“Three days?”

“Yes, you’ve had a terrible fever.”

Fever…

“You can pick whichever flower you want,” she says, back to the same question. “I'll make sure you always have fresh ones in your room.”

“Pick a flower,” I repeat. “Pick the petals, one by one. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. Who will he choose? Um. Aster. I pick Aster.”

“Most Silk Girls pick their own name.”

“Aster is foreign, though.” I wiggle my toes again, little beans waving. A three-day fever? “Aster isn’t from around here. It’s not like the rest.”

“No, but that’s okay. They produced seeds when you were named. And we started growing Aster ourselves. They turned out beautifully.”

I laugh at the silly dream. “Really?”

“Of course. And your pills.” She is suddenly in front of me, looking like a stunning Xin De Goddess. So tall and strong. She has brown hair and skin, long dark lashes, and a birthmark on her left cheek shaped like a star.

“Woah,” I mutter, gazing up at her. Then I look down at the pills lying on her palm. Two tiny pills. One white. One blue.

“Do the other girls get these, too?”

“No. These are just for you. You were poisoned, Aster. You got tetanus and have been sedated and on IV treatment for the past three days. To help you heal. These are a low dose. Soon, you should be mostly better.” She smiles. “Take them.”

I swallow the pills.

“And finally, Sire would like to know what ‘meal you will not forget to eat.’”

I blink at her.

“His exact words. So…” She nods to encourage me to answer. “What will it be?”

“I’ve always liked warm oatmeal and honey, but it’s hard to get. They are both so rare. Just like Asters.”

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Two

Rome

“What temperature did Aster choose?”

My ears twitch to the sound of her name, and I find myself detouring from the double doors that lead outside to the hunting grounds. Instead, I follow Cairo’s voice toward his rooms. I wonder what he makes of her.

At the far end of the hall, the door to his chamber is open and a Watcher stands in the gap.

He doesn’t allow anyone to enter his space except for me. Had he a choice, he might object to that, too. He does not.

“Scolding, Master,” she answers.

Cairo nods. “And the flower?”

“Aster, Master.”

“And the sheet?”

I continue down the corridor, the hard rap of my boots on the concrete draws The Watcher’s attention. Noticing my approach, she swallows and bows, her chin to her chest, her eyes cast downward as I pass her.

“Sire.”

“The sheet?” I press, strolling into Cairo’s pristine quarters. Wall-to-wall bookcases carved from the rich, red flesh of ancient trees surround a matching single desk and leather studded chair.

Cairo doesn’t look away from the three-dimensional screen across from him—a giant vision that covers the wall. He swipes his finger and pinches to move through the depth of the screen. Documenting the finer details hidden in each answer and filing them accordingly.

The Watcher clears her throat. “Yellow, erm, gold.” She cannot read, though her eyes follow the holographic numbers and lines as though a secret may be revealed.

She is fascinated.

Outside Trade-approved buildings, there is minimal tech available. A single, large vision screen is in every tower to broadcast a weekly update and weather cautions. The Trade Connect Building has centralised computer networks to store data, and communication between other TC buildings is done through underground copper wiring. This is used strictly for security and intel purposes. We uncovered an old disc a few years back and are working on locating a satellite from the old-world, but throwing signals out into a hazy-cloaked abyss is the same as wishing on a star.

That is it.

Besides the Trade medical laboratories, all other tech has been banned since the Gene Age, when everyone had a device and the ability to communicate, create their own propaganda, influence… Dangerous times.

The Trade resurrected the land with the peaceful notion of returning to our roots, to Meaningful Purpose.

No entertainment. No confusion.

Basically, we don’t fucking trust Common with tech anymore, nor do we think they are capable of peace and sustainability when they have access to it.

History proved this.

Cairo hums approvingly. “She is very agreeable.”

Conditioned. He means conditioned. Compliant. I must admit, I am somewhat surprised she didn’t choose a different colour or flower and give her individuality away.

It’s there.

Cairo finally offers the girl his attention. “Isn’t she.” Then he looks at me. “Paisley,” he adds, “Why do we have different Trades?”

She straightens, thinking it’s a test. “So we all contribute to The Cradle, Master. So we all serve The Cradle.”

“Yes, of course, sweet girl,” he muses, “But why just one each? They link in some cases. Blend. For instance,” —he leans backward in his chair— “why not have you dress Aster, too? Or bathe her?”

Her breaths become shallow, feeling an ulterior motive to his conversation. She is right, but not in the way she suspects. It is for me. Not her. “I was born for parchment. I'm to guide, watch, and convey.”

“Yes,” he keeps his face impartial, “but why can't you do more if it relates to your current role and placement?”

She presses her hand to her frantic heart. “I suppose that I could do more⁠—"

“Don't panic yourself,” he offers, leaning forward again, and she exhales hard. “I'm not asking you to do anything outside of your Trade, Paisley. I never will.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“That was scary? Wasn’t it? The unexpected? My expectations? Not knowing what I needed. Overwhelming. I am sure you would prefer the comfort of the boundaries given by The Trade. And something always has to give—if we try to be too much. It's why a Silk Girl must not revel in grand ideas. She is to be singularly focused on producing. One can't be available to their lord, focused on his needs, if they dream of adventures. Their true Meaningful Purpose would suffer. Wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, Master. Have I done something wrong?”

He smiles smoothly. “No, Paisley. Good girl. You may go back to your Purpose.”

With a quick curtsy, she scurries away.

“Wonderful speech,” I note. “Who was it for?”

I stop in front of The Trade Master, and he stands, offering me the slightest bow before sitting again. Ever the traditionalist, nothing stops him from his sequence of interactions and customs.

“Rome. You cannot execute a Wardeness without a trial,” he states as he returns to his screen.

“I don’t intend to.”

“Good. I have booked it in two first-lights. We will travel together when you wake tomorrow. The Wardeness was born in the Lower-tower and so she will be trialled there, and this will give us an opportunity to meet with the Trade men at the weir, it is on the way, and they need to see your interest in their Purpose.” He looks at me, intrigue well-hidden on his face. Not well enough. I know you, fucker. “What was the Wardeness’ crime?”

I deadpan. “She was careless with my property.”

“The little Silk Girls. Iris and Aster. She took them on an outing, correct? Without permission.”

He knows the answer.

I nod, curt. “Yes.”

He returns to his screen. “I watched the young Silk Girls leave the tank. The redhead seemed perfectly formed. Were there any issues with her that you noticed?”

“I didn’t.”

I didn’t notice her at all.

“But you travelled with the other? Aster? Am I right? To what purpose did you need to accompany her?” he says, not asking the question he actually wants. “She must have needed something to warrant your attention?”