It’s the only question you’re not ready to answer. The natural cues don’t come. You stare at her, wondering how to lie to her and to the cameras and to everyone, but she doesn’t let you get that far. The mannequin lunges out of its chair. You duck back instinctively, but the chair you’re sitting in is high-backed, and your escape routes are all cut off. Your eyes widen as the metallic hands reach for your throat.
And fall short. The machine’s fail-safe system hums to life and the hands hang lifelessly in the air, just a few inches from your neck. The audience stares in horror until Maxim’s blue tie appears and the mannequin takes its seat again. He sweeps a hand through that perfect hair and starts to apologize.
“We’re so sorry about that, Pippa. Always a few people out there trying to ruin the fun.”
He’s smiling, but you see his head tilt slightly to one side, and you know his producers are feeding him some fresh bit of news. You remember he’s got a show to put on. To him, that’s all that matters tonight. Not you and not your feelings and not your privacy.
“We are receiving reports,” he says, “of several sources claiming these Beholder shots do exist. My producers would kill me if I didn’t take the time and at least ask—”
“This is done,” you say, because if it’s not done now, you’re going to get burned to ashes in front of a live audience. “Thank you for your time, Maxim. Goodbye.”
You’re backstage in seconds, crew swarming around you, studio door opening. One photo shoot. That’s all it was. You did one Beholder session. It wasn’t even anything scandalous. A few pictures of you in a bathing suit. A little skin, but nothing you don’t see on the streets of Furia every day. Your publicist was all warnings, but the cash was too good to pass up.
Beholder shots of a girl like you sell very well. Only twenty-seven were produced. For each picture, only the first person to open the portrait can see the contents. That’s the two-way beauty of Beholder shots. It gives the buyer something private and unique, something only they can see. And it promises anonymity. You agreed to do it because you thought no one could prove the picture was of you, because no one but the first Beholder can see it.
“What are they saying?” you hiss.
Zeta just shakes her head. “He says it’s a completely revealing shot. The descriptions are crass and crude, but the account’s been seconded already. It’s a nightmare.”
“But they’re lying. You can’t see anything in those photos.”
She frowns back. “It doesn’t matter now.”
And she’s right. It doesn’t matter. Beholder shots work both ways. No one can disprove what they’re saying because no one else can see the shots. All that matters is what they’ve said, and the doubt they’ve already planted in the mind of every fan, every critic.
“We release a statement,” you say. “Dismiss the rumors.”
“Not yet,” Zeta replies. “Go home. Be with your family. I’ll have to come up with a whole new branding strategy. Give me a few hours. I’ll come by tonight.”
“Great,” you say. “Just great.”
But your mind’s skipping ahead. You’re trying to imagine what your parents will say, what they’ll think. And then Bravos. You never told him, either. Dreading all of it, you change into your sponsored evening wear, wrap yourself up in a summer scarf, and storm out of the room. Reporters catch you at the back exit, flash bulbs bursting, but you don’t answer questions as you mount your phoenix.
Instead, you smile wide, look unconcerned, and show them no fear.
The next day there are seven million views.
Farian’s page on the Chats has two thousand new subscribers. Our older videos are getting clicks, too. We skip the second half of the school day, apologizing to Doctor Vass, so the two of us can monitor our pages and make money on all the advertising. We knock on the back door of Amaya’s bar just after lunch hour and she grins us inside.
“Imelda Beru,” she says. “I didn’t know Alchemists could fly. Lucky you didn’t break your neck, girl. Take any hub you want. I’m not expecting anyone else this afternoon.”
Every house in Furia has dual connections to the Chats, but our village is a far cry from Furia, or any city with decent tech. Most homes have incoming feeds, because watching Crossing matches or the Races is a national expectation, regardless of creed or homeland. Outgoing feeds are costlier and a lot less common. I know the town hall has a few hubs. Our village’s overseeing Ashlord, Oxanos, likes to complain about how slow the feeds are in our scab of a town. Amaya’s place is the only business that’s taken a swing at the modern world.
“Thanks, Amaya,” Farian says. “Normal rates?”
She shakes her head. “Free of charge.”
Farian frowns at her. “We finally have money to pay you, and you don’t want it?”
“On the house,” she repeats. “For Imelda’s birthday.”
Farian snorts a laugh. I thank her, but both she and Farian know I hate birthdays. Farian’s played nice for once, not mentioning it all morning, but that just makes me think he’s got some stupid gift wrapped somewhere for me. Every year I dance away from the ridiculousness of the celebration, and every year it still finds me. There’s nothing worse than being celebrated for an event in which I was basically a nonparticipant.
Farian’s still laughing as we set up Amaya’s equipment. He hooks me into the first hub before hooking himself into the second. Farian knows how to work a camera, but he’s even better on the business side of things. He diverts incoming messages about our old videos to my screen. Little companies have sent us a few offers, gambling on the hope that views continue to come.
But the real cash will come from the auction he’s running for our next big advertising spot on the Trust Fall video. I watch his fingers dance over the keys. He pulls up financials on one page and starts reading through our numbers for the last twenty hours.
“We’ve almost peaked,” he says. “They’ll move on to a new video tomorrow, but we’ve already pulled more money for this than all of our other videos combined.”
It’s hard to believe. “What’s the take?”
“Three thousand legions?”
“No way,” I say, eyeing the screen over his shoulder. “There’s no way it’s that much.”
“On top of whatever we get from this final auction.”
“Music to my ears,” I say, grinning. “Where’d the views come from?”
“Riders,” he replies. “Bravos and Etzli both shared the video. Actual riders, Imelda.”