by Brenda Hiatt
“I, ah, have a list of interview requests to go over with you,” Mr. O’Gara said after a moment, breaking the awkward silence.
I rounded on him. “How could you agree to this? Don’t you remember what happened when we were apart over Thanksgiving? How am I supposed to convince people I’m a leader if I get that sick again?”
“I agreed because it will help you get Acclaimed. Nothing else is as important right now, you know that. If you get sick, we’ll deal with it. Right now, we need to line up interviews and appearances so that you can undo the damage that’s been done as quickly as possible.” There was no compromise whatsoever in his tone—or in his emotions.
“Fine,” I snapped, still furious. “Where do I need to be when?”
No one else said a word as he led me back to the table, pulling up his omni screen as he went. “The main Nuathan Network should be first as it has the widest viewership. Regan Ryan has a morning show and a reputation for informal, chatty interviews, so it shouldn’t be too adversarial. She has a studio right here in Tullymayne. Ten a.m.?”
“Fine,” I said again. I tried to tamp down my anger, telling myself that the quicker I could get Acclaimed, the quicker I’d get Rigel back. And if I was going to start feeling yucky, it made sense to do my most important interviews first.
“Excellent. I’ll confirm that one.” He touched the holo display. “Then I suggest a couple of village square appearances, with moderated questions. Ballytadhg and Glenamuir are the most sympathetic. An Informatics interview would be good as well. They’re open-minded and likely to show you in a good light. After that, things could get trickier unless we turn perceptions around quickly.”
He proceeded to line up six or seven appearances for me over the next couple of days, a ridiculously tight schedule. I agreed to all of them, doubting I’d stay healthy much longer than that. I hoped I was wrong, for Rigel’s sake as well as my own. And Nuath’s, of course.
“That will do for now.” He closed the display. “Let’s see how these go before considering other requests.”
We joined the others, who were still watching the interminable news, switching back and forth between live reporting and more in-depth text updates. Nothing much had changed. Some people were making excuses for me while others seemed to think I was unfit to do more than sweep floors. Nearly everyone talked about Rigel like he was some kind of vile seducer. They only disagreed about whether I’d been a willing participant or a hapless victim, either through understandable gratitude or arrant stupidity.
I tried to keep track of which groups held which views so I could do a better job winning over the unsympathetic ones and solidifying support from those already on my side, but my attention kept wandering back to Rigel. Would he even be allowed to contact me? I didn’t dare check my omni in front of everyone else, so when Sean announced he was hungry I jumped up.
“I’m going to run upstairs and change before dinner. No, that’s okay, Molly, I don’t need help. You can stay here too, Cormac. I’ll only be a few minutes. Feel free to start without me.”
The moment I reached my bedroom, I pulled out my new omni. Unfortunately, the only message was from Eric, sent half an hour ago. Heard RS is with grandmother. Wise decision. Stay focused.
Irritated, I threw the omni on the bed. Was every single person on Mars against us? I yanked off the conservative outfit I was still wearing from my press conference, fuming at the injustice of my whole stupid life. Vowing to get Rigel back whether I got Acclaimed or not, I stalked into the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my hair into a less severe style.
As I discontentedly pulled on a more comfortable outfit, I suddenly remembered something. Morag Teague wasn’t Rigel’s only relative on Mars. His father had a brother here! Could he help me? Before I even finished that thought, I snatched up my omni from the bed.
“Stuart,” I said to it, dredging Rigel’s uncle’s first name from my memory. “Um, Tor Stuart?”
It was my first time using an omni, so I was a little surprised when it worked. A little holo-screen popped up, showing a man’s face. “Excellency?” He looked shocked. “I, ah, wasn’t anticipating—”
“No, I know. And I apologize, especially since we’ve never even met. But you’re Rigel Stuart’s uncle, aren’t you?”
He inclined his head. He was as handsome as Rigel’s father—in other words, extremely—but noticeably older. “I am. How can I be of service?”
I quickly explained about Morag taking Rigel away. “Mr. O’Gara says she has that authority, but is there anything you can do to get her to bring him back?”
“I doubt it, Excellency.” He looked genuinely regretful. “Her family and mine have not been on speaking terms for over a century, and as Rigel’s guardian she has precedence, as the elder. The only person with the authority to overrule her would be Shim, my father, but as he is on Earth—”
Though I’d known it was a long shot, disappointment settled heavily in my stomach. “I understand. Thank you anyway. Um, have a nice evening.”
He bowed and I cut the connection, fuming again. If only Shim were here— But all I could do at the moment was go down to dinner.
The others were still in the living room watching the feeds and Sean waved me over to join him on the couch. “Come look! Your numbers are still inching up, though not as fast as before.”
I glanced at the vidscreen. Sure enough, my approval rating was now over 50%.
When I didn’t sit, Sean stood. “I’m doing my bit to help, too. Dad had me record a statement while you were upstairs and I’m doing a couple of interviews tomorrow. That looks better on you, by the way.”
I glanced down at my pants, the closest thing to jeans I’d found, and simple blue blouse. “Uh, thanks. So, dinner?” I wasn’t hungry, but Sean’s compliment—and the admiration I sensed from him—made me uncomfortable. Better to turn his attention to food, which never seemed far from his thoughts anyway.
While I picked at my meal, Mr. O gave me a rundown on the sorts of questions I could expect during my three appearances tomorrow.
“Be prepared for personal questions, since that’s what the media is focusing on right now. Let’s practice again how you’ll deflect those back to policy issues, shall we?”
After dinner, Sean again urged me to sit next to him on the couch. This time I did. “You didn’t eat much,” he commented. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Actually, I could swear I was already feeling the first hints of Rigel withdrawal, but that had to be purely psychological. “Just a little tired.”
“We’ll make sure you get an early night.” He reached over to give my hand a light squeeze. “Busy day tomorrow and all.”
His hand felt surprisingly warm and comforting around my cold one, but after a moment I eased my hand out of his grasp with an apologetic smile. “Good idea.” I turned my attention back to the screen.
My approval rating had inched up another fraction, but there were also opinion polls on every aspect of the “scandal.” Mr. O pointed out a new one showing 27% willing to break with tradition to elect someone other than me as leader, followed by a short list of names, each with a favorability rating. The top name was Interim Governor Nels Murdoch, with Devyn Kane in second place. “That’s the important one to turn around.”
Then I saw a different poll, one that almost made me lose what little dinner I’d eaten. What penalty should Rigel Stuart face for breaching his oath and defiling the Princess?
“Penalty? Defile? What the—? How long has that one been up?” I demanded.
“First time I’ve seen it.” Sean frowned in apparent concern, but when I “read” him, I picked up as much satisfaction as worry. “Seems a little harsh.”
I stared at him. “A little? When Rigel didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Okay, sorry. It’s way harsh.”
But I could tell he didn’t mean it. Irritated, I scooted a few inches away from him on the couch.
“I doubt Rigel w
ill be charged with anything,” Mr. O reassured me. “Some of the news outlets lean toward the sensational. This is one of them.” He quickly switched to a feed where the top story was water management instead of the latest spin on my personal life.
A few minutes later, I was hit by an intense wave of exhaustion. “I think I’m going to turn in. You guys can fill me in on any developments in the morning.”
Mr. O’Gara nodded understandingly. “Probably a good idea. It’s been a stressful day for all of us, but especially for you. We’ll talk more about how to handle tomorrow’s interviews over breakfast. Sleep well, Emileia.”
Yawning, I headed to the elevator, too tired for the stairs. Molly went up with me, claiming she was sleepy, too. On the ship I’d felt weird when Molly helped me get ready for bed, but tonight I was grateful. I wondered why I was so wiped, then reminded myself that over the past two days I’d arrived on Mars, learned all that scary stuff about the Grentl, conducted my very first press conference, and had Rigel snatched away from me without warning.
Anybody would be exhausted after a couple of days like that.
CHAPTER 29
Ballytadhg (BAH-lee-teeg) (pop. 1,106): east-central Nuathan village known for Arts fine and industry
Sean
M seems a little out of it when she comes down—late—to breakfast. I can tell Dad’s worried, though he pretends not to be. He just reminds her what to expect at each of today’s appearances.
“Regan Ryan generally tries to put her guests at ease and engage them in conversation. She’ll focus on the personal but will likely keep things upbeat. I don’t foresee any problems there. Ballytadhg is likely to be more policy oriented, though if the forum moderator takes direct questions from the audience, we can’t know for sure. In Glenamuir all questions will be screened by the moderator, which should keep things under control. Still, you’ll need to stay on your toes for all three.”
She nods, but I can’t tell if she’s taking in his words or not. She’s definitely not taking in much breakfast.
“You okay?” I whisper, looking at her plate.
She immediately sits up a little straighter and nods. “Fine. Just too nervous to eat much. You can finish this if you want.”
“No time.” Dad throws down his napkin and stands, his own breakfast only half eaten. “We need to be going.”
During the few minutes it takes to reach our destination, Dad quizzes M again with likely questions. She answers, but slowly. I’m worried about her.
Regan Ryan’s Tullymayne studio is in a high-rise, so we’re escorted up to the ninth floor, then into a little waiting room.
“Regan will be introducing you in just a moment, Princess,” the woman tells M. “Your companions can remain here during your interview.”
Molly goes to sit down. “Isn’t Regan interviewing you today, too, Sean?”
“Right after M, I think, unless she calls me in sooner. That’ll probably be up to you,” I say to M.
“Oh. Um, okay.” She still looks like she’s not totally awake.
The door opens again and the same young woman motions to M, whispering that the broadcast is already live. She frowns when Cormac follows but doesn’t try to stop him. I wish I could go with M, too. She looks like she could use the support. I settle for watching her on a vidscreen in the corner.
The studio is set up like a living room, with a couch and chairs, probably to help the guests relax. I hope it works for M. Regan Ryan, a tall brunette, bows to her. “Welcome to Nuath Newsworthy, Princess Emileia. I’m honored to have you here today. Please, won’t you make yourself comfortable?”
M sits in one chair and the hostess sits in the other, both half-facing the camera.
“Thank you, Regan, and thank you for having me here.” M’s voice is steady, to my relief. “As I said yesterday, I’m looking forward to letting the people learn more about me.”
“That’s exactly what this interview is for, Princess.” Regan gives her a big, fake-looking smile. “So, tell me, how did it feel to learn the truth about who you are, who your father and grandfather were?”
For the next half hour they talk about everything that happened last fall. Just like Dad coached her, M hardly mentions Rigel at all. Regan acts more interested in M’s feelings than the events everybody already knows about. She keeps trying to get M to elaborate on how shocked she was to learn about Nuath and her real identity and all.
“Yes, it was pretty heady stuff for an unpopular nobody who’d never left Indiana, or even owned a cell phone, to find out I was a Princess,” M says with a little laugh. But it sounds forced, and she looks paler than when she went in.
Regan, still with that fake smile, acts all surprised. “Unpopular? You? That’s hard to believe, I must say.” No kidding. But according to M and everybody else at Jewel High, it was true.
“Well, my adopted aunt and uncle aren’t particularly well off,” M explains. “And until I started spending time with other Echtrans, I was nearsighted, so I wore glasses. One thing that helped convince me the Stuarts were telling me the truth was the way I changed once I was around them.”
“And then, of course, the O’Garas came to Jewel, which must have made even more of a difference?” Regan says, her smile getting even bigger and faker.
“Um, yes. Of course.” I can tell M wants to say more—probably stuff Dad told her not to.
“So, how did you feel when you learned that Sean O’Gara was your destined Consort? It must have seemed like meeting your very own Prince Charming, to borrow a term from your Earth fairy tales.”
I hold my breath, since that’s not a question Dad coached her on. It obviously flusters M a little, because she waits just a hair too long before saying, “Oh, yes, Sean and his family have been great.” Not exactly an agreement, but not a contradiction, either. I let my breath back out.
Now Regan turns her plastic smile to the camera. “As it happens, we also have Sean O’Gara here in the studio today. I know our viewers are dying to meet him, so if you have no objection, Princess, I’d like to invite him to join us.”
Dad warned me this might happen, but I’m still caught off guard. It helps a little when M smiles and says, “No objection at all, Regan.”
The woman that took M into the studio is already motioning urgently to me, so I follow her, then sit in the chair on M’s other side while Regan introduces me.
“Thank you for joining us, Sean. I’ve looked forward to meeting you as much as our viewers have, after hearing so much about you. Let’s start with a little bit about your background. You grew up here in Nuath, didn’t you?”
I shoot a quick glance at M. She looks even sicker up close. “Um, yes. I was born in Thiaraway, but my family moved to Glenamuir when I was two, after Faxon…you know.”
Regan fires more questions at me about my early life and my parents’ involvement in the Resistance. I try to answer without letting my distraction show, but I can tell M is close to losing it. There are beads of sweat on her upper lip and her face is almost white now. Regan doesn’t seem to notice, totally focused on me, but I’m afraid M is about to either pass out or throw up, neither of which will do her any good at all in the polls.
I rattle off a canned response to Regan’s next question while frantically trying to think of some way I can help M hold it together until we’re off camera. She swallows like she’s about to hurl and suddenly I remember Thanksgiving dinner at her house, when she looked almost exactly the same. And I remember what helped.
“You were in Bailerealta, Ireland, when you first learned that Princess Emileia was alive, weren’t you?” Regan is asking me. “Tell me, how did you feel when you heard the news?”
I smile down at M, desperately hoping my idea will work. “Like I’d been struck by lightning. Like the universe had suddenly expanded with bright possibility.” True, even if I rehearsed it earlier.
“So you were excited?”
“Excited is a massive understatement. I couldn’t get to the Uni
ted States, to Jewel, Indiana, quickly enough. And obviously I wasn’t disappointed when I got there.” I reach over and put my hand on top of M’s, where it’s resting on the arm of her chair.
I feel the wonderful tingle I always get from her even though she flinches slightly, like she does before pulling away. But she doesn’t pull away. She glances at me, her green eyes wide and startled. Then, as I watch, color creeps back into her cheeks and she sits up a little straighter, paying attention again.
Elation and relief lance through me that I really can heal her like this—but then those feelings evaporate as I realize what that means: that the reason she was sick in the first place is because of Rigel. Again.
M doesn’t look at me again as the interview continues, but she also doesn’t move her hand away from mine. She must know as well as I do that she can’t afford to while we’re on camera, both because of how it might look, and because she’ll start feeling sick again.
“And what about you, Princess?” Regan asks. “Sean O’Gara must have seemed quite something after only knowing Earth boys all your life.”
“Yes, definitely,” she replies after a slight hesitation. I know she’s thinking about Rigel. “Of course, I had no idea who he was at first. That he was supposed to be my Consort one day, I mean.”
“It must have been very exciting to learn that,” Regan prompts. I tense, worried she’ll finally goad M into saying something about Rigel on the air—maybe something about how upset they both were when Uncle Allister blurted out the truth about me at Rigel’s birthday party.
“Exciting is an understatement.” M is echoing my words from a minute ago but I know her meaning is totally different.
I can’t help it, I take my hand off hers. But I try to do it casually, so it won’t look like it has anything to do with what she just said. Her hand gives a little twitch, like she wants to grab my hand back—or maybe that’s my own wishful thinking.
