Solara Dracorte was gorgeous in a way I’d never seen. Even Ketrana Dracorte paled in comparison, and she was so lovely she’d made my teeth grind. But Ket reminded me of an ice-raker, a type of fish that swam in Alaxak’s cold seas. Its eyes were huge and shiny to reflect the light from the pack ice above and draw attention to itself, and then when unwary prey got near enough, retractable jaws shot out to claim its life—falsely beautiful until you got too close and saw what lay within.
Nev’s sister, on the other hand, possessed a beauty so powerful, it almost hurt to look at it, like the glinting edge of a Disruption Blade, or a blazing star. I had no idea what she and I were even doing in the same room.
This was my room, technically—or rooms, since it was a sprawling suite in silvers, dark browns, and deep purples meant to complement my coloring, or so Solara had said. I’d choked when I realized she was serious. Apparently, the Dracortes had enough massive suites to pick one that best matched my hair or eyes or whatever, as if it were a blasted shirt. But equally apparently, I didn’t have the right to keep anyone out of it, and Solara had insisted on helping me get ready. So her maids had dutifully trekked her chests of cosmetics, soaps, and oils over here, where they were now piling her golden hair on top of her head in elegant, twisting loops and dabbing at her face with all sorts of creams. She’d said I would be next.
Lucky me.
She laughed now, her voice like a golden bell. “Why would you want to keep those scraps?”
“Those scraps keep me warm in deep space,” I said through gritted teeth, as two maids took to scrubbing my hair. Pointing out the usefulness of my clothes didn’t make me, or my scalp, feel any better.
After my braid had come undone, the tangled black waves had fallen nearly to my waist, so there was a lot to scrub…and to wrench at with torturous combs. I should have brushed it more often, if only to avoid this, though my hair wasn’t exactly a top priority during the peak of the fishing season. Here, I was getting the impression that things like hair and complementary colors were the utmost priorities. I hugged my bare chest and slouched deeper into the water in spite of the burn, both to hide from Solara’s piercing metallic stare and to shy away from the pain at my scalp.
“After this party,” I reminded her, “I have to go back to deep space. You know, to work.”
“Our dearest Nev no doubt promised you whatever you might want, so the least we can do is clothe you,” Solara said with an insinuating tone I didn’t like at all. I liked the mention of Nev even less. In the middle of such humiliation, the last thing I needed was to think about him. “Our tailors can provide you with the finest synthetic thermal gear in the galaxy.”
“I don’t want the finest in the galaxy, I want mine.” I sounded like a stubborn child, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Hm, how…sentimental,” Solara said, then glanced at the maid who still held my clothes pinched in the tips of her fingers and as far away from her liveried uniform as possible. “Have her attire cleaned and mended to the best of your ability.” Her already bright eyes lit with inspiration. “And why don’t you add a thin synthetic layer inside for extra warmth? There! A mix of rustic and modern, new and old—the best of both worlds, yes?”
I felt like remarking that her world was no older or newer than mine, but I bit my tongue. Besides, she was trying to be nice. She was just failing at it miserably.
Before the maid could leave, she added, “Oh, and add a nice ruff of melori fur at the collar.”
I had no idea what melori fur was, but it was most likely as expensive and opulent as anything else a Dracorte would want to use as decoration.
“No!” I said, and my sharpness made both the maid and Solara blink. I tried to lower my voice. “No…Your Highness…thank you, but—”
“Are you quite sure?” Solara interrupted, her voice nearly as sharp as mine had been, before a smile melted away the edges. She evidently didn’t like being told no. “The bright white should offset the darkness of your face—”
“Is there something wrong with my face?” I was beginning to wonder, with how hard the maids were scrubbing my arms. I’d heard of certain systems where people valued either darker or lighter skin, and the Dracortes were all nearly as white as fresh snow. “That’s not dirt, hey.”
“Did you hear her accent, hey?” The maids tittered again, and for a second I hated them so powerfully, it shocked even me.
These were the people I was trying to help? These were the people who stood for justice and decency in the galaxy? They were supposed to have welcomed me like one of their own. If this was how they treated family, or even those who happened to share the same system with them, then maybe I should let them fall.
The only reason I didn’t was that they would take what was left of my family down with them. I was still clinging to wild hope, to Nev’s promises that almost sounded too good to be true, that Arjan, Telu, and I could live longer than another handful of years if I cooperated. That we could maybe, someday, have families of our own.
Hold on, you can get through this. You’ve been through worse.
Maybe.
“Oh my, do you think us so backward as to care about something like skin color? Us?” Solara asked incredulously, really meaning me—as if someone as backward as me could even presume to think them on the same plane as myself. “Haven’t you met Devrak, our head of family security? And there’s not darker skin in the galaxy outside of the Belarius family, whom I’m sure even you’ve heard of. They’re a royal line as noble, if not quite as old, as ours.” She sighed. “Their prince and heir, Heathran, is quite to my taste. You see, Dracortes can appreciate the beauty in all colors, whether of fabric or skin…just with their proper accompaniments.”
We were back to complementary colors.
I’d been through more near-death experiences than I could count, and yet I’d rather have been facing a thick asteroid belt, a difficult drone, or hell, a Treznor destroyer than this. To them, I was being a rustic idiot, but I was really only trying to maintain a fingergrip of control over the situation…and myself. And not just over my appearance. My anger was spiking, my shame deepening, and nothing I said or did—or tried to do—had any effect. I didn’t doubt that I was a better pilot than anyone in this room, maybe even the whole blasted citadel, and yet I didn’t know how to navigate this situation. I wanted to duck under the surface of the bath. Instead, a maid dropped another bucket of water over my head.
“There,” Ollava said after another sniff at my hair. “That should do it. Now, help her out, girls.”
Before I could object, the maids who’d been scrubbing my arms now used them to haul me upright, leaving me bare and red and steaming for all the systems to see. Not for the first time, I wished I could flee into the walk-in closet—which was much bigger than my captain’s quarters on the Kaitan and yet the smallest room in this suite—and maybe barricade the door.