Page 14 of Summer

My black hair is a sharp contrast to my pale skin, which is more sallow than I’ve ever seen it. Years of inactivity has altered my face shape, the edges too angular, too sharp. The skin under my eyes is papery, the blue green veins prominent. My lips are chapped, my hair limp, my everything so…sad. Is this really the face of the woman sent to Protegre to atone for her crimes as a thief? Is this really the face of the woman who outsmarted Protegre, who acted like the perfect future bride?

My fingers trail my reflection, which blurs as my eyes water.

No. Not here. Not now.

Better I confront this now than at the dress shop. There will be more eyes than the purposefully averted gaze of my future sister-in-law.

I glance her way, and her head snaps away. She saw me stare at my reflection and my cheeks burn in shame. Maybe she’ll see me as a stupid human, vain and concerned with her own beauty. Better that than the truth.

The carriage ride is silent, which suits me just fine. I need time to collect myself.

The carriage bumps along the countryside, the sprawling hills giving way to the outskirts of a city. It’s no Frega. What it lacks in size, it makes up in opulence. The outer edges of the city have apartments the size of a large ship, towering several stories high. Each apartment is a different color – shocking blues and yellows, with flowers spilling from windowsills.

In the distance I see a large estate with huge gates, the letters in beautiful script on the outside. I crane my neck to see more.

“That’s the king’s estate,” Lady Gennelle says. Her voice is such a shock that I jump. I expected her to reprimand me, not explain what I’m looking at.

“This is Celvae, the capitol of Hothin. It’s the hub of activity for the planet. We have an apartment in the city we visit when the king holds soirées. We passed it several streets ago,” Gennelle continues, much to my surprise. I don’t speak, afraid she’ll remember she hates me and fall back into silence. I need this information. I need to know the layout of Hothin if I’m to escape. Where are the ports? Where might I find passage out?

“We’ll be reaching the city center soon. On the weekends, there’s a market, sometimes traders from other planets come to sell their wares. During the festival season the streets are decorated according to the feast,” she continues.

“Which feasts do you celebrate here?” I ask before I can stop myself. Despite the vast differences between the alien races, they share one love: feasts. Some planets celebrate every feast, their streets running wild with alcohol and excess. Others are more chaste, choosing fertility feasts or memorial feasts – somber events meant for introspection.

“We,” Gennelle corrects, the question bringing her back to herself. Her shoulders tighten, her tone that of a lecturer, not a storyteller. “If you’re to help run the estate, it will be your feast too. You’ll be expected to entertain, to host balls and parties. Do they teach such things at that school?”

“What? The intricate art of inviting the same four families to the same event, every few months?” I retort before I can stop myself.

Those are the words of old Summer, the Summer that hopped from ship to ship, looking for the next adventure. That Summer needs to stay hidden, like she had the last three years. What is it about this infuriating female that makes me lose my practiced tongue?

“You impertinent…” she begins, but she’s interrupted by the attendant. At some point, the carriage stopped, and he’s opened the door to the carriage. The look on his face tells me he regrets his decision, his eyes wide under the brim of his hat.

“We’ve arrived,” he fumbles over his words, stepping away from the door and lowering the stairs. Lady Gennelle stands quickly, nearly vaulting from the carriage. I follow after a beat, giving her enough distance that she can’t accidentally kick me.

I consider pushing her down the stairs.

My heeled shoes click over the cobblestone street as we walk toward the bright pink building. It’s smaller than the others around it, a measly three stories to their five or six. The bright pink is garish and inelegant next to the other buildings, with their perfectly maintained flowers. Gennelle pushes through the gate, exposing a veritable forest of untamed flowers. The bushes are untrimmed, their branches reaching out to snag those who walk by. Pots overflow with vines, which wind and intertwine with the plants nearest them.

Gennelle collects her skirts as she stomps to the door, not holding it open for me. It slams in my face, and I scowl, before readjusting my face and opening the door to follow.

The inside of the shop mirrors the outside.

A few mannequins lean against the walls, half-finished dresses hanging off them. Mounds of fabric, tulle, lace, silk and textiles I’ve never seen before cover the floor. The desk is barely visible amongst the mess, where a squat female stands. She wears spectacles that take up most of her face and magnify her eyes four times their size. The antennae on her head vibrate, reminding me vaguely of the headmaster of Protegre. Horror rises in my throat, and I hurriedly swallow it down. She’s not a Kapu, she’s not Nikili.

Breathe, Summer. He can’t hurt you here.

She scuttles out from behind the desk, exposing her four legs that jut out from an insectile body. She looks up at Gennelle and smiles, a fact I cannot fathom. Gennelle smiles back, her arms wide to embrace the other alien. They ramble on in Tatinnish, and I so desperately want to know what they’re saying. From the high pitch of their voice and the way Gennelle smiles I know it’s not about me.

At long last the dressmaker spots me, turning her magnified eyes to me. She scuttles closer, and I resist the urge to flinch away. She’s nothing like Nikili, but my brain cannot divorce them. I never cared about insectile aliens until Protegre. Now they remind me of him.

She says something to me, and I blink, my gaze darting to Gennelle. The two exchange a few words as the dressmaker appraises me slowly, her gaze sliding over every inch of my body.

“I am Madame Furro,” she says at last in Hothiny. “What are these rags she’s wearing?” Madame Furro speaks to Gennelle at this, one of her antennae flicking like a quirked eyebrow.

“Father bought her for Aaoric. She’s to be his bride. This is what she came with,” Gennelle says, her tone flat, disdainful.

“At last, someone to tame the wild creature,” Furro says. Wild? Other than his inability to hide his childish anger, Aaoric and his family are anything but wild. Gennelle doesn’t respond, her lips pressed into a flat line.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” I greet the dressmaker, giving her a small curtsy. She taps her feet in pleasure, her jaw clicking her approval.