Illusions of Fate

He grins. “You’d be amazed at what I can do. And then we’ll get you on a boat back to Melei, where you’ll be safe. Say the word and I’ll make it all better. You’ll never have to think about this country or anyone in it, ever again.”

And in that moment I know a simple truth: that is not what I want.

I squeeze Kelen’s hand, then step away. “I think I need to fight this one on my own.”

His mouth twists wryly. “You always had to be in control, didn’t you? Clever Jessa. Never could accept help.”

I offer him a regretful smile. “You know me.”

“No, I guess I really don’t.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and, shrugging his shoulders, walks away

.

That evening I pace the park, reading passages from my most recent school assignment: one of my father’s books, this one about the colonization of Melei. Little reading is done, though, between throwing it in a fit of rage against a tree and picking it up again to repeat the whole process.

I owe Finn an apology. The problem is that I have no idea how to find his front door. I can see the window where I climbed out, as well as the large oak tree that I jumped onto and scrambled down to the ground. But there’s no door anywhere on that section of connected town houses. I’ve already tried ringing the bell at both adjacent properties; neither was Finn’s. In fact, neither butler knew that Lord Ackerly lived anywhere in the area.

Nothing to be done for it. Tucking my skirts into my boots, I climb the tree. Mama scolded me, but I always knew the hours I put into perfecting this skill would be useful one day. After scooting down the branch nearest the window, I realize I’ll have to throw myself at it. If it’s locked I will be in a rather dangerous scrape.

Leaning as far as I can, I grab onto the sill and push the window open just as I lose my balance. I tip forward, falling into the room and landing with a hip-bruising thud on the black tile floor of Finn’s washroom.

Graceful, no. But effective.

Fixing my skirts and my blouse, I tuck the book under my arm and walk out of the washroom. The hall has more doors than I remember. I look for the library, but the first room I try is wrong. I back out, then stop, and slowly cross the threshold.

The walls are filled with art. More art than I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. And not just Alben art, studies of unsmiling people and unmoving fruit, placid and lifeless landscapes. Some of it is clearly Gallen, some Saxxone, and there . . .

I’m standing in front of the largest piece, a huge landscape painted on rough, inexpensive canvas, when Finn says, “Jessamin?” behind me, confusion coloring his voice.

I don’t turn around. “He dismisses our art.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I wave the book in my hand without turning around. “My father. He has an entire section on the primitive arts of the Melenese people. He says our finest artists lack technique, lack the ability to translate the real world onto canvas. He can’t see that it’s not about transferring the world exactly how it is, but rather expressing how it feels.”

Finn stands next to me. We look at the painting, a riot of color in green and boldest red, a painting I recognized at once as portraying the fire-petals in full bloom. It is obviously Melenese, though few of our artists ever sell their work. There is no demand for it, no esteem for something so “primitive.”

“I don’t know who painted it,” he says softly. “My mother had it in her sitting room. When I looked at it, it was everything I wanted the world to feel like. It’s the most beautiful thing I have, and I would not change a thing about it.”

I nod, finding myself quite unable to speak for a moment. “It’s a horrible book,” I finally say. “He’s a dreadful writer. Pedantic in the extreme and showing a clear inability to see good in any culture other than his own. Patronizing, too, as though my entire island were filled with precious infants in need of learning how to do everything from caring for the sick to learning world history. Did you know that in the dozen years after Melei was colonized, we lost a third of the population to pox? Two of my aunts, half of my mother’s cousins. And the children are sent to ‘superior’ schools learn the history of a culture that is not theirs and does not want them. Many of us are not even fluent in our own language.” I sigh heavily. “It’s like a song I can’t remember all the words to. This is a terrible, terrible book.”

“To say nothing of the fact that Milton Miller is a dreadful name.”

I snort. “He’s the most horrible sort of man. Even the way he blinks his eyes irritates me. And his class is beyond dull.”

“He’s a fool. Here.” Finn takes the book from me and opens to a random passage. “‘The women of Melei, though too dark of skin to be truly beautiful, are given to great passion and must be trained in the ways of modesty, morality, and decorum.’”

“From the married man who took a lover while there on a research trip.”

“It is an odd training method.”

I look at the fire-petal painting. “I can’t believe someone could come to my island and see only how it could be reshaped as Albion. I don’t think this whole country a waste—”

“How kind.”

“Shush. It has its own peculiar charms, and admittedly does some things much better than we ever did. But why remake Melei in its image? Why not learn from its brightest parts, share knowledge and resources, and allow Melei to continue to exist as fits it best?”

“Because men are silly, prideful things, and what they love they must possess.”