Being Ace, page 4
“The truth is, nothing in life is really permanent. Nothing besides how much your dad and I love you. And if you need to travel and wander until you find your place in the universe, then that’s okay. We can be the roots—you can be the branch that stretches far and wide. Just as long as you know that you’ll always have us, wherever you are.” She smiles, tearful. “Don’t let our dreams smother yours. And if they take you far away, don’t forget to call us as often as you can. Tiki is a tough little bot—he’ll probably last an entire lifetime!” She blows one final kiss. “I love you, Freya. The greatest honor of my life is watching you grow, in whichever direction you choose.”
The hologram disappears.
And when the tears pour down my cheeks, I don’t fight them.
ONE YEAR LATER
I stand at the edge of the platform, waiting to board the shuttle to the Neo Colony. It turns out running a scrap shop for five years is a pretty handy thing to stick on a university application.
Kelso took over the shop for me. He promised to look after Sora and Tiki until I get back. And I will be back—there’s so much more of the universe I want to see. The Neo Colony is just the start.
I follow a small group of students from the Neptune District onto the ship. There are plenty of other students already here, mixed in with families, doctors, and scientists who’ve been chosen to take part in the colony’s relocation program.
I follow the signs to one of the small cabins in the back and check my ticket one more time. Inside the room, I place my luggage in the holding area, where another bag is already waiting. There’s no one here, so I take the seat beside the window.
A voice sounds outside the room. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Wrong cabin. I’m K, not J.”
My chest tightens. That voice … It can’t be …
I stand up slowly, move toward the door, and slide it open. In the hallway is a girl with curly hair cropped short on the sides and wound in a top-knot. When she spots me, she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and smiles wide.
“Hi! Are you cabin K, too? I just got back from the food court. You won’t believe the selection they have.” She slips through the doors and takes the same seat I was just in.
I sit down across from her, brows pinched.
“Are you headed to the colony for the student program?” When I nod, she looks delighted. “Me too!” She throws out a hand. “My name’s Zoey.”
I can’t hide the smile that spreads across my face. I shake her hand. “Hi, Zoey. I’m Freya.”
When she smiles back and the recognition fills her eyes, I know there’s only one way to describe this.
It’s cosmic.
WELL SUITED
ROSIEE THOR
Fig is Brindle’s favorite flavor of jam filling. It is a delicacy at home, too rich and sweet for a mercenary’s daughter, but here in the grand ballroom there is no shortage of cakes and eclairs. With a furtive glance about her surroundings, she lifts the pastry to her nose and inhales the honeyed sweetness. It smells like summer and shenanigans, the likes of which she’s not allowed to entertain. Not anymore.
Lady Brindle is not allowed to enjoy adventures by the river or jaunts through the forest, returning home with muddied boots and covered in brambles. It is considered unseemly, or so her father says. The sort of behavior that is unbecoming of a bride. But Brindle does not dream of marriage. She dreams of catching slippery frogs and picking huckleberries until her hands turn blue and eating fig tartlets with a friend. The daughter of a newly elevated knight, she simply was not raised for mannered society. And so, she does not know if it is uncouth to take a sampling of olives and cheese and, of course, the fig-stuffed tart from the refreshments table.
She decides she doesn’t care, sinking her teeth into layers of pastry and fruit. It is utter bliss. Fig, pistachio, and honey—a cacophony of flavors altogether more stirring than any music. And with that, she is back in the depths of the kitchens, a dusting of flour across her cheeks and a smile on her face, so genuine it hurts. She can almost feel the fingers of a friend tangled with hers before a tap on her shoulder breaks the memory like a fist through glass, and she returns to the ballroom.
Guiltily, she shoves the remains of the pastry in the pocket of her gown—for later, she tells herself, no good wasting sweets—before she turns to see a smiling face.
A girl in a sunset-orange dress stands before her, a constellation of metallic freckles painted across her nose. She holds a wide crystalline glass in each hand, filled to the brim with bubbly, pink liquid. Behind her lurk two other girls. All three are precisely Brindle’s age. She does not need an introduction, though they give one all the same.
“A new face at court is a rare delight,” says the leader, offering one of the glasses to Brindle. “You must be Brindle. I’m Euphemia, daughter of Magister Ostrein.”
Brindle knows exactly who she is. This is the girl whose halls she’s haunted all her life, too poor to be of notice to someone like Euphemia. This castle they stand in now belongs to Euphemia’s family. The ball they all hurtle toward where they will be introduced to court will be hosted in Euphemia’s honor. This entire ordeal, it feels to Brindle, is somehow Euphemia’s fault.
The others introduce themselves in turn as Allegra and Vale, daughters of noble houses Brindle pretends she’s heard of.
“So that makes us four in total,” Euphemia says with a winning smile sure to break hearts or even treaties.
“We’re making our debuts together,” Allegra supplies, though Brindle already knows this. For who else would seek her out on purpose but the other girls her age, the other girls who will share this strange moment in time when they are not yet part of court but still present, unable to properly inhabit the space but also not allowed to leave?
“A pleasure,” Brindle says through a mouthful of pastry.
Vale offers a sour expression. “Ah yes, what a pleasure it is to be fresh blood for the courtly hunters.”
Euphemia laughs too loud, swatting her friend playfully. “Don’t mind Vale. She’s only bitter because she’s already betrothed and can’t play.”
“I’m bitter because it’s a foul tradition steeped in patriarchal malarkey.”
Brindle is inclined to agree with Vale, if only because she used the word malarkey—it has good mouthfeel—but when she replies, all that comes out is, “Play?”
“The courtly game, of course.” Euphemia slides an arm around Brindle’s waist. “Which of the eligible young suitors will you choose to escort you for your debut?”
“Escort me?” Brindle knows only the little her father has told her. There will be a ball—far grander than tonight’s—to introduce the new ladies of court. They will dance and people will stare, and then it will be blessedly over. She knows Papa hopes she will make an advantageous match.
“Now I can finally provide for you the future you deserve,” he said after receiving his knighthood.
But what is the point of the future he thinks she deserves if it is not the future she wants? What is the point of status and wealth if they trap her in a cage?
Brindle slips from Euphemia’s grasp. Sudden awareness crawls up her arms and legs. “I thought Pa–my father would escort me.”
Vale and Allegra close in on Brindle’s other side, boxing her into their ballgown battalion.
“No, no, that won’t do.” Allegra brushes a loose curl back behind Brindle’s ear, her fingers tickling the skin unpleasantly. “We must all have the very best escorts if we are to make a good impression.”
“No fathers or brothers.” Vale nods forcefully, but there is a wobbliness to her voice. “That will only make you look undesirable.”
Undesirable is all Brindle has ever aspired to be.
“Allegra has chosen Count Faisen’s son,” Euphemia chirps. “He’s not very bright, but he’s desperately handsome.”
“And Vale will be escorted by her fiancé, of course,” Allegra chimes in.
“I don’t see why any of it matters.” Vale crosses her arms, lips downturned in a pout. “Euphie’s going to outshine us all regardless.”
“Why?” Brindle asks against her better judgment. “Who’s escorting you?”
Euphemia leans closer, conspiratorial, as though she and Brindle are the best of friends sharing secrets and scandals. “Why, the Crown Prince, of course.”
Brindle’s eyes widen. “You’re going to marry the prince?”
“Of course not,” Euphemia says dismissively. “He will have to marry a foreign princess for the good of the realm, certainly, but you’re still impressed, are you not?”
Brindle wishes she wasn’t.
“It’s important, you see, who you choose.” Euphemia smiles and takes a sip from her drink. “If you arrive on the arm of status, suitors will follow.”
“You can have anyone, you know, except for those already chosen.” Vale waves her hand at the ballroom.
The dance floor is suddenly full of boys Brindle didn’t notice before. They are everywhere, tall and short, old and young. She imagines they are all rich—at least by comparison to her. She is not a magister’s daughter. She is not worthy of a prince, nor does she want to be. She feels both predator and prey all at once.
“Who will you choose?” Euphemia asks.
“Yes, who will you choose?” the others echo.
Brindle stares into her champagne glass, wishing she were as small and light as one of the bubbles dancing about inside it.
“You must choose.”
But Brindle does not want to choose—not from a pool of strangers. She would sooner choose herself than any man. She does not want to be on display, a delicate pastry for all the court to sample. And maybe she does not have to be … maybe, just like Vale, she can exempt herself. If she tells the truth, no one will accept it. Not Euphemia. Not Allegra and Vale. And not her father. So she does the next best thing.
She lies.
“Sir Guy? You actually named your fake fiancé Sir Guy?” Fig stares up at the ball-gowned silhouette of a girl they know but barely recognize. Brindle’s hair is braided into a crown, and her cheeks are painted with rosy metallic swirls. She looks like a hot air balloon in blue silk. It is beyond strange to see a friend in the uniform of foe.
Brindle looks out of place in the kitchens where Fig is sitting, letting magic do the dishes for them. It’s a simple spell, one of the first they learned, but they have perfected it over the years. Now, the water does not simply splash haphazardly against the grime; it swirls in slow, sudsy circles, meticulous and efficient. An enchanted scrub brush does the rest of the work, lazily prodded about by Fig’s suggestion.
“Okay, ‘My chosen name is Fig,’” Brindle says, and rolls her eyes. “Do you really want to throw the first stone?”
They stand and straighten to their full height, a rather unimpressive feat even when Brindle isn’t wearing heels. “Fig is a perfectly respectable name for a magister, I’ll have you know.” I chose it because of you, they don’t say. Because fig is your favorite fruit, and I want to be your favorite person.
“For a magister? Is that official, now?”
“No.” Fig deflates. “Got another rejection letter this afternoon. Good enough to clean his dishes, but not good enough to learn his magic.”
“That makes—”
“Twelve, yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
Fig pulls the note from Magister Ostrein from their pocket and unfolds it for Brindle to see.
The word sorry has a peculiar shape. It isn’t like a spell, all cobwebs and stars, but instead it leans and swoops like branches of a willow in the wind. They have nothing in common except that Fig can read them both.
It’s the only word they bothered to learn.
“Fig, I’m so sorry.”
And there’s that word again, this time from a friend for something that isn’t her fault in any way. Still, Fig feels the pull of disdain—for her status, for her money, for her big balloon of a dress that Fig would never wear, not if it were the last piece of clothing on earth. Only, they wish it was something they were allowed. Something they could reject instead of being denied by default.
They push away the resentment and instead adjust their grip on a rather delicate soup tureen dangling from their fingers. “Enough about my failed magisterly exploits. Let’s talk more about you and your fiancé.” They make a mess of the word, rounding their mouth until the sound becomes less like language and more like an omen.
Brindle shivers. “I panicked, okay? The other debuts—they were talking about escorts and they wanted me to pick someone, a boy, a stranger. And I just … blurted it out.”
Fig offers a chuckle, though their insides are shaking, crying, throwing up. Pick me, they want to say. I am not a stranger. They never would have hesitated before, back when it was just Fig and Brindle and a world of maybe ahead of them. When their days were full of building forts out of sticks and moss and eating stolen berries from land that would never be theirs. Fig might have asked it, if ever it had felt like the right time: Run away with me?
But Fig is penniless, futureless, even genderless. Brindle doesn’t want Fig, they are sure. They are almost sure. They are sure enough that asking is out of the question. Because even though they know Brindle does not want stolen kisses or gifts of flowers or grand declarations of love, just like Fig, Brindle must now want someone who can step into her new world with her.
And Fig has just been rejected by the last magister in the land who might take them as an apprentice, might make them worthy.
Fig swallows hard and tries on a grin, ill-fitting and painful like hand-me-down shoes. “You panicked your way into a fake engagement with a fake knight. Honestly, impeccable. I’m a little proud.”
“Don’t be,” Brindle groans. “Debut is only a day away. When it’s finally time and no mysterious knight in shining armor named Guy appears, they’ll all know me for a fraud. I just didn’t want … anyone else.”
Anyone else. The words rocket through Fig’s brain. Are they a meaningless slip or a sign? Anyone else … other than who? But no. It would seem a miracle if Brindle wants Fig, let alone if she wants them the same way they want her: cozy and simple and shaped like a friend. No frills. Fig’s eyes drift to the sleeves of Brindle’s dress, delicate and made of lace.
Miracles don’t happen to Fig. They have always known this. Everything they have ever wanted they worked to get: this job, their magic, their name. Nothing is ever given freely; they do not happen upon luck.
And so with a heaviness in their chest and a sliver of hope in their heart, they decide to make their own. After all, what use is a little magic if not for a miracle?
Brindle keeps the rejection letter in her pocket. She doesn’t know why, at first. Perhaps it is because Fig gave it to her. But it is not a gift, it is a confession. She reads the words over and over and they make her sick.
DEAR FIG,
I AM SORRY TO SAY I AM UNABLE TO ACCEPT YOU AS AN APPRENTICE AT THIS TIME. WHILE IT IS COMMENDABLE THAT YOU SHOULD SEEK OUT A BETTER LIFE FOR YOURSELF, I AM ONLY INTERESTED IN CANDIDATES WHO HAVE BEEN PROPERLY EDUCATED BY THE ROYAL ACADEMY. SHOULD YOU BECOME MORE HIGHLY TRAINED, YOU ARE WELCOME TO REAPPLY.
It is a sham, Brindle decides. Magic is only for monied folk. There is no way Fig can afford the Royal Academy. And what is the point of an apprenticeship if not to train magisters? It is an exercise in the vanity of the upper class, nothing more. Fig is more magister than all of them.
“Once again, that is my foot, Brindle.” Vale scowls down at her, exasperation in her cloudy brown eyes.
Brindle blinks out of her reverie and glances at her hand clasped with Vale’s, then at her foot covering the other girl’s shoe entirely. “It’s no use. I’m terrible at this,” she groans. “I should just skip the ball—let you all debut without me. I’ll never learn the steps in time.”
“Not with that attitude, you won’t!” Euphemia marches over to her from where she is practicing with Allegra. “You must be present. If you let your mind wander too far, you’re sure to miss the beat.”
Brindle doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not just the beat she’s missing. Dancing is something foreign to Brindle, at least the way ladies of the court do it. She’s used to dancing with Fig, all instinct and improvisation. They would wave their arms about in the kitchens to the muffled music of parties upstairs, or spin in slow circles around each other in the moonlight to no music but their own heartbeats intermingled with the croaking of frogs. There were no steps to memorize back then.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Allegra teases, pinching Brindle’s arm between her fingers.
Brindle nearly corrects her—Fig isn’t a him—before she realizes Allegra doesn’t know Fig. None of the other debuts do. And in an instant, that seems so strange, so wrong. These girls she must spend every waking minute of the day with do not know the person who matters to her most.
“Yes, when are we to meet this Sir Guy of yours?” Euphemia asks. “I do hope he makes it in time for the ball tonight. Would be a shame if we had to find you an escort at the last minute.”
“Soon, I hope,” Brindle squeaks, but she has no hope or reason to carry on the lie. They will all discover her deception soon enough when evening arrives and Sir Guy does not.
“Good.” Vale sighs and lets go of Brindle’s hand. “Then Egbert will have someone to talk to.” Her eyes flick to the other side of the room where the boy she introduced as her fiancé lurks. He’s neither odd nor remarkable. Perfectly average in every way but for his coffers, if Euphemia is to be believed about his massive fortune.
“You mean besides you?” Allegra raises sharp brows and stares pointedly at Vale.
“No,” Vale says without elaboration.
Brindle disguises a snort as a coughing fit.
