Apparently, this was another instance the Arcadians wanted to remain low tech, and she supposed she should be glad Hansen hadn’t given her a scroll and quill.

Justin didn’t stay down for long. Per his way, he quickly recovered from the shock of the topic. “You make a valid point that a cultural exchange may be just as valuable as a monetary one,” he said carefully.

“But I’m not sure this is the best place to start. If you wanted to discuss art or literature, possibly some exchange of students—”

“For us, our religion is our primary means of cultural exchange,” the priest gently interrupted. “It permeates every part of our society. If we are to be understood, to truly connect with your people, it’s important to us that we share our faith. And you just told me yourself that the RUNA is open to different forms of religious worship.”

Mae could just barely see Justin’s profile and a bitter smile at having his words thrown back at him. “That’s true, but we allow those beliefs with certain conditions. One is that we maintain a distinct line between government and religion. And while crossing that line has worked well for your country, I’m afraid it’s just something ours isn’t ready for.”

Justin was being more than diplomatic, Mae thought. For starters, the RUNA was never going to be ready for that kind of theocracy. And to say that it had “worked well” for Arcadia was certainly an exaggeration. The atrocities she’d witnessed in Carl’s household were proof of that, let alone the countless reports Gemman intelligence had collected over barbaric justice committed in the name of Nehitimar’s religion. Even today’s drive into the city had highlighted Arcadia’s economic woes, with its wild disparities between rich and poor.

“We have no interest in your government,” said the Grand Disciple, voice filled with amusement. “We would rather talk to ordinary people, let our missionaries come and simply explain about Nehitimar to those who will listen.”

“Missionaries and public proselytizing are both illegal in the RUNA,” Justin told him, in an apologetic way that reminded Mae of when he would tell religious leaders their licenses were being revoked.

He managed to sound as though he were legitimately sorry.

The Grand Disciple stayed firm. “I’m not suggesting they convert people on the streets, just that we find a way to let our people communicate with yours about what’s most important to us. Perhaps it could be in the context of a larger cultural exchange as you suggested, a series of university lectures about Arcadia, with our faith featured as part of it. We could simply send a group of diplomats and lecturers.”

Something in the way he spoke made Mae think these all-purpose “lecturers” sharing Arcadian culture had been his original goal but that he’d opened with the far more dramatic suggestion of missionaries to soften the blow.

“I’ll take it back to my people and see what they think tonight,” said Justin.

“I appreciate that,” said the Grand Disciple. “Though I’m sure that, ultimately, they’d defer to your opinion on such matters.” He rose to his feet, and Justin immediately followed suit. “Come, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you’ve had a long day and would probably like to rest. If you’d like to speak to me again, simply let your host know, and we’ll make it happen.”

The two men walked toward the doorway, passing by Mae. The Grand Disciple came to a stop and regarded her with a look that managed to be both fond and condescending. “So this is your secretary?

Nehitimar has commanded us that women are best subdued as servants of the home, though Enoch likes to keep telling me that a day may come when we must turn some of ours out to other jobs if we wish to compete globally.” He held out his hand for Mae’s notebook. Having nothing to hide in it, she handed it over wordlessly. He grunted in approval as he skimmed the pages. “Excellent penmanship. I’d been led to believe Gemmans were so dependent on machines that you could barely spell your names.”

Justin leaned in to look at the notebook. “Well, hers is certainly better than mine. She comes from a culture that values such, uh, art forms.”

It was true. The castes didn’t cling to antiquated technology like the Arcadians did, but there was an emphasis on cultivating skills viewed as signs of civilization. Handwriting, even in an age where devices could do most of the work for you, was one such skill. Mae had spent many hours drilled in practicing writing letters over and over.

The Grand Disciple glanced up sharply at Justin’s words. “Is she from one of the patriarchies?”

Justin looked uneasy at the sudden interest. “Yes. Nordic.”

The priest fixed his gaze on her with such intensity that she felt as though he could see right through the veil. Then, most astonishingly of all, he reached toward her face, letting his hand hover there as he shot Justin a questioning look.

“May I?”

Justin appeared understandably confused, his eyes darting to Mae as though he might get some sign from her, but she was equally puzzled. “Yes,” he said at last.

Slowly, carefully, the Grand Disciple lifted the semi-opaque veil that hung over her face, removing the black haze from her vision. With equal care, he pushed back the heavier grayish brown scarf that had wrapped around her head and obscured her hair. His breath caught, and he let his hand return to his side as he scrutinized her. Mae wasn’t easily intimidated, but something in those dark eyes made her skin crawl. That, and there was just something about being near him that made her feel ill at ease. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before, and although she couldn’t pinpoint any specific danger, her implant responded accordingly to her discomfort.

“Exquisite,” said the Grand Disciple, leaning close. “We have lovely women here, you know. But many of them—and many of us— carry the marks of what you call Cain.”

“What do you call it?” asked Justin, sounding curious in spite of himself.

“Nehitimar’s justice. The virus that devastated the world was part of his plan, to remind those who, in their arrogance, had forgotten who was truly ruler of this world. It was a righteous punishment that we bore gladly, and those who’ve inherited the marks wear theirs with pride as well.”

Not all of them, apparently. This close, Mae could see where the priest had had treatments done and knew Justin must’ve noticed as well.

“Your country accepted the vaccine when ours invented it,” said Justin lightly.

“Well,” said the Grand Disciple, shooting Justin a wry look, “I wouldn’t say ‘accepted’ so much as purchased at exorbitant rates—and that was only when your country was willing to sell, which certainly took a while. But believe me, you wouldn’t have ‘invented’ it if it hadn’t been Nehitimar’s will. We had served our penance, and he’d determined our time was up. We did not try to skirt our punishment by whoring out our population in unholy pacts with other nations—no matter how attractive the results.”

Mae knew that genetic swapping was one of the points of contention that had driven the RUNA and Arcadia apart. The Arcadians had refused to entertain the idea of aggressively mixing their populations with those of Asia, even though early evidence had shown those of heterogeneous backgrounds had greater resistance to Mephistopheles and Cain. She had not, however, known the Arcadians described it in terms of “whoring out” and “unholy pacts.”

“But you.” The Grand Disciple fixed his attention back on Mae, resting his hand on her cheek. She froze. “You aren’t the result of sullied blood and breeding. And to be so unmarked . . . you must come from a blessed lineage.” He abruptly turned to Justin. “She’s yours?”

Justin’s eyes were on the Grand Disciple’s hand, still on Mae’s cheek. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Leave her with me tonight, and I’ll make you a wealthy man. Gold and jewels exchange easily in both our countries.”

Justin made no jokes, no diplomatic quips. His answer came swift and sudden, with a harshness that astonished Mae. “No.”

“It’s quite common with concubines here,” the Grand Disciple said. “Nehitimar has decreed that their bodies may be freely shared among the faithful—or even the unfaithful, as the case may be.” When no response came, he sighed. “I suppose this is where you loftily tell me Gemman women aren’t for sale.”

“No,” said Justin evenly, “this is where I tell you I don’t share.”

For a moment, the whole room was still. Then, the Grand Disciple removed his hand and laughed uproariously, an unexpected sound that startled Mae. He straightened up, and some—but not all—of the tension went out of Justin.

“I can’t say that I blame you, and I’m not going to quibble over a mere woman when the more important task of spreading Nehitimar’s message is on the line.” He gave Mae one last lingering look. “But you’d best cover her before you leave this space.”

By the time Hansen arrived to escort them out of the temple, Mae was sufficiently Cloistered again. After flowery farewells from the Grand Disciple, she and Justin left, neither saying a word to the other until they were in the car.

“Are you okay?” he asked in Mandarin.

“Are you?” she returned. “You looked like you were ready to—”

He shook his head. “Wait until we’re back.”

Mae bit back her questions and turned her gaze out the window as the car drove through downtown Divinia. She was looking forward to getting back to Carl’s, even if it meant more housework, so that she could finally move freely and see without the veil’s smoggy haze. Their car stopped at a light in one of the city’s more depressed areas, and suddenly, something made her do a double take and break her silence.

“What’s that?” she asked Justin.

He followed where she pointed, to a small building on a corner with a red velvet flag hanging over the door. There were no windows or markings of any other kind.

“A salon,” he said.

“Where they keep girls . . . for sale.”

“When the red’s out, it means they have girls available who’ve hit puberty. They can’t be sold before then, and they have to be at least thirteen.”

“Thirteen? Is that supposed to be some kind of safeguard?” she asked in disgust.

“It’s the best the government can do to show some sort of responsibility. And I’ve heard that in a few of the more remote and rural salons . . . well, those rules aren’t always enforced.”

Mae had been unable to tear her gaze from the building, even as the car began moving, but his words suddenly snapped her attention to them. “How many salons are there?”

“In Arcadia?” Justin shrugged. “Countless. I’m sure there’s a dozen in this city and its suburbs.”

For a brief second, as Mae had stared at that ramshackle salon on the corner, it had so vividly reminded her of the dream that she’d been certain her niece might very well be beyond those walls. But if what he said was true . . . a dozen in metropolitan Divinia? Let alone the rest of the country? A wave of nausea swept through her at the thought. The vision had shown her niece in one of these establishments but had given no indication where. Arcadia was a big country. Mae had no assurance that the salon she wanted was in this city . . . or if her niece was even in one of the so-called civilized ones that “protected” girls until they were thirteen.

At Carl’s house, the rest of the Gemman delegation was still out on their city tour. Carl was out as well, though his sons and wives stared as Justin and Mae made their way across the compound to the guesthouse, including Carl’s head wife, Harriet. She was carrying buckets of water from the well, another backwards practice that the Arcadians employed to build character in their women. Their technology was perfectly capable of modern plumbing. In fact, the bathrooms were fully equipped with it. For cooking, however, household women had to lug water across the property and run it through the kitchen’s filtration system, which was in itself pretty sophisticated, only making the whole exercise that much more ridiculous. Mae had yet to engage in the chore, though Val had had plenty to say about her time with it when they were in private.

Harriet stopped in their path now, angling her body from Justin and keeping her eyes turned deferentially away. “Forgive my interruption,” she said. That was for him, though the rest of her message was clearly intended for Mae. “Once you’ve made yourself fit again, we need you to help with dinner preparations. None of the others are back yet, and Hannah isn’t able to pull her share.” Then, not quite accusingly, she added, “It’s a lot of work to feed this many extra mouths.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mae, glad her face was obscured. “I’ll be there as soon as I’m able.”

Harriet’s sour expression said she was used to more groveling responses, but she accepted that one and went on her way, after a curt nod to Justin.

When they reached the relative security of their room, Mae had one of these fleeting moments she sometimes got as a praetorian, where she wished for sleep. She wanted to throw herself on the bed just then and pass eight hours in a slumber where red velvet flags and “character building” labor didn’t exist. But instead, she began the painstaking process of unwrapping her layers of clothing, so anxious to get out of it that she even let Justin help her. Considering it had taken two of Carl’s wives to help her in the first place, she wasn’t all that surprised she needed extra assistance. He shook his head in disbelief when they finally got down to the bottom layer, a calf-length shift in that same muddy color, now soaked with sweat.