“True,” Binwee murmured thoughtfully, taking a sip of her tea while her brilliant blue eyes grew distant with contemplation.
“I have to escape,” I announced with sudden determination, though the words felt both familiar and foreign to my tongue. How many times had I sat in this same kitchen, perched on the same stool, and uttered the same words? Probably hundreds over the course of my captivity. But this time, they carried a desperate urgency that made my voice crack with a raw need that clawed at my chest like a caged animal.
“You’ve had ample opportunity in the past few years,” Binwee reminded me gently. She’d watched me wrestle with the same dilemma countless times before. “You’ve got the prince convinced you’re besotted with him, so the guards watch you far less vigilantly than the others.”
“I won’t go without Lilibet,” I insisted, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the cup with enough force to risk shattering it. “And now that he’s planning to use her as a gift, they’ll watch her more closely than ever.”
“True,” Binwee agreed again, her voice maintaining the same contemplative tone while her gaze remained fixed on some invisible point beyond my shoulder, lost in her own thoughts.
Her calmness grated on my frayed nerves like sandpaper, especially since worry and rage roiled in my gut like a feral beast. I took a sip of the spicy, sweet tea and let my gaze wander around the kitchen. Starlight filtered through the windows, casting longshadows across the surfaces, while the air hung heavy with the lingering aromas of exotic spices and cooking meat. It was mid-afternoon, that quiet lull when the kitchen was quiet—too early for the evening shift of workers to begin preparations for the elaborate dinner service that the prince demanded.
The kitchen reminded me of what one might have been like in early American times. All weathered wood and cast iron, with copper pots hanging from wrought iron hooks like burnished shields. Despite the advanced technology humming through the rest of the ship, Binwee still cooked over open flames that danced and flickered in the stone hearth. There were no kitchen gadgets allowed in her domain—no gleaming processors or automated stirrers—just the honest tools of her trade: wooden spoons worn smooth by countless meals, ceramic bowls stained with the ghosts of a thousand spices, and knives honed to razor sharpness.
But scattered throughout the rustic haven were boxes and crates—far more than the normal deliveries that arrived with clockwork regularity. They towered in precarious stacks against the walls, surfaces marked with an alien script that glowed faintly in the firelight. Some appeared crafted from what seemed like polished metal, while others utilized a wood-like substance that appeared to change color depending on the angle of view. The largest one stood nearly as tall as I did, the dimensions suggesting it could easily accommodate a person of my size.
“What is going on? Are you moving?” I asked, gesturing toward the unusual abundance of containers.
Binwee rolled her eyes in exasperation, her cherubic features twisting into an expression of disdain. “Our prince is so entitled that he insists upon having his own kitchens set up aboard the Ardeese Valout. You know he would not lower himself to eat common food, and he’s too fucking lazy to come back aboard the ship for a meal, so that means I have to packup everything—every last spoon, every grain of salt, every herb—and....” Her eyes suddenly sparkled with mischievous brilliance, and she grabbed my arm, her stubby little fingers digging into my flesh with excitement. “I have an idea.”
Binwee punched a few buttons on her wrist comm, and a holographic display materialized in the air between us—a list written in flowing script that pulsed with soft blue light. “The prince is giving a dinner with a special guest of honor in three rotations,” she announced, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
That must be theguesthe’s giving Lilibet to," I mused, my stomach clenching with fresh dread as I wondered if Binwee’s idea included murder—and whether I’d have the stomach for it if it did. To protect Lilibet, yes, I would.
“We’ll arrive at the Ardeese Valout in fourteen hours,” she continued, ticking off numbers on her fingertips. I’d taught her Earth measurements of time, but they remained awkward constructs for her alien mind. “That gives you over fifty hours.”
“Fifty hours for what?” I asked, though a curious flutter of something that might have been hope stirred in my belly.
“To escape.” Binwee’s stark white teeth flashed in a grin so broad it seemed to split her face in half.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that?” I hissed, instinctively dropping my voice to barely above a whisper. We seemed to be alone in the kitchen, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The walls of this floating palace had ears, and careless words could mean a beating or worse. “You know the guards check all the comings and goings once we land.” This wasn’t my first trip with Qurbaga, and I’d learned the hard way that his security was thorough to the point of paranoia.
“They won’t check these,” Binwee insisted, gesturing toward the towering crates with a flourish. “Especially since the guards packed most of them themselves.”
I glanced at the containers with fresh eyes, my mind automatically calculating dimensions and possibilities. One or two were indeed large enough to accommodate a person—more if we were willing to endure the cramped discomfort. “What are you thinking?” I asked, though I was certain I already understood the plan taking shape in her mind.
“The prince just had you, so you know he can’t get it up again for a few days,” Binwee said, her eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. Qurbaga’s chronic impotence was an open secret among the staff. A constant source of amusement that made my theatrical performances all the more absurd. “So that means he won’t call for you again until it’s time for Lilibet to be given to her new owner. If you can sneak to the kitchen right before we dock, you and Lilibet can hide in one of the crates.” Her turquoise fingers traced the air as if mapping out our escape route. “They are scheduled to take the crates to the kitchen on the Ardeese Valout right after we land—goddess forbid the prince miss a meal.”
“Then what?” My eyes darted from the crates to Binwee’s face, hope flickering in my chest like a candle flame in a hurricane. “Hide on the space station? Once Qurbaga finds out we’re gone....” The words died in my throat as memories of the last time someone attempted escape—the screams had echoed through the ship’s corridors for three days straight.
“You make your way to Space Pearl’s,” Binwee said, her small hand patting my arm, as if this mysterious destination held all the answers to our impossible situation.
Space Pearl’s? “What’s that?”
Binwee rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Do they not get the news feeds in the harem? It’s a restaurant started by a former abducted human, just like you who escaped slavery. It’s a sanctuary for humans, a place where they’ll help you hide and start over.”
I’d heard whispered rumors of human sanctuaries dotted among the stars, safe havens where escaped slaves could find refuge and protection, but they’d always seemed as mythical as fairy tales. “You really think it could work?”
Binwee gave a curt nod, her features set with the kind of determination that could move mountains. “I’ve heard good things about the space station owners. They’re related to the spymaster Siemba and work closely with the Alliance rescuing human slaves. You just need to get to the right people, and they’ll help you disappear completely.”
I grabbed her delicate hand, squeezing her stubby blue fingers tightly enough to feel the warmth of her blood pulsing beneath her skin. “What about you?”
“Me?” Binwee seemed genuinely taken aback by the question, her white eyebrows rising toward her hairline as if the thought of escape had never occurred to her.
“You’re a slave too,” I whispered.
Binwee chuckled as though she found the concept amusing rather than tragic. “Yes, but I’m a slave with my own kitchen. And at my age, Qurbaga won’t be trying to give me away to anyone as a plaything or breeding stock.”
“Yes, but if he figures out you helped me,” I worried, my voice cracking with the fear of what my escape might cost her.
