Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(22)

“Daltrey.” Admiral Dresden spits his name like he has tasted something spoiled.

Daltrey greets the Clarity. “Clarity Jowell.”

“It’s been a trying day for you, I’m sure, Daltrey. Our thoughts are with you,” she says in a sympathetic, yet flirty, way.

“It has. I thank you for your thoughts.”

“Your house still standing?” Admiral Dresden smirks at Daltrey and twists his mustache.

“It is. Thank you for your concern,” Daltrey replies with a cutting glare.

“Pity,” Admiral Dresden drones, “that our assault against your Fate was necessary, but we must rid ourselves of these Fate traitors. The Gates of Dawn seem to like your Fate too well. Or maybe your Fate fosters their particular brand of secondborn rebel.”

“My Fate is comprised of freethinkers. One needs a special sort of mind to harness and engineer power and energy.”

“Too bad it also breeds traitors.”

“Yes. Too bad,” Daltrey agrees, but it rings insincere. I stare at him.

Mother winks in, interrupting any further conversation. She’s elegant in a ball gown of midnight blue with pinpoints of silver that mimic stars in the night sky. A delicate silver tiara is woven in her chestnut-colored hair. She doesn’t acknowledge me but greets each of the other participants with brief exchanges about their health. Her mouth pinches in agitation as she falls silent, scowling at her timekeeper.

Clarity Fabian Bowie’s firstborn son, Grisholm Wenn-Bowie, joins the circle after Mother. I recognize him without an introduction. He’s been to the Sword estate many times in his youth to beat up on Gabriel. He’s only a few years older than me. At twenty-one, he’s passingly handsome but could use a more rigorous training regimen.

Clearly this meeting interrupted some kind of celebration because I don’t think Grisholm wears his golden, halo-shaped crown over his dark, shaggy mane just to tame it. His hair must take him hours of styling, though. Not only is Grisholm’s grooming glorious, so, too, is his evening attire. The firstborn heir to the fatedoms is a contrast in black and white. Skin-hugging black trousers that don’t leave much to the imagination meet the shiniest black boots I’ve ever seen. A golden belt with a halo-shaped buckle gleams at his waist. His silken white dress shirt and an intricately tied cravat are as immaculate as his snowy-white cape.

Grisholm appears bored. He ignores everyone else and studies me with a condescending curl of his lip, taking in my attire and my hair, which probably has knots in it. I smooth a hand down the side of my Census-issued rags, adjusting the hem so that it lies flat on my hip.

“Can it be the Secondborn St. Sismode?” Grisholm smiles like he smells something delicious. “Why is it that you still resemble a little lost waif, Roselle, even when you’re all grown up?”

“Clean living, Firstborn Commander,” I reply. It elicits a chuckle. I’m thinking, I can still kick your ass, Grisholm, like I did when I was ten and you smashed Gabriel in the head with the clock from the hall table.

His eyes skim over my criminal attire and long, messy hair. “Had a brush with the authorities, have you?”

“Census was gracious enough to put me up for a few days while we sorted out my disabled moniker. I’ll have to send them a spa basket. What would you recommend, First Commander? Assorted soaps?”

“With bubble bath,” he plays along, smiling evilly. He’s just as I remember; he loves a good snubbing. “Shall I send it for you on your behalf?”

“That is a generous offer, First Commander.”

“To whom shall I address it?”

“Agent Kipson Crow.”

“Ooh.” He mock-winces.

“Ah, you know him.”

“I do. The Fate of Virtues is smaller than you may think. You never have had much luck, have you, Roselle?”

“The only thing I’ve had in abundance is loyalty, First Commander.”

“I recall your loyalty,” he replies, rubbing the side of his head where I’d clocked him as retribution for what he’d done to Gabriel. He was too embarrassed then to have been beaten by a little secondborn girl to tell on me, so I never had to pay for what I did. “Too bad your loyalty is not reciprocated.” His words sting. “I’ll make sure Agent Crow receives your gift.”

I worry for a moment about baiting Agent Crow, but the agent will do whatever he plans to do, regardless. A basket sent on my behalf by the First Commander, heir to the Clarity of Virtues, might be the one thing that makes him hesitate to act.

Everyone quiets when the next participant joins the circle. A halo-shaped circlet crowns the Clarity’s salt-and-pepper hair, thinner than his son’s. Thinner, too, is Fabian’s physique, attired for the evening in a similar vein as Grisholm. In his late forties, he’s a man of action who, I’m told, rarely sits down, and that comes across even in holographic form.

I’ve seen Fabian Bowie every day of my life in one capacity or another, be it on the virtual screen addressing the fatedoms or inside Mother’s office when I was much younger. On the occasions when we’ve met, he’s always been cordial, if somewhat dismissive. I’ve never minded being dismissed, though. Being less than perfect in his presence is never a good idea. I’ve witnessed some of his more ruthless decisions, like assassinations of firstborns who displeased him. Mother arranges these killings, usually by finding an assassin from the pool that Admiral Dresden cultivates. I learned early that Fabian Bowie demands absolute submission from all his subjects. The only exception is his firstborn son.