Page 15 of Ren: Warlord Brides
Dovak took a careful spoonful, his brow raised. “It does not taste like a fruit at all. How remarkable. And how did you get the seeds past customs?”
Right. Only the hydroponic garden on the ship is legal.She was so used to bragging about the fresh produce on the ship that it slipped out during her spiel. Off-planet vegetation was strictly prohibited. No living plant or crop could be imported, only produce and fruit, which seldom survived the long trip from Earth. Expedited shipping meant expensive.
The other option was freeze-dried or packaged, what most of the spacefaring population ate.
Emry tossed a glance to Pashaal, who seemed unconcerned about the slip-up.
“I suppose you must utilize your position on the Council for something,” Dovak said, in a tone that sounded positively friendly and blithe.
“My ship in orbit has quite the garden,” Pashaal said, implying the tomatoes were from the perfectly legal spaceship and not the highly illegal greenhouse in the back. Then she gave a practiced, cold smile.
“I’d enjoy touring your hydroponic garden,” Dovak said with an equally cold smile.
That guy is trouble.
Emry took note, knowing that Caldar would want to know about the dinner conversation.
The rest of the dinner went smoothly. The guests commented on the unique and exotic aspects of the meal, surprisingly sophisticated for a planet as primitive as Earth, and Emry kept the same neutral expression on her face.
Dessert was cherries jubilee because Pashaal liked the drama of setting the concoction on fire. Emry liked the dessert because Sangrin had a sour fruit enough like cherries to make the recipe easy.
As Emry cleaned the kitchen, she ran through her checklist. The coffee—not real coffee, but a Sangrin brew like chicory—was ready to be served. Once the coffee came out, Pashaal would play cards and other expensive games of chance until dawn, signaling the end of Emry’s working day.
With the dishes in the cleansing unit and the counters all cleaned, she had a moment to check her message.
Gemma’s friend, Charlie, finally responded.
Hunched over the counter, she played the message. “The bakery’s been closed for a month now. I thought you knew.” The image jerked, not quite in sync with the audio. “You know how she gets. Probably decided to go hiking and didn’t tell anyone she’s out of town. I’ll let you know if she turns up.”
You know how she gets.
Yeah, she knew her twin, and Gemma never wenthikingor closed the bakery for a trip out of town.
She sank forward onto the counter, resting her head on folded arms.
Three weeks ago, Gemma sent her a disturbing message. Emry raised her head enough to play the recorded message again. Her twin’s face appeared on the small screen of her wrist comm.
“Em. Emmy. Em.”Gemma looked at the camera with glassy eyes. Either she was drunk or hadn’t slept in days.“I messed up. I’m sorry. Call me when… just call me.”
The screen went dark.
Emry played it again, paying attention to the background. She didn’t recognize the brick wall. It wasn’t the bakery or Gemma’s apartment. The time stamp told her the message had been sent at night. She assumed it was recorded outside. Perhaps an alley? Tracing the call’s origin seemed like something that could be done if she had a few more tech skills.
She rubbed her eyes, exhausted. It had been a long day, and she hadn’t been sleeping well.
Gemma sent the message three weeks ago. Since then, nothing. No answer to Emry’s calls at her personal number or the bakery’s line. No activity on social media. Charlie was the last of her friends to respond to her messages. No one had seen Gemma.
“I messed up.”
That wasn’t going on a spur-of-the-moment trip or a hike. It was serious. She messed up.
When she called the police—and she didn’t want to think about the bill for that—they told her basically what Charlie suggested. She asked for a wellness check. They’d knock on the door, but with no signs of foul play, they wouldn’t enter Gemma’s apartment.
“What did you do, Gemmy-bean?”
There was one more person she could ask for help.
Caldar.
