Lila refused to take back her wish. She’d never get such an opportunity again, and she’d be damned if she would waste it.
The chairwoman had been forced to grant her request, signing a contract later that evening after a long battle between two sets of shouting lawyers.
“Such a waste, such a loss,” her mother had despaired at every opportunity during her first year, usually at meals and in front of guests. Eventually, it had devolved into prim sighs and frowns.
Arguments followed. So many arguments.
The same argument they’d had that morning.
Lila laid her head upon her desk and tried not slam it into the ebony.
One thing was clear. Her mother was getting antsy about the contract, and if she didn’t want the chairwoman to toss it out, then she’d have to pick a few events during the season and attend, appeasing and teasing the woman.
Three really busy, really crowded events.
Perhaps she’d take a lover this season as well, a senator who wanted a season’s break from the heir carousel. Though Bullstow was home, school, and work to all firstborn sons of Saxon heirs, they only chose the most beautiful, the most pleasant, and the most charming men amongst themselves to serve as senators. Despite their annoying tendency to talk too often about their children—and the promise of them—she had occasionally paired off with one out of season. Some of them could be quite fun, not to mention attractive in their tailored Bullstow coats and breeches.
It was only sex, after all, and she hadn’t gotten enough of it in the last couple of years. Her mother’s only recourse would be to prattle on about reversing her birth control, something Lila had no intention of doing.
Ever.
Lila sat up, rubbed her forehead, and scrolled through the rest of the messages on her palm, shaking off thoughts of children and senators and contracts. She had bigger things to worry about, like the fact that Tristan had not bothered to reply to her message.
Annoyed, she pulled up the New Bristol Times, checking if a certain column had been posted that morning. The column was famous within the city and beyond, as was its Sunday counterpart. One from Mael Faucheux, the other from Alexandre Bouchard, two columns on opposite sides of every issue, an ever-evolving conversation between two writers.
One was always just a bit more persuasive than the other.
Tristan DeLauncey penned both, not that he could use his real name—not that Tristan DeLauncey even was his real name. It always surprised her that a man as infuriating as Tristan could write so persuasively, so beautifully, and so intelligently.
Unsurprisingly, he’d chosen the Slave Bill as his topic, that piece of rumored legislation that might one day free lowborn and highborn from the consequences of business failure, allowing them to retain their mark if their businesses failed.
He’d managed to turn in his column on time, not bothering to spare two seconds to send her a message. It must have been too much for him, too taxing while he was so busy, subtly changing public opinion to his own views.
Grumbling, Lila typed his ID into one of her programs. She drummed her fingers against her knee while her computer traced his location.
East New Bristol. Shippers Lane.
Lila didn’t need the rest of the address to know exactly where Tristan had gone.
She switched off her computer, silencing her radio before leaving. The explosion had managed to drown out talk of the Slave Bill. Today the announcers had filled the air with remembrances of the train derailment years before, calling out the names of the dead and their bios, rehashing conspiracy theories that involved the Almstakers.
At least they hadn’t begun to question the gas explosion, though she doubted that Bullstow could keep a lid on it for too much longer. People liked seeing patterns, especially where there weren’t any.
She dug into her closet and changed into a pair of Kevlar jeans, throwing her leather riding jacket atop her a gray sweater, neither marked by her family’s coat of arms. Stuffing her jammer and some cash into her pocket, she wrapped a plain matching scarf around her neck and sprinted down the hall, hoping that Tristan would not leave his location before she got to him.
“Going for a ride?” Alex asked as Lila trundled down the great house stairs.
“Whenever possible.” Lila darted across the parlor and through the front door. She marched across the garden path and entered the family garage, ignoring the sports cars, antiques, and sensible vehicles inside. Instead she picked up her keys from a peg near the door and slipped her helmet onto her head, swinging her leg over her silver Firefly.
She scrolled through her snoop programs on her palm and waved it over her bike, a bike that would have cost a year’s pay if she depended only upon her militia salary. Lila would have bought it anyway, even if she didn’t have her substantial dividends to fall back on. Motorcycles were her one weakness. Before she had settled on her Firefly, she had owned four of various makes and models. But after her Firefly, Lila had been spoiled for all others. She had sold the rest within the month.
Her palm beeped. She hopped up and dug a little gray chip from the seat cowl. The device beeped again near the front fairing, and Lila picked out a GPS tracker and an audio bug. Instead of crushing them under her boot, she tossed the chips on the Firefly beside hers. Her sister had bought the red bike the same day as Lila bought hers, not out of jealously, but because she found the bike beautiful and had never ridden one before. She wanted the experience.
Of course, Jewel had not gone near it after the first week, but Senator Dubois, the man her sister had spent the last four seasons with, took great delight in it.
As did the Randolph family mechanic and her assistants.
Lila started the engine and sped through the compound, waving at Sergeant Tripp as she passed by the guard post outside the south gate. The blackcoat puffed on his pipe and waved back, leaning in to whisper something into the ear of the rookie beside him.