I follow Adam down the hall and a few steps from the Garden Room, Sam turns the corner. He's not wearing his uniform anymore. My comment about uniforms was true, I do like them. But on Sam, his typical black shirt, this time with a collar, looks even better. The cotton fabric hugs his pecs and tightens over his biceps and I remind myself not to stare, even if he is my boyfriend. The dark jeans he's wearing fit perfectly and class his shirt up even more.
He grins at me and takes my hand before gesturing toward the door. “Can't let you tumble into the lions' den alone.”
I smile. “Nice reference. Mom says these Port Heads are the religious, political, and economic leaders of WPN's Port cities, essentially ruling them like fiefdoms.” That's going to have to change, and I doubt they'll like it. Baby steps.
Sam narrows his eyes at Adam, who's standing quietly by the door. “I told you I'd be supervising her private security at all times. You shouldn't have brought her without me.”
Adam frowns. “You were still being fitted and she indicated she was ready to go. She's perfectly safe under my supervision.”
“Not your call.” Sam says.
“Uh, but it is my call.” I toss my hair and Sam has the decency to look chagrined.
He tugs me along behind him and away from Adam. We walk through the doors and into a room filled with windows and plants. The last time I entered this room I was hoping to see Sam alive. Now I'm walking in with him by my side, and my heart is a thousand pounds lighter for it. Chairs scratch against the floor when Sam and I walk inside, presumably so everyone can stand.
“No, no, please stay seated,” I say. “I'm not one for formalities.”
Wesley doesn't listen, walking around the table to greet me. He was here the last time I came to the Garden Room, and I'm relieved to see him again, this time sporting a dashing new suit. I guess when you're more patient with interminable fittings and stand still as long as they want, there are some payoffs. Nothing's been finished for Sam or me yet.
My request for informality notwithstanding, Wesley bows when he reaches my side. “Your Royal Highness I'm so glad you're here, although that means I won't have the attention of these amazing women and men all to myself anymore.” Wesley widens his eyes at me meaningfully, and I almost pity him. He's so good in crowds that sometimes I forget how exhausting it must be to act gracious and convivial all the time.
The seat my biological father occupied last time I was here is conspicuously empty, as are the seats to its left and right. I walk purposefully to the front of the table and rest my hands on the back of my bio father's chair. Sam and Wesley flank me.
“Thank you Wesley for entertaining these fine men and women until I could be here myself.” I smile at each person around the table in turn. Five men and two women, all wearing dark pantsuits, all seated as I asked. I hadn't realized there was some kind of uniform for attendance today. I glance at my white button down shirt and sigh. Too late to change now.
“I'm Ruby Solomon, daughter of David Solomon. Welcome to Galveston. I'm sure you've all been here many times before, but it's my first chance to welcome you all into my home.”
I glance at Josephine, who has taken an empty seat on my left at the far end of the table. Even she should be satisfied by my reference to Solomon as my dad. I hope the reminder’s worth the nasty taste in my mouth from saying the words. I force a smile as I sit and gesture for Wesley to take the seat to my left. Sam takes the one on my right.
“You've already met Wesley Fairchild, son of the leader of Port Gibson, and also my dearest friend. This is Samuel Roth, son of the leader of the DeciCouncil of the Unmarked, Jonathan Roth. He's also my new Chief of Military and Strategic Defense. Now if you wouldn't mind, could you please introduce yourselves?”
The man seated next to Sam stands. He has a full head of white hair and deep smile lines crease his weathered face. “My name's Sawyer Blevins, your Royal Highness. I'm Port Head in New Orleans, which also makes me your closest geographic neighbor. Your father was my first cousin, which means we're first cousins once removed.” He extends his hand, and I reach forward to clasp it in my own. His smile seems genuine. “We provide more oil and gas than any other port, as well as an abundance of corn, strawberries, and peaches. I'd love to have you out for a visit. You'll adore beignets and gumbo, I just know it.” He sits.
I relax a little. My mom's talk of the Port Heads demanding proof of who I am and her claims that my father's enemies killed him had me nervous about meeting them, but it's hard to fear someone who's smiling at me warmly and telling me we're related. Although, blood relation to David Solomon doesn't exactly leave me optimistic about his goodness.
I shift my gaze to the heavy-set woman next to him wearing a floral print blouse under her suit jacket. She stands up and licks her dark pink lips. “I'm Dolores Peabody, and I'm Port Head in Mobile, Alabama. We may not be related by blood, and Mobile isn't the closest to you geographically, but you'll find that we're quite useful to WPN. In fact, we manufacture and process nearly all the coal and most of the chemicals that supply every WPN settlement.” She inclines her head, and I'm grateful I don't need to reach across two chairs to shake her hand.
“It's wonderful to meet you. I'm sure we're all grateful for the products you provide.” I look around the table, making eye contact with each Port Head. “But of course, I want to make it clear that this isn't a competition.”
“Isn't it?” Dolores asks. “You don't know much about the role any of us play in the interconnected web that creates WPN's commerce.” She doesn't quite scowl, but her iron gray hair twisted in a tight bun, combined with tightly compressed lips doesn’t exactly convey a sense of welcome. “I'm pleased to meet you, happy to educate you, and I look forward to many years of working smoothly together.”
Josephine gasps, and I have no idea why. I glance at Wesley. He leans toward me and whispers. “You're queen. She works for you, not with you.”
Good grief. This was exactly the type of pettiness I dreaded. “You're happy to educate me? Well that's fine, but we won't be working together, will we?” I raise one eyebrow and look at her pointedly.
Dolores bows. “Pardon me, your Majesty, I meant working for you. It's been a long trip on short notice. Please excuse my inaccuracy.”
I hate word plays, slights, and politics. I want to run back to Baton Rouge now, and let Rafe deal with the Cleansing if it comes. If I do that, the blood of any Marked kids who die will be on my head. I grit my teeth and wonder whether I'm doing permanent damage to my molars. I glance at the man sitting next to Dolores so he'll realize it's his turn.
There aren't many fat people alive today. In Port Gibson, for example, Dolores would stand out as quite large, and she's only carrying twenty or thirty extra pounds. I vaguely remember people who were much, much, larger Before, and I've even heard that some people had surgery to reduce their stomach's ability to process food. Since the Marking, there simply isn't enough food to go around. Everything we eat requires dedicated work and is carefully divided.
When the man next to Dolores heaves himself upright, I can't keep my eyebrows from rising. He looked a little heavy from where he sat, but when he stands up his belly sticks out far enough that I could set a dinner plate on top and avoid using a table entirely.
“Quentin Clarke,” he says. “Pleased to meet you. Port Head for Savannah, Georgia. We provide nearly all the chicken, and much of the pork you'll eat. We also provide all the paper goods.”
“Well, I'm sure we're all grateful,” I say. “After all, who doesn’t like bacon? Pleased to meet you, Quentin.”
He bobs his head, his face mottled and red, his hair thinning on top. He collapses back into the chair and breathes a sigh of relief. He seems to dislike this whole business as much as I do, and my heart goes out to him. I imagine it was a long trip on short notice for him too, just as Dolores claimed.
The woman next to him stands, and smiles at me warmly. “My name is Rosa Alvarez, Port Head for Miami, Florida. W
e provide thousands of tons of citrus and most of your cattle. We also build almost all of WPN's ships. I would love to have you out for a tour anytime, you know. I can show you how to Salsa.”
I glance at Wesley. “Isn't salsa a condiment of some kind?”
Rosa's laugh starts in her belly and fills the room. “A condiment? You've never had salsa?”
I shake my head, my cheeks flushing.
“It comes in so many different flavors and varieties that you'll be amazed. It's the most delicious sauce you'll ever taste,” Rosa says, “but I was referring to the dance. It's wickedly fun. I'm delighted to meet you and I'm excited to welcome our first female monarch.” Her eyes dart quickly to Josephine. “No offense your majesty.”
Josephine smiles back. “None taken, Rosa, por supuesto. I understand your meaning.”
“I think it's my turn to introduce myself.” The tall man with dark brown skin sitting next to Wesley stands up and offers me his hand. No one in Unmarked society would shake hands, not anymore. I wonder whether it's recklessness, trust, or pride that prompts them to shake barehanded. I can't catch Tercera, so I shake the extended hand without fear. “My name's Terry Williams and I'm Port Head for Tampa, Florida.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” I say.
“Since everyone appears to be playing a game of one up, I'll just mention that Tampa produces more fish-”
Rosa snorts. “If you like catfish, the cockroach of the waterways.”
Terry pretends he didn't hear a thing, but he does elaborate. “We catch substantial quantities of lobster, shrimp, grouper and clams. But we also provide citrus and sugar, as well as the best fertilizer of any port.”
I reach forward and take the sugar tongs in my hands, putting two lumps of sugar in my teacup. “I'm delighted that you make sugar, Terry. Perhaps it’s a good time to suggest that everyone enjoy some tea while we continue the introductions. I've been an abominable hostess. Please do pour yourselves something to drink and help yourselves to some snacks.”
Two serving maids in grey uniforms, Melinda and Greta I think, walk from the back wall and begin pouring tea into teacups.
A thin man with a shock of bright red hair stands up next to Terry. “My name's Steve Young, and sadly I have no football talent myself.”
I glance at Sam to see whether he understands. He shakes his head. Wesley shrugs.
“Never mind,” the man says. “I forget how young you all are. It's an old joke from Before. I'm named after a famous football player and everyone used to laugh about it given that I'm so skinny and uncoordinated.”
“Ah,” I say, “well it's nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure's all mine,” he says. “I'm Port Head for Jacksonville, Florida, and we manufacture all the automobiles, movies, and electronics for WPN.”
“I've been wondering whether the automobiles were made recently or exceptionally well maintained. I'm very impressed that you’re still manufacturing them. Nice work.”
“Thank you. I'm happy to hear you’re pleased with our work. We would love to host you as well, anytime you'd like. And I'd be happy to sit down and take down design notes and ideas for your next shipment. We’d be flattered if you’d place a custom order for whatever car you might want, personally. It’s actually my coronation gift to you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe I can do a tour and visit each port soon. I'd be happy to see Jacksonville.”
Murmurs of agreement come from around the table.
“And I'm the last one to introduce myself,” says a man with dark, curly hair and a thick Spanish accent. He stands and opens his hands wide. “Which is fitting because I live the furthest away. I'm Jose Fuerte, Port Head for La Ciudad del Carmen in Tabasco, Mexico. Cars, fish, chemicals?” He scrunches his nose. “Even salsa does not compare with what we bring to you.”
He reaches under his chair and Sam tenses beside me. I'm positive he's holding a gun in his hand under the table.
Jose pulls a box out, and places it on the inlaid wood surface of the dining room table. “We manufacture many things, and grow many more, from bananas to sweet potatoes, and even coconut. But we are most appreciated for our chocolate. I've brought you my wife's specialty, a box of chocolate-coconut truffles.”
“Tomorrow's the day for tribute,” Dolores says. “This is a violation of protocol.”
Jose chuckles. “This is not a tribute nor would any truffles be a fit tribute for a monarch. This is merely a gift from a dear family friend.” He stands and reaches over Steve and Terry to pass the box to Wesley. “Your father gave me my first job in America many years ago. He supported me and helped me to build a business that was a great success here. It fed my family and I sent much of the money I made back home. I was devastated when you were stolen from him at the hospital. We put pictures of you on boxes of chocolates for years in the hopes someone would have seen you. I'm overjoyed he was at least able to see his beautiful daughter before God called him back home. It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Royal Highness, in anything you may need. Felicidades.”
“Wow,” Wesley whispers.
I lift the lid on the box and gasp. Gold bars aren't as rare these days as the beautiful, rich, coconut flake encrusted dark chocolate balls stuffed into this container. I want to eat one now, but then I'd have to share with everyone in the room. I hand them to Sam who tucks them under his chair. “That was a very thoughtful gift Jose, thank you.”
He bows his head and shoulders before sitting down.
I might have worried for no reason. Other than Dolores, the Port Heads all seem to be quite welcoming, if a little competitive amongst themselves.
“Thank you all,” I say. “After tomorrow's coronation, I'd be delighted to invite you to a dinner to discuss my plans for the future of WPN. You've done a lot with my father's guidance, and I know as God fearing men and women you'll be delighted to hear about the charitable efforts I'd like to undertake to help the Marked population. They’re currently struggling mightily. Their hormone suppressants are failing, but they're making great strides with new information they received about a cure. In fact—”
Sam squeezes my hand under the table at the same time as Wesley stomps on my foot.
“Oof.”
“Excuse me?” Dolores asks. “Oof? In fact what?”
“I didn't quite understand you either,” Terry says.
Sam and Wesley both stopped me from telling them about my role with Tercera and the cure. It might be for the best, but now how do I recover from almost explaining it?
“In fact,” I say, “uh, I hope, uh, you'll all agree to join me for dinner tomorrow. I can't wait to elaborate more on my plans then.”
I smile and they all smile back. My heart lifts. Perhaps it will really be that easy to prevent the Cleansing and gain the support of WPN's local leaders. I imagine Rafe's shocked face when I show up with a hundred of Quentin's fat chickens or a case of Jose's chocolates. Or better yet, a few of Steve's new cars!
“We're all delighted to accept your invitation,” Rosa says. “But for now we feel we better leave you be. After all, your Trial of Faith starts in only five hours. We announced that it will be open to the public and we're expecting quite the turnout. I'm sure you have some last minute preparations to complete.”
The smile drops off my face, in spite of my efforts to keep it. “Um, I need to prepare for my what in five hours?”
“Yes,” Josephine says, “what are you talking about?”
Dolores tilts her head, “Why the Trial of Faith, my dear. Your husband issued the edict only last week. It stipulates that any heir to the throne of World Peace Now must complete a Trial by Faith to prove their worthiness unto God prior to any coronation. Each of us have done our part and completed our list of questions.”
“What questions?” Wesley asks. “We haven't heard a thing about this.”
Rosa glances around the table. “I can't speak to the others, but the topic I chose for my scriptural doctrine questions is that of pray
er. I'll be asking Her Royal Highness about the proper order of prayer, according to the words of the prophets in the Holy Bible.”
Heads bob all around. “Mine focus on the Psalms of God,” Sawyer says. “I figured they'd be the easiest thing for you to answer, darling Ruby, since those were David's favorite chapters. Even though you knew him for a short time, I'm positive he set you to read those at least.”
“Of course.” Josephine's eyes bug out a little, in spite of her forced smile. I know her well enough now to recognize that buggy eyes indicate agitation. Extreme agitation.
“What time did you say it was happening again?” I ask.
“Five hours from now,” Rosa says.
“And since we've obviously never heard of this,” I ask, “can you tell me? What happens if I don't pass this Test? Who's chosen to rule if I fail?”
“Oh you'll choose, of course,” Quentin says. “Through the Divination of Ashes.”
“Uh huh,” I say, “Well at least now I know. I'll be sure to be ready.” I glance at the clock and add five hours. “At seven o'clock sharp.”
Wesley makes small talk with the Port Heads. Most of them don't even sip their tea or nibble any of the sandwiches before they leave. Probably because Josephine simply stares at the wall like a crazy person, ignoring anything they say.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes after the last one has finally gone.
“Ruby, this is bad.” Sam swears. “Is there any chance you know anything about the Bible? Have you ever read it? Like, any of it?”
I look him in the eye. “It's long, and it's about a guy named Jesus. That much I know.” I shake my head. “But otherwise, nope.”
“We're so screwed,” Wesley says.
“Maybe there's like a summary I can read or something,” I say. “Mom? You’re the expert here. Any suggestions?”
When she finally turns around and I can see her face, it's as pale as the cream on the tea service tray.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
“You need to leave right now,” she whispers.
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 50
