Consuela: The Palladia Trilogy, #2

By Sarah Scheele

My name is Consuela. I'm the one who doesn't want to fit in.

In 2335 on Earth almost everybody is either EC or Invader. If you're caught in between them or mixed-class, it's tough. I'm bored by the whole thing, though. I'm an Invader to the core—I've got everything down pat. And I wish I wasn't just exactly what I'm supposed to be.

My secret is I've always wanted to know more about the EC. I don't know why we're supposed to hate them. And when this random old EC woman asks me to come with her as a translator (because guess what, centuries of fighting between our two groups has created lots of barriers!) I couldn't turn it down. What I didn't anticipate was how much trouble my new friend is in. I always thought EC were pack-minded and loyal, but it seems I was wrong. I might turn a few heads by spending time with Miss Plummer—but if your friends turn out to be your enemies, maybe you need your enemies to become your friends.

It's Palladia, though. Here both enemy and friend are words that so often mean the same thing. Would you trust me? I've got to shrug and say maybe you shouldn't. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Scheele
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540173928

Sarah Scheele

​Sarah Scheele is the author of numerous books for younger readers. Her books often appeal to a "for the whole family" sensibility making them accessible to adults, as well as bridging numerous age subcategories within YA, from Middle Grade to New Adult.  She lives on a third-generation family farm in Texas, was homeschooled long before other people had even heard of the idea, and grew up surrounded by big blue skies, winding gravel roads, and the great classics of literature. Her independent, somewhat isolated existence meant the friends she made in these books--titles as varied as Little Women and The Lord of the Rings--had a reality to her almost equal to the close-knit circle of people she knew in real life. This sense of respect for people in general, which sprang from having very few in her life, permeates her books with emotional nuance and terse interactions between people expressed with simplicity. In her style of fiction, every detail matters--most of all the little things and the things we take for granted.  A published author for the last 15 years, she has an extensive repertoire of young adult fiction titles, divided into four trilogies. 2023 saw the beginning of the publication of complete trilogy editions for the first three trilogies. Her next standalone title will be Temmark Osteraith, the third book in the Prince's Invite Trilogy. She was also for 8 years a Pomeranian owner--and Pom would undoubtedly have said she was a devoted fan as well.  Her website is www.sarahscheele.com and her newsletter can be subscribed to by email by visiting the website or by RSS here http://feeds.feedburner.com/SarahScheelecom-News 

Book preview

Consuela

The Palladia Trilogy # 2

By

Sarah Scheele

Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Scheele. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including digital, webpage use, photocopying, or any information storage or retrieval system without the express written consent of the author, except where permitted by law or by the author.

All characters and incidents in this work are fictional, and any resemblance to actual personages or situations is purely coincidental.

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For information regarding the use of this book, or for other information about this or upcoming publications, visit the author’s blog at www.sarahscheele.com

Cover design by Isabelle Hoffman

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One ~ Containing What Consuela Dirkua Did

Maltan, Palladia, 2335

People had always told Consuela that she would end up taking care of someone who needed help. It was simply going to be her destiny. And one day the prophecy came true.

Consuela had lived in the small resort town of Maltan, just outside the great city-state of Wyncon, for as long as she could remember. A poor Nel’gathi who could neither read nor write, she did hair and nails for tourists who were usually other invaders from nearby Wyncon. A few outerplaneters came as well, from Alphea, Luna, and beyond, and Consuela thought she’s seen pretty much all there was to see. (If you do enough hair for people who have metal bands sticking through their skulls, you gain a certain confidence that you can manage anything that comes your way.)

Maltan was an untidy cluster of little houses and mimosa trees that had sprung up a couple of hundred years ago around an abandoned imperial site. It boasted a singular combination of ancient buildings, lovely resort villas, and uphill cobbled roads. Now a ruin, the old palace of Gar Duboni, with its pillars obtruding to the sky and its scrub-covered hills where archeologists still dug for buried treasure like nine-year-old boys, was a popular travel destination.

Tourists pretended to explore the imperial ruins, but mostly flocked to the spa and hot springs, and to hairdressing salons like the one that employed Miss Consuela. The steep streets of the town wound back towards the base of the hills, lined with cypress trees that cast linear shadows over stone alleys. However, Consuela rarely went back that far into town. She worked in a lodging villa directly opposite the entrance to the springs and saw so many people every day that it was amazing she was still sane.

Her current customer was a slender young schoolgirl from Marezan, with oodles of stringy hair the color of chicken noodle soup. Fashionable hair had reached such epic proportions that anybody who could afford it got professional assistance. Poorer people did their own—and which class had worse hair was a matter of much argument.

So, how you want it, again, please? she inquired. Speaking languages other than Hyut, the vernacular speech of poor Palladians, was still hard for her, but working at a continental hotspot had greatly improved her skills.

The girl rolled her neck back. "I told you. You’ve got to air it up, but not too square. Otherwise, it will get all bushy when the style falls. Don’t do my hair like that other place did. I looked like a witch after the color faded."

Consuela smothered a vexed smile. She did not understand some words, but she was quite familiar with the girl’s uppity tone. It was inevitable in a villa with this kind of clientele.

Ah, I know all about it. I make you a good one, she replied, combing. You just manage it is all, as the magic man said about his green skin.

The other hair stylist, rather inappropriately named Rose, was using massive amounts of dye and curling irons on the sister of Consuela’s blond girl. Rose was about forty, rotund and with a crimson face, and glued to the beauty business although she never bestowed even basic techniques on her own person. The sister, who had a serene face and a buxom figure, frowned at Consuela.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Her languid tone was laced with warnings. Consuela, unperturbed, continued to shape her customer’s hair, which was bunching like a radish.

What you so mad about? You not green, no?

The buxom young lady seemed put out. "Err . . . no. Of course, I’m not! What a stupid question."

Consuela began to apply pink hair dye. The Alphean trend for neon-colored hair was catching on everywhere, and women these days looked as though the cosmic light spectrum had thrown up on their heads. Ah, you see.

Ha, ha, ha! the blond girl cackled, rocking her head. Consuela paused with a resigned expression that made her colleague laugh. The serene girl sensed a faint possibility that her sister was looking ridiculous. She kicked with her feet encased in ornate blue and white heels. 

Jill, shut up! Oh gosh, you sound like a donkey.

"You’re one to talk! Remember when Banz was encoding a message to me and Melanie came in and was immensely jealous for no reason? Oh, it was just epic . . ."

Consuela seized her hair. You move too much and I might cut your head off by mistake, no?

As Consuela yanked Jill’s uncooperative hair into spirals, a woman in later midlife paused in the doorway to the salon. In her fifties, this newcomer had a haughty air and an extraordinarily silly smile and was accompanied by a much younger man. There was something odd about her appearance, as Consuela quickly scanned her. The woman’s hair—that was it. Unlike the ornate, long, tall, or colored styles of every other woman, this person had short hair bobbed and curled in an unflattering way around her ears. Like a teenage girl rather vaguely, although Consuela had never seen a teenager who looked like that.

After some brief hesitation, the woman stepped into the salon as her companion disappeared. Her clothing was gaudily youthful, though she was neither pretty nor young. From her condescending smile and uninformed eyes, Consuela imagined this lady had never wanted for money.

Are you open . . . ah, wonderful! I’m about to be married, you see, and elevate my Melk to a great name. A woman’s name is as good as a man’s, I insist  . . . oh, but I’m so excited!

She was mostly interested in her romantic life and had not planned what exactly she wanted the spa assistants to do. Rose immediately suggested she buy hair clips and decorations (since her hair looked so nice already) and Consuela mentioned several charming luxury services most people had the brains not to buy. The woman, named Betsinda Wharton, was delighted to try everything. She spoke with an unfamiliar accent, marked, but clear. Obviously, she was used to speaking Hyut but didn’t naturally speak it herself. Consuela thought this odd.

"Hair clips? Oh, I don’t know. Green, maybe . . . no, wait, black with silver ribbons. It will match my wedding clothes, right down to the underwear. Isn’t it phenomenally lucky I just felt seized to buy new underwear a few days ago, before I had any idea this might happen?"

Well, the stars were looking out for you, neth? Consuela remarked. He’s g’tior or I’m a bullfrog. (G’tior was Hyut for charming.)

Bullfrog or not, Consuela had certainly hit on the right topic. Miss Wharton knew that Melk—for this was his name—was younger than herself. She was very aware, in fact, and rather flattered at what this hinted about her preserved good looks. Consuela peeked at her attire and saw very specific-looking leather boots cut short around the ankles and laced on the sides with engraved buckles. In contrast to the juvenile hair, the boots looked too military and again did not suit the woman.

I know it’s a little unusual, but really, I don’t see the need for any of those antediluvian restraints. Do you? No, really, who could—right, ladies?

She laughed almost hysterically. It was clear that her mental impressions had not formed past a very young age (which was unfortunate because she now had the appearance of years without their wisdom) and she was now very excited. She was not drunk—unless it is the case that some people are born drunk.

Sure thing, mazia, Consuela remarked, helping Jill up. No rules needed among friends, as the policeman told the rupteriki before hitting him back.

Betsinda was not listening. She droned about how rapidly the relationship with Mr. Melk had sprung up. He had pretty much popped it on her yesterday. Before that time, she had been engaged to a man of her age whom she had met through correspondence. This man lived in a remote location and they had communicated for a year through holographic messages. Consuela applied artificial moles above Betsinda’s angular, wrinkled forehead.

So, two gentlemen, mazia—at once? Ay, you like a princess, neth? Better make sure they do not fight each other.

Consuela had long ago learned that tourists would give poor girls from Maltan a dollar for saying cliché things in a cute voice. With the money she had accumulated from these stereotypes, she had been able to purchase her first nice shoes. Betsinda grinned widely.

"Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I let every man in my life know I’m not some trophy, some captured Amazon to be fought over and won! You Invaders have a more macho culture, don’t you?  Do you have a husband?"

No, said Consuela. I do not have that honor.

Tsk, is it because you’re poor? Don’t take any offense, but it might be hard to find a husband when you’ve no time to learn the social graces . . . there must be some way for you—well, whatever you are. You know what you are, I imagine?

She grinned immensely, kicking up her toes. She was a friendly woman, a very friendly woman—an older woman, an older woman very much sure she was young. In fact, she was one of the friendliest, oldest, silliest women who had ever walked into Consuela’s life.

Consuela’s mind clicked as she rubbed lotion on her hands and applied it to Betsinda’s eyelids. Invader? That silly woman just called me some sort of invader as if she didn’t expect me to be insulted by it! I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere  . . .

Meanwhile, the two girls were consulting with their parents about whether they should pay since Jill hated the hairstyle. Jill had a standard practice of disliking hairstyles from sites as her parents traveled the world. Consuela smiled sweetly when their father insisted that the haircut had ruined poor Jill’s hair. He was a true example of a stuffy, pompous urban