something to do with it? The one who carried me was unlike anyone I’ve ever seen —yet, I’m still not entirely sure what was real and what was injury-induced delirium. Describing what I think I saw might land me in the insanus wing at the Center. I’d better not mention it to Tre —not to anyone —until I can tease out what actually happened. Besides, it’s too late to talk to him privately, out in the open as we are.

When we reach the stables, we must part ways without so much as a goodbye. While I ready Callisto, Neechi talks quietly with Tre and helps him care for his horse.

How strange to see my longtime friend here, with a new one.

“. . . Too far to travel tonight,” Neechi is telling him. “We have a spare bed in the Gentles’ quarters. You can stay here tonight and ride back in the morning.”

So this will be the last I’ll see Tre. I can’t resist glancing back at him, just once, as I ride away. He is already looking at me, and as our eyes meet, I try to say what I hope can be understood without words —that he matters to me. That I wouldn’t ride away from him if we weren’t here.

Yes, change does have an annoying way of revealing what we’ve had all along, just as we lose it.