Chapter 40 - Information Control [Part 2]

  “You shouldn’t fling such gossip around like that, Bea,” Fleur chided, but her smile lacked conviction. “They are still investigating. Or, so they say,” she added, whispering the last bit.

  “It is odd timing,” Moleana mused, her tone serious. “The seniors are furious—the old chef could recreate just the most fantastic dishes from the Empire...”

  Seraphina offered a tight-lipped, but still dazzling, smile. “By all means, tell me every scandal you overhear. Life grows dull without a little… seasoning.”

  Before more could be said, Sir Gravens strode up, the robes of his uniform immaculate, jaw chiseled as if by some inspired sculptor of old Qis. Sunlight from the tall windows caught the line of his cheek as though it favored him. Several girls inhaled in unison.

  “Please, allow me to escort you,” he said, voice warm velvet.

  “That will be quite all right,” Seraphina replied sweetly, snapping her fan shut with decisive finality. “You will escort my lady-in-waiting, Eloise.”

  It was a deliberate gambit: send Gravens to Dahlia, a reminder to Eloise of his recent indiscretion. Perhaps, with Desdemona also in Dahlia, the ripples from such a move would be… interesting.

  “My lady—” he protested.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The fan’s edge rapped her desk thrice: sentence, verdict, execution.

  “As you wish.” A stormcloud settled over his features, yet he bowed and took his leave.

  “Oh, to be in Dahlia class right now,” Beatrice sighed, practically swooning.

  “Won’t you call him back?” Fleur pleaded dreamily. “I just know lunch would taste better beside someone… so gallant.”

  “Come now, such salacious chatter!” Seraphina laughed, light as a wind-chime. “He is easy enough on the eyes—in an artistic sense—but truly, we must curb our talk of boys here.

  Faces fell.

  She relented, glitter sparking in her gaze. “Because girls, lunch provides a far more relaxed venue for discussing them. And, you can borrow him after Eloise is finished with him,” she added with a naughty smile.”

  To punctuate, she glanced toward the back row where Hughes slumped asleep. Normally, the boy always found some excuse to inveigle himself into her plans. Today, it seemed, he remained adrift in dreams.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Come, ladies,” Seraphina declared, gathering her books in a practiced sweep, an alien pang of regret in her heart. “Let us see what delights the kitchens have prepared for us.”

  Hearts fluttering, the little procession spilled into the hallway, secrets braiding around them like the first stirrings of an adolescent summer storm.

  ***

  The young noblewoman had finally remembered the missing part of her usual morning routine from her old world. And, now that she had remembered it, she was now going about to rectify the situation.

  Seraphina de Sariens sat cross-legged on the edge of her narrow dormitory bed, the coverlet rumpled and half-slid to the floor. A Zajasite lamp painted blue, purple circles across the high ceiling, but its crystalline light was enough for her quick, confident strokes. She wielded a crude pencil, a recent acquisition, a hollowed-out piece of wood with some graphite down its center. With this, she filled sheet after sheet with her thoughts and design specifications. Each line was purposeful, each measurement precise; even the smudges at the edge of her thumb looked deliberate, like the battle grime of a commander sketching maps at dawn.

  Short blonde hair framed her face in a careless halo, tiny fly-aways catching the lamplight. She muttered under her breath, recollecting what she knew about the first primitive printing devices, already envisioning the machine that would press written words onto cheap paper—the future heartbeat of the Kingdom of Aranthia’s very first newspaper.

  The dwarves of Bronzegate she had invited onto her father’s land had assisted her with a letter of introduction to the Understreet Clans of Meridian. Hopefully, with these instructions, it would be enough to inspire the dwarven artificers to create a machine.

  Across the room, Eloise, dark-haired, porcelain-pale, and far too neat for this late hour, perched on a stool like a delicate doll just lifted from its box. Her skirts hardly rustled as she leaned forward, curiosity coloring her usual reserve. “Lady Seraphina,” she said with her usual shy smile, “Do tell, what manner of contrivance are you putting to parchment?”

  “A catalyst.” Seraphina did not look up; her pencil skated into the shape of a press’ frisket and gallows. Then she flicked her mother’s crimson fan open and hid half her smile behind the bird design—the gesture equal parts aristocratic affectation and private amusement. “Imagine words multiplied a thousandfold, Eloise. A machine that feeds on information. News on every corner before rumors can sprout wings. We’ll print sheets faster than court gossips can even blink. And, for free!”

  Eloise’s eyes widened, fascination overtaking propriety. “But paper is expensive, you intend to give out such valuable information… for free? And how would you intend to feed such a machine with information?”

  “For free, at least at first. Soon enough, there will be people begging to place their names upon those sheets.” Seraphina tapped the parchment, punctuating each name like a drumbeat. “Count de Viserac’s is a wealth of information about the goings on of the Kingdom. Added to this, Captain Fanzazino’s network. And the Lehman’s bank—oh, they traffic in more than coin. Their ledgers hum with secrets even the spies of the Crown overlook.”

  “But won’t some of these powerful people be put out by having their secrets divulged?” Eloise asked, her brow furrowing prettily.

  She paused, finally meeting the petite girl’s gaze. In that calm, evergreen jade stare burned equal parts mischief and conviction. “That’s it, though. I will, of course, consult with them first, but ultimately, I will be the one who controls what is put on those sheets… and in a manner, so can they, depending on how much they assist me. In three months’ time… no two… First, the City of Meridian, then the Kingdom of Aranthia will awaken each dawn to crisp pages smelling of fresh ink—and every headline will carry my will. Information, Eloise, is the purest form of power. And I intend to wield the sword of my truth before anyone realizes the battlefield has well and truly changed.”

  Outside the dormitory window, the flowers and the grass rustled in the evening’s breeze, utterly unaware that a brave revolution had just been drafted in graphite and expensive parchment.