Secrets of the Sapphire Stars

Bruce Graw

~ Crashing the Party ~

Editor’s Note: For ease of reading, all date and time references have been converted to the nearest Terran standard.

Cirillian Starport – Docking Ring – Late Morning

Deila Norris stood idly near the line of passengers steadily waiting to pass through the checkpoint leading onto the relatively enormous Cirillian cruise liner, partly visible through the intermittent plexglass windows spaced along the wide port interior. For a few minutes, she just relaxed, content to observe the crowd and enjoy the view of the sleek ship, which she’d likely be aboard soon enough, one way or another. As she stood there, she enjoyed a couple of fleeting moments of peace, happy beyond words to be surrounded by other human beings similar to herself for the first time in as long as she could remember.

In one hand, she held a magnetized briefcase with various papers and official documents stating her case and proving her connections with the government of Tyskala, as well as diplomatic authorizations ensuring that she wouldn’t be harmed or prevented from meeting with her contact. That’s how it was supposed to work, of course, but inwardly, Deila had her doubts. None of the Cirillians surrounding her had any idea who she was, but that would change soon enough. The vast majority of these people—most likely all of them—had never actually met anyone from outside the Sapphire Star Cluster. How they’d react to her presence was anyone’s guess.

She let out a long sigh, and those enjoyable, fleeting moments of peace and tranquility came to an abrupt end. No sense waiting any longer, she figured. The sooner I get aboard, the sooner I can make my pitch. 

Standing straight up, Deila shouldered her heavy supply bag as best she could and made her way into the queue, her left hand still wrapped tightly around the magnetic briefcase’s handle. Short of some sort of cutting tool, no one but her could separate her grip from the case—a simple but effective security measure ensuring that she didn’t lose contact with the evidence she’d brought along.

The line moved swiftly, and she soon found herself at the front. Deila took a deep breath and stepped off to the side, where the VIP entrance stood idle. A single, bored-looking security man wearing sense-enhancing lenses perked up immediately at the sight of her.

“Next, please,” he said with a smile, not hiding his interest as he quickly looked her over. His gaze slowly traveled up to take in her pleasant face, professionally braided honey-blonde hair, and thoroughly disarming smile. She wore an elaborate blue traveler’s dress trimmed in pink frills and silver thread interleave, stylishly designed by Princess Valana herself. The flashy outfit not only looked good but also covered up a tight-fitting black flexweave undersuit, complete with all her secret tools and supplies. 

Over the course of several seconds, the security man took all this in but managed to remain professional as he offered what sounded like an oft-repeated greeting. “Welcome aboard the Cirrus V. Identification, please.”

Deila smiled demurely, steeling herself mentally for the events to come. “I’m not aboard yet, but thank you. My code is on this security case, which you can see is mag-sealed. I’m traveling on a diplomatic pass.”

“Oh, very good then,” said the man, reaching out to scan the embedded identifiers set along the edge of the handle. A virtual screen, projected by the goggles he wore, delivered a quick readout. “My, my. The Kingdom of Tyskala! Funny, you’re way too short to be a Tyskalan.”

“I’m not actually from there,” she replied, ignoring the weak attempt at humor. “I’m from much, much farther away.”

“Well,” said the officer, totally uninterested in her origins, “your codes all check out, but you’ll still need a full scan. It’s standard procedure, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Deila, stepping up and standing between the two softly humming pylons, “but since your scanners are about to go crazy, I’d like to state in advance that I’m not armed and have no intention of resisting.”

The man, who up until now had been smiling affably while retaining a professional composure, suddenly gasped as if he’d been struck in the stomach. He stared, mouth hanging open, as the readouts reported impossible data. Deila just grinned, enjoying his reaction and not so much as flinching as he drew his weapon, reached up to toggle a silent alarm, and muttered into the commwire jutting out from his right ear.

“This is Security V-one,” he said in a shaky voice. “I’m going to need backup—lots of backup—right blazing now!” 

As he spoke, several security panels dropped down, sealing off the VIP entryway in its own private chamber. Deila, meanwhile, didn’t move a muscle, apparently not the least bit bothered by her sudden imprisonment. The security man continued to watch her nervously, pointing his stunner in her direction. He had no idea it wouldn’t do a thing if he tried using it. She studied him for the next thirty seconds or so, remaining totally calm and immobile, amusing herself by counting the number of ways she could disarm and incapacitate him if she really wanted to, which of course she didn’t.

Four more security agents arrived shortly thereafter and ushered her away. They didn’t put her on the ship just yet—they weren’t total fools—but she knew they’d take her there eventually. They’d have to once she showed them what she had in the case.

Fortunately, they didn’t try to take it from her. Apparently, they knew full well what a diplomatic mag-sealed briefcase meant. Still, despite multiple scans showing that it couldn’t possibly be a bomb, they took no chances and locked her in a small interrogation room, her hands chained behind her back and still holding the satchel, with only a single glowpane overhead for illumination.

The door slid open about half an hour later, and a woman walked in—tall, with long brown hair fashioned into wavy braids, which lay casually about her shoulders. She wore a trim, professional suit and carried no weapons or any other visible tools. Behind her, a short-haired blonde woman trailed along, wearing a white smock, a small medkit clutched in one trembling hand.

 “My name is Halane,” said the brunette, obviously a member of Cirillian security. “That’s all you need to know for now. You’re Deila Norris, correct?”

“Yes, everything on the identikey your man scanned was accurate,” stated Deila calmly. “I assume, if you’ve been examining the rest of the data, you have questions. I’m not going to answer them. In my mag-case, you’ll find diplomatic orders requesting that you place me aboard the Cirrus V before she sails and put me in contact with certain individuals thereon. You should probably comply, or you’ll be responsible for a potentially disastrous diplomatic incident with your Tyskalan allies.”

Halane smiled. “You don’t give me orders. I’ll decide what to do with you once I’ve figured out who—and what—you are. The data coming in from our scans doesn’t seem at all possible, so we’re going to interact with you more directly.”

She turned and nodded in the direction of the so far silent medical technician, who stepped up with her kit and gave Deila a once-over with the autodoc.

“Still the same readings,” the med-tech announced after a moment. “Everything’s off. The faint gravity flux is the really strange part. I’ve got no explanation for that. Should I proceed?”

“Yes, get the sample.” 

Halane stepped aside as the med-tech moved up with a blood extractor. For the first time, Deila showed a hint of nervousness. “You don’t want to do that,” she insisted. “Trust me, you really don’t.”

“Then tell me why not,” snapped the security officer. “Explain yourself, or I’ll have no choice.”

Deila sighed. “I can’t. I’m not authorized. Look, please, just let me open the briefcase and show you the—”

“Silence,” ordered Halane, turning to the med-tech. “Take the blood.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the nervous reply. The blonde woman reached out and pressed the tool to Deila’s arm. Nothing seemed to happen, so she pushed harder. Still nothing. “I’m sorry, it—it’s like it won’t penetrate—”

Deila rolled her eyes and turned her head sideways. “The suit is too thick. Get it right from my neck if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The doctor gulped and tried again. With some effort, by pushing as hard as she could, she managed to draw a small quantity of blood into the container. She held it up as though studying the contents, then shook her head. “Looks normal to me. I’ll go get it analyzed.”

“Good, and be quick about it,” said Halane. Then she turned to Deila. “Now, about these readings. What explanation can you possibly have for them?”

Deila didn’t reply. Instead, she watched carefully as the woman in white walked toward the door. She made it most of the way before shouting in sudden surprise just as the container in her hand burst open, sending an impossible amount of blood everywhere. She turned around, drenched in red. Literally dripping with the stuff, she could only stand there amid the huge splash of scarlet, looking back at Deila in horror and totally unable to speak. She looked like someone had just detonated a bucket of red paint in her face.

Halane took a few steps away from Deila as though afraid she, too, might blow up at any moment. “What the hell are you . . .?”

“Just look in the damn briefcase already,” came the reply, and this time, Halane obeyed.

Cirrus V – Bridge – Midday

Per Cirillian custom, any transfer of command always took place precisely at noon on the bridge of the ship in question with only the on-duty officers present—no fanfare, no media attention, nothing but a swift, official ceremony, as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Commander Jessi Pleurista stood at attention alongside the captain’s chair, just as she would any other time she awaited her captain’s arrival. Tall and slight of build, with a pleasant enough face topped by a sweep of auburn hair cut short, save for a pair of curled locks dangling behind the ears—a typical Cirillian regulation style—she looked outwardly like any other professional command officer: stern, resolute, confident, ready to take on her new duties at a moment’s notice. Inwardly, of course, she felt nervous and worried, as would be expected from someone about to take on this kind of responsibility—sole command of the Cirrus V, the king’s royal cruiser, and responsibility for the lives and security of the nearly five thousand souls aboard. Under such pressure, only an emotionless automaton would feel no concern or doubt whatsoever. Yet, of course, she couldn’t allow such things to show, and with a supreme force of will, she managed to remain outwardly calm and unconcerned despite feeling quite the opposite.

She let her gaze flick briefly around the oval-shaped bridge, pretending to keep track of the crew’s attention to their tasks while, in truth, she was simply making sure they weren’t paying too much attention to her. 

At the auxiliary station, Lieutenant Mart Lossanta did his best to appear busy, his eyes scanning the various astrogation charts and long-range scanning updates, but she knew he’d been glancing her way every thirty seconds or so for the last ten minutes. He looked about as nervous as she felt, but unlike Jessi, Mart had no qualms about letting it show. He openly wiped his hands on his blue-and-white uniform repeatedly while she watched, not looking directly her way, but she knew he had all his attention on her, nonetheless.

Over on the other side of the bridge, Helmsman Wellings had his attention focused entirely on his navigation controls, paying no heed to anything else going on around him. Jessi almost smiled at the way he could simply shut everything else out and keep all his attention on his work. Although this sometimes made him appear aloof or distracted, he had a way of anticipating her orders and rarely had to be told to get ready for anything. For example, right now, she felt sure he’d calculated at least a dozen alternate courses for their path to the Cirillian hop border. By the time the ship was ready to get moving, he might’ve figured a half dozen more.

Adjacent to the helm, the thin and wiry Ensign Nan Evendale sat arrow straight at the engineering station, trying to look attentive to her screens while constantly glancing back over her shoulder. The newest addition to the bridge crew, she’d received this assignment just a few months prior but fit right in almost immediately upon arrival. She always projected a kind of barely contained energy that made Jessi think the young woman might jump up and start running laps around the deck at any moment. Nan typically stayed quiet, though, her bony hands constantly moving as she expertly monitored and fine-tuned engineering and auxiliary control systems deeper in the ship. Sometimes, she’d go an entire shift without saying a word or so much as glancing Jessi’s way, so this distraction was quite out of character.

At the communications desk, Ensign Inita Tolan, a gregarious and sociable officer with an almost uncanny ability to filter through transmissions and report only those that the captain really needed to hear, stared openly in Jessi’s direction. For a moment, the commander thought about inquiring further, but she almost immediately recognized the glazed expression that signified Inita had her attention focused on something coming over the comms. After about five seconds, the pretty young specialist blinked and turned to meet Jessi’s gaze. “He’s coming up the lift now, ma’am,” she announced in a quiet, respectful voice.

“So noted and thank you,” replied Commander Pleurista, absently straightening her uniform even though the pristine, wrinkle-free cloth needed no such attention. “Bridge, stand at attention.”

At once, the others rose and turned to face the doors, which slid open moments later. “Captain on deck,” announced Lieutenant Lossanta instantly, even as the white-haired Harlo Davien strode out of the lift, his dress uniform impeccably pressed and its many medals gleaming in the artificial light.

“Stand at ease,” the captain ordered. “And let’s hope that’s the last time I ever hear that insufferable line, no matter how well delivered, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir,” Mart replied, grinning and relaxing just a bit.

Captain Davien turned to his second-in-command and approached slowly and with great respect. Any impression that he might be unwilling or undecided about handing over the ship’s reins to her fell aside as she read his expression instantly. Far from appearing upset or regretful, he looked eager, almost giddy with delight at the opportunity. Yet despite this, he kept his bearing as formal as possible as he went through the proper procedure with his usual professionalism.

“Commander Pleurista,” he said with a deferential nod, “it is my great privilege to perform what will hopefully be my last action as this ship’s captain. In accordance with the rules and regulations set forth by the Cirillian navy, I officially step down from command of this ship. I yield the bridge to you of my own free will. The ship is yours. May you see her safely on all her many journeys to come.”

At that, he gave a crisp salute, which Jessi returned. “I accept command of my own free will,” she responded immediately, following the ancient traditions to the letter.

“Although you remain a commander in rank,” Harlo went on, uttering a statement required by regulations even though everyone in attendance knew the rules implicitly, “on this bridge, you now hold the title of captain, and with the execution of this official transfer of command, you now enjoy effective seniority over me until such time as the Admiralty might declare otherwise. Is this understood by all?”

“Aye, sir,” the other officers replied in unison.

“Excellent,” Captain Davien went on, nodding and relaxing ever so slightly. “Then I declare these proceedings complete. Captain Pleurista, please take your seat in the command chair, which I assure you I won’t miss one bit. Your crew awaits your first orders.”

Jessi smiled and nodded at him, grateful for the slight breach in official protocol, his mild joke lightening the tension and nervousness she felt. With the barest of pauses, she settled down into the captain’s chair, shifting slightly to get as comfortable as she possibly could under these circumstances. She’d been in the seat many times, of course. As his second, she’d occupied it whenever he left the bridge—but this time, it felt different—as though she somehow sat higher than before, buoyed and lifted by her newfound authority.

She let her gaze move slowly around the bridge, regarding everything and everyone from her new position of command. The feeling of power and responsibility momentarily felt almost overwhelming, but it just as quickly faded away as she realized that nothing had really changed other than the command transfer itself. She remained in the same position as always, so there was nothing to be nervous or worried about. He wasn’t even leaving, either—per regulations, he’d stay aboard for this final cruise, ready to assist and offer advice if needed, although, of course, he would never challenge her command. This would be his final sailing before his official retirement, and at the end, when they at last returned to Cirillia, he’d receive a proper sendoff.

Harlo nodded at her, smiling, and waved as if urging her to get on with it. Across the bridge, the other officers grinned openly, and Mart, quite in defiance of protocol, gave a quick and hasty salute. 

Jessi nodded back, let out a quick sigh of acceptance, and turned her attention toward the helm. “All right, then,” she said in a voice thick with confidence. “Let’s get this ship underway.”

Royal Deck – First Minister’s Quarters – Later That Afternoon

The majestic form of the Cirillian royal cruise liner Cirrus V glided silently through the vacuum of space. Truly vast, the sleek vessel featured twenty-eight luxuriously designed passenger decks extending forward from a central core, topped by a stylish observation ring just beneath the high tower that housed the bridge and other command facilities. Three immense thrusters, one on either side and another slung below, surrounded a central engine core capable of propelling the ship smoothly to its destination, producing barely a whisper of noise and only the faintest of vibrations, with artificial gravity provided by the spherical power generator at the deepest center of the cruiser. The forward section mirrored those of the cruise ships of old back on Mother Earth—a series of decks thrusting forward in incrementally larger layers, like many tiers of a wedding cake punctuated with hundreds and hundreds of tiny, glittering lights. The prow tapered gracefully into a rounded tip, giving the appearance of a sailing vessel plying its way across an invisible ocean—a design chosen not out of necessity but entirely for its style.

The Cirrus resembled a floating city. The upper decks housed the cream of the upper classes, including the royal family. The lower decks of the ship were still comfortable enough, serving the many members of court and significant ministers from the Cirillian Parliament, not to mention an army of engineers, cooks, porters, maids, quartermasters, laundry operatives, cleaners, and all the many other members of the working classes who kept the engines of society running.

The number of passengers on the ship numbered three thousand—barely half the cruiser’s full capacity.

Up on the second deck, a series of spacious, beautifully decorated rooms made up the temporary home of the first minister, Lord Torillo Westerton, and his family. He and his wife, Lady Lana, had an only daughter, Kira, who sat at the dressing table in her room—a circular suite featuring a soaring ceiling decorated all the way around with a painted mural of tree branches and colorful birds. The domed ceiling, painted deep blue and sprinkled with twinkling golden stars, evoked memories of twilight on the homeworld amid the royal gardens. Upon their arrival, Lord Torillo allowed himself to smile indulgently when his beloved daughter squealed in delight at the sight of it.

The servants unpacked her luggage, distributing the gowns, dresses, and other finery into various wardrobes and cupboards. Kira showered and changed into a comfortable yet still appropriate set of clothes—soft gray leggings and a loose white blouse shot through with golden thread. She hummed a tune softly to herself, absently combing her auburn hair with her fingers. As the barely perceptible rumble of the ship’s engines vibrated beneath her, she fidgeted, impatient. Her maid and dear friend Romana embarked yesterday, but the two girls hadn’t been able to see each other yet; however, Kira just learned that her friend would join her any minute. Kira couldn’t wait to see her and speak in earnest about her imminent coming-of-age party to be held the next night in the recreation center amidships.

The doors to her room opened behind her, and Kira half rose from her seat. In the doorway stood her mother, elegant as ever in a loose indigo gown, her hair impeccably styled on top of her head and jewels glinting at her throat. Kira’s heart leaped—not at the sight of Lady Lana but at the slim young woman behind her. Dressed in a perfectly ironed maid’s uniform bearing the Westerton crest, Romana Vasille trailed along behind Lady Lana, holding a large box in both hands. The servant girl grinned widely as she leaned slightly to one side, her head bouncing in greeting.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Lady Lana glided over the thick carpet toward her daughter, her arms out. Smiling, Kira rushed forward, enveloping her mother in a tight hug and inhaling her subtle perfume. As they drew apart, Kira’s sparkling green eyes met Romana’s dark-brown ones. The servant gave a wide, impish smile back, repositioning the box in her arms. 

Kira stared at the oversized container, then up at her mother. “Is that . . .?”

Lady Lana nodded graciously. “It most certainly is. It’s time for you to see your dress.”

On the planet Cirillia, young women traditionally attended a coming-of-age celebration just before they turned nineteen. For the lower classes, this party was a simple affair—little more than a gathering of friends and family where, finally, the girl in question could be presented to society as a woman suitable for marriage. For girls of Kira’s stock, however, the event was lavish, to say the least—a momentous occasion in her life bested only by her wedding ceremony. 

As tradition also dictated, on these occasions, the girl’s mother always chose her daughter’s dress. 

Lady Lana cast around for a suitable space before sinking down onto the rug, gesturing for her daughter to join her. Kira knelt and opened the box placed down by Romana, who stood back in silence, her hands folded gracefully in front of her. With wide, excited eyes, Kira lifted the lid, carefully parting the tissue paper to reveal folds of silk as green as a spring sprout. 

“Oh, Mother . . .!” she gasped as she grasped the shimmering material and lifted it out of the box.

“You like it, then,” said her mother, sounding tenderly relieved. “Thank goodness! I was terrified that you might—”

“Oh, please. It’s beautiful!” Kira stood upright, pulling the whole thing out of the box and holding it up. She bit her lip. “Wow. It’s heavy!”

“Well, yes. The corset is properly boned, and there are seven interior petticoats.”

“Seven . . .?” Kira looked at her with wide eyes filled with amazement.

“Of course. And have you noticed the embellishments along the front? Citrine beads and mother-of-pearl. Only the best for my beautiful daughter.” Lana smiled, tilting her head as she drank in her child’s delight. “I know green isn’t exactly in fashion, but—”

“Oh, Mother, I don’t care about that!”

“I don’t mind,” prompted Lady Lana gently. “Please don’t say ‘I don’t care.’ It makes you sound common.”

Kira corrected herself gracefully, managing not to sound impatient. “Sorry, Mother. I don’t mind, really . . .”

She moved over to the full-length mirror, holding the dress up to her slim figure and imagining what she might look like wearing it, a huge smile plastered across her face at the thought. 

Meanwhile, Lana rose to her feet, gesturing to the still-quiet servant girl. “Romana, you’ll need to look at the corsetry and familiarize yourself with how it’s tied so you’re ready for tomorrow night.”

The maid bowed her head. “Yes, Milady.”

“Kira has some things coming in for her—accessories for her outfit. You will go through them with our butler, ticking off the delivery inventory, and find a home for them. Oh, and I understand the other servants didn’t manage to find places in here for some of my daughter’s clothing.” The older woman rolled her eyes. “As if there isn’t enough space. You’re so good at folding. Would you reorganize her wardrobe, please?”

Romana nodded once more. “Of course.”

Lana smiled, fiddling with her necklace. “Thank you. I can always rely on you. Kira’s father and I are grateful for your service. I meant to ask, how was your own coming-of-age party?”

“Thank you for asking, Milady.” Romana inclined her head slightly. “My father organized a gathering of my family for me.”

“Oh, how lovely,” said Lana, clasping her hands and smiling. 

Romana nodded. “Yes. It was very pleasant.”

Over by the dressing table, Kira smirked and shot her friend a look, but as ever, Romana remained the consummate professional servant in front of her employer and member of the queen’s court. Kira happened to know a very different story, of course. Romana’s father—a huge, muscle-bound ex-convict with a heart of gold—had indeed organized a gathering for his precious daughter down at The Pit and Shovel, a most unsavory bar back on Cirillia close to Romana’s living quarters. After the event, Kira had listened, thrilled, to Romana’s tale of how the whole thing descended into a drunken brawl, with her older brother Orion punching her Uncle Lazka for some unknown slight. Romana, her own mother long since flown to the stars, had provided her own dress—a black-and-red lace-and-fishnet affair—and blithely waded into the fight herself wearing it, whereupon she dragged her relatives apart by their ears before persuading them to take part in a drinking contest to cap off the night.

As she clasped the beautiful dress to herself, the young Lady Westerton inwardly sighed. Kira loved her parents dearly and was grateful for their doting efforts to make her own event special, but she could confidently predict that her own coming-of-age party—while undoubtedly grand and regal and in every way befitting a young woman of her station—wouldn’t be nearly as exciting.

Her mother smiled one last time as she headed toward the door. “I’m glad to hear it went well. Kira, be ready for dinner at eight. We’re dining slightly later tonight, as your father has business to attend to. He’s overworked, and I know your presence will cheer him, so, please look your best, all right, my love?”

“Of course, Mother. Thank you for the beautiful dress. It’s truly perfect.”

“You’re most welcome. I only wish we could have more guests at your gathering.” Lady Lana sighed, placing one long hand on the intricately carved doorframe. “The king and, indeed, your father are particularly nervous about this royal tour for some unfathomable reason. I had sixteen hundred guests at my own coming-of-age party. Sadly, you’ll have to be content with a mere thousand.”

Kira smiled dutifully. “I’m sure it will be wonderful, Mother.”

“I hope so. See you at dinner, sweetheart.”

The two girls waited patiently for the doors to shut before rushing toward each other, squealing in delight. Kira took in the sight of her friend, her glossy black hair tied up in a neat bun, dark eyes sparkling with excitement. She reminded Kira of a bird, with her restless energy and sharp eyes that missed nothing. 

Romana looked up at the blue ceiling, whistling admirably. “Nice digs, Kira!”

Kira waved a dismissive hand, pulling her friend over to her dressing table. “Never mind that. Tell me tonight is on!”

“Oh, it’s on,” said Romana, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. 

Kira clapped gleefully. “Yes!”

“So, here’s the plan.” Romana pushed her friend gently onto the stool and settled on the end of the huge bed. “Tonight, go to the kitchen at eleven o’clock precisely. Have your dressing gown on. Then, if you’re caught, you can say you wanted a hot drink or something.”

Kira nodded, her eyes large with excitement as Romana continued. 

“I’ll meet you there and take you from the kitchen to the serving passage. Orion has access to a shaft that leads us down to the generator tunnel. Are you ready for a climb?”

Kira nodded. “I’m ready.” She opened a drawer and fetched out something small wrapped in tissue. “I’ve made something for you.”

“For me?” Romana’s brow creased in a small frown of curiosity. “What for?”

“For your coming-of-age, silly, as I couldn’t be there in person. Hold out your wrist and close your eyes.”

Romana obeyed, feeling something soft wrap around her arm. She listened to her friend’s breathing as she concentrated on tying a knot. “There you go. Open them.”

Romana looked down and gasped, her free hand going to her mouth in wonder. “Oh my gosh . . .it’s beautiful!”

A red velveteen bracelet adorned with dozens of tiny multicolored jewels wrapped around her wrist, exquisitely embroidered with tiny stitches of black and gold. “You—you made this?”

“Yes. With my sewing tutor, naturally—but I did most of it!”

Romana’s eyes went large with wonder. She turned to her friend. “Kira, I can’t accept this. It’s too grand!”

“Of course you can! It’s yours. I made it, and that’s the end of it.” Kira tilted her head and smiled. The girls exchanged a tight hug, basking in each other’s friendship for a moment before drawing apart. 

“If I wear this out and about, people will think I stole it,” the maid said with a chuckle. “Not that I’d ever steal anything, right? Now, I’d better sort your things.” The dark-haired girl sprang to her feet and trotted over to the wardrobe. “I’ll fold this lot, but you need to pick your outfit for dinner and decide how you want your hair,” she called over her shoulder.

Kira gestured dismissively. “Oh, whatever’s easy to put on. I don’t care what I wear for dinner.” She got to her feet, a grin of anticipation on her face. “The outfit for our little adventure is way more important!”

Want to read more? Buy it here: Secrets of the Sapphire Stars