Khrys, in a childish fit thatalmostmakes me laugh, sticks her tongue out at Dev.
I paw at the rest of the outfits, searching for something less... sparkly. “Did you pick up anything that wasn’t vomited up by a unicorn? I just need to look wealthy enough to get in. I don’t want to attract notice.”
When I look up, they’re all staring at me.
“What?” I scowl, but no one comments.
I turn back to the clothes and pull out a burgundy, fitted sheath with sheer sleeves and a mesh neckline. It’s the plainest one in the pile, and it’s perfect.
“Heels.” Khrys holds out a pair of strappy shoes, and I let them continue to dangle from her finger whilst I frown at how impractical they are.
“I’m not wearing those.”
“Yes, I do recall hearing that combat boots are veryen vogueat galas these days,” Maximus comments drily.
I snatch the heels and leave the galley in a huff. All of this, and there’s no guarantee Marlowe will even see me. In the meantime, I’m wasting time by trying to make myself look like something I’m not.
My hands shake so hard that I can’t get the clasps on the shoes done up, and I have to ask Khrys for help. She arranges my hair so it falls down my back in loose waves after I refuse to let her curl it. Her makeup suits her colouring, not mine, so I escape her clutches with a slick of lip gloss and some eyeliner. I want to get to the manor and find Marlowe, not sit around being dolled up. I have nothing against it, but I’ve never felt comfortable trying to look more feminine. You don’t have shoulders like I do and battle scars without hearing some shit from a man with no filter.
Khrys still manages to catch me in the galley and apply something she’s whipped up to cover as much of the scar through my eyebrow as she can. This, I allow because it’s a little conspicuous otherwise—although the slightly off-colour patch of skin is hardly unnoticeable. There’s nothing left to do but try to gather my nerves. This might be the most nerve-wracking thing I’ve ever done, and, considering my past, that’s just too ridiculous to say out loud. Dev presses a tiny bag into my hands that fits exactly nothing before shooing me away.
I step into a hovercab seconds later, the rounded bubble of a vehicle big enough to seat me and another passenger, but no driver. It’s been so long since I last took one that I’d forgotten how little space there is in a two-seater. But if I cancel the ride under the guise of ordering a bigger one, I might just chicken out. So, I tuck my legs awkwardly, press my spine firmly against the seat and start the journey.
A shaky breath escapes me as the cab glides through the station.
It’s a half-hour drive to the manor. I spend it sat ramrod straight, trying not to list all the ways this is a bad idea. Two weeks ago, I would never have done something like this. But two weeks ago, I didn’t have Marlowe and Vee in my life. I was perfectly fine not knowing what that felt like; not knowing what Marlowe’s teasing and Vee’s stories could do to my heart. The notion of just moving on—past them, as if I’m not already changed by their presence—sits squarely in the realm of ridiculous.
Still, this isn’t what Marlowe told me she wanted, and my stomach ties itself into knots, loops, and bows as we near the compound. I gaze out the window as I speed through Suryavana, using the sight of my home to steady my nerves. Except it’s not really home anymore, hasn’t been for a while. It is still relentlessly beautiful, though.
The colonisation of Mars always makes it sound like we’ve made much more progress than we have. The Valles Marineris is one of the largest canyon systems, and it was the perfect place to start terraforming, providing natural protection from dust storms and radiation. My ancestors built a domed metropolis with plenty of underground tunnels and called the cityForest of the Sun.
Over time, the city has grown into a gorgeous, sprawling place. My cab shoots along under the vast, transparent dome.Lush greenery flies by, thriving in hydroponic gardens and proving a stark contrast with the red soil just beyond the dome. All the buildings are interconnected by a network of tunnels with translucent walls, because before the main dome was possible, my ancestors could only travel between the smaller domed zones using those.
Solar panels and wind turbines dot the landscape, and at the centre of Suryavana, a bustling plaza teems with life. In the daylight, the market stalls brim with fresh produce, and at night, the stalls are tucked away so the restaurants behind them can open their doors.
I crane my neck, and, through the transparent roof of the cab, the clear Martian sky stretches endlessly above me. The horizon is framed by nearby mountains and craters, and once upon a time, the sight of that canyon didn’t make me feel nearly so suffocated. These days, it’s the vastness of space I crave. You can’t make memories in space; there is simply just too much of it.
My cab joins a line of hovercars. They edge along in a queue extending past the gated walls of Gryphon’s compound. Guards check invitations before allowing guests through, and I open mine up on my slate. They barely glance at it, paying more attention to how many passengers are in the cab before waving me on. Passing tall, golden gates marks the point of no return, and I force a deep breath, then several more as the manor looms ahead. I process the sheer size of it—’manor’ isn’t an accurate term.
If I hadn’t seen firsthand just how disinterested Marlowe is in excessive wealth, I’d surely be second-guessing any attempt at coaxing her away from this circus. She wouldn’t experience a life of luxury with me on my rickety old ship. The hovercab winds down a long driveway hedged by nourished, green trees and lawns. We pull up in front of the elegant white mansion,coming to a stop in a circular courtyard packed with other vehicles. I spare a moment to gather my wits, thankful there’s no driver to see me fumble the handbag. Somehow, I manage to exit the car without tripping over my own feet. I can run on rooftop ledges, but put me in a pair of heels and I suddenly move like a newborn.
A three-tiered fountain burbles nearby, and copious flowerbeds effuse the night with their heady scents. The manor’s classical design is even more stunning up close and strategically placed lighting draws attention to its columned porticos, arched windows and intricate mouldings. The building forms three sides of a cube, with the central entrance framed by two wings that extend towards me, boasting ornate balconies overlooking the courtyard. Soft classical music drifts on the breeze.
A group of guests alight from a limo behind me, and I don’t have time to panic. I sidestep, allowing myself to get swept up in their mass and carried into the manor before I can convince myself to turn and run. No one in the group has the skin tone of my native countrymen, and I peel away from the crowd as soon as we step into the entryway.
Stars, this is a really bad idea.
Even This
The manor is exquisitely decorated. A glimmering chandelier hangs from the ceiling and throws light across walls stamped with sophisticated, golden designs. A large, gilt mirror reflects the trickle of guests as coats are removed by staff and whisked away with demure professionalism. I try to look dispassionate, bored even, as if I attend events like this every day. I accept a flute of champagne from a passing waitress and move with the flow of the crowd. All the newcomers gravitate towards a grand room and I pass an ornate, heart-shaped staircase, into a ballroom.
All the while I glance around, trying to spot Marlowe amongst the mass of people. There are easily two hundredbodies milling about, laughing and dancing in vivid outfits. I see more white skin than any other, but that doesn’t surprise me given that Gryphon’s business is based on Telluria; their social hierarchy is still dependent on inane prejudices, and the wealth disparity between races is noticeable. It makes the fact that the rich keep buying huge swathes of real estate in Suryavana that much more insidious.
A string quartet plays on a terrace erected at the back of the room, and a champagne fountain gleams nearby. The frescoed ceiling stretches above for at least two stories. There are more mirrors, more chandeliers, more delicate embellishments dripping gold. Floor-to-ceiling windows stand open, and guests pass through French doors to an expansive, stone terrace framed by white balustrades beyond.
I take a deep swallow from my glass to hide the fact that I’m studying the scene. Marlowe once commented that her ex proves his worth by throwing money at everything.
It shows.
