Secondborn

“It does, but it’s different enough that people will automatically feel you have authority, though they won’t know why.”

I now see how brilliant he is. He lifts a kohl stick from among the cosmetics and pulls a thick line across my bottom lashes at a catlike angle. If Agent Crow were here, he’d probably accuse me of stealing his look. Emmitt reads my mind as he stares at my reflection. “You’ll be responsible for more kills than any agent can ever hope for. Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and then slips a sharp-pointed ring onto three fingers of my left hand, like brass knuckles in the shape of jutting talons, but in gold.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“If you run into a question you didn’t anticipate, look down at this ring while you think, as if you’re too bored by the question to answer it.”

“Won’t people find that offensive?” I lift my hand, trying not to poke my eye out as I study it.

“No. They’re looking for someone to believe in. You, showing no fear, is what they need. Be infallible. Be fearless. We’ll hold the press conference on the balcony of this Treetop penthouse. Eat something now before your crude entourage consumes it all.”

I hope for rain as I follow Emmitt. I peek outside as we approach the windows to the terrace. Drone cameras are already arriving for the press conference. Floating platforms levitate like flat tarmacs, carrying high-profile celebrity commentators. I’d expect this caliber of on-air talent to focus on the Secondborn Trials rather than me. They embrace frivolity. Dune always said it’s because any serious journalism is subject to severe censorship. I’ve mostly avoided them until now because my virtual access had its own dedicated channel, mostly drone and stationary cameras that I rarely interacted with.

I follow the scent of breakfast into the dining area. Gilad and Hawthorne are already working through huge plates of food. They haven’t bothered to put all their armor back on yet. Edgerton and Hammon are at the sideboard, dishes in hand. Hammon leans closer to Edgerton, selecting a roll from a basket. Her torso brushes against his wrist. His hand rests lightly on her side, caressing the curve of her hip. His mouth lingers close to her ear. Her face flushes. She closes her eyes and turns so that her neck brushes his lips. The intimacy makes my face flush as well.

They notice me beside them and move apart from one another. I follow them to the table with my full plate and sit across from Gilad. I start eating, my fork and knife making soft sounds against the plate. As I chew, every eye is on me. “What?” I ask after swallowing.

“What are you wearing?” Gilad asks.

I look down at myself. My cleavage presses provocatively against the beige suede and silken fabric. “A uniform.”

“Whose uniform?” Gilad asks, his eyebrows arching up. “That’s not a Sword uniform.”

I smile and resume eating. “Don’t worry, Gilad. You’ll get one in the next requisition.”

“I’m not wearing anything that looks like that,” he growls.

“You wouldn’t fill it out half as well,” Hawthorne teases. His gorgeous storm-colored eyes linger on me. We eat in silence until I set my fork down. Hawthorne lifts his chin. “You ready for this?” He indicates the assembling crowd of reporters outside. I can just see them through the archway of the dining room.

“We’ll know in a few minutes,” I reply. “Please excuse me.” He stands as I do. I take my dish to the clearing tray near the sideboard. After depositing it, I join Clara at the glass doors that lead to the balcony. She doesn’t speak as we both gaze outside at the mass of reporters on mobile platforms, vying for airspace near the railing. As soon as I come into sight, the drone cameras perk up, flying nearer.

The screen in the main room is tuned to a channel covering this news conference. Desdemona Diamond, secondborn, narrates my appearance inside the Treetop apartment. “Roselle Sword, formerly St. Sismode, has just made her entrance to the lavish apartment of Clifton Salloway, firstborn Sword and heir to the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate. We have yet to see Clifton himself, but we know this inter-Fate pleasure seeker by his reputation for the lovelies.”

Desdemona details my lavish ensemble with fascination and a touch of envy. My eyelids narrow at the screen. She is making this all sound nefarious, treating me as if I’m an adulterous Diamond-Fated firstborn actress found in the hideaway of a clandestine lover.

Desdemona turns to her co-anchor, Secondborn Suki Diamond. “Where has Roselle been for the past four days since her ill-fated procession through the streets of Forge?”