Macbeth did not learn the identity of the green eyed woman for a long time.

The next morning began the routine of her new life. The other female slaves woke her, the mute Lia leading her to the bathing room. The Fey even took the time to pin back the dark blond hanks of hair hanging in her eyes. Macbeth's hair had grown past her ear lobes since her captivity. She thanked the woman, in Fey thanks to the translator, causing the silent slave's eyes to soften.

The kitchens were already crawling with activity. Macbeth was shocked by the labor intensive preparation each meal required. The Chrysostem House brought in few ingredients from the market. The estate boasted numerous crops, harvested and refined by hand.

She was no stranger to farm work, but the simplicity of it threw her. Farming tech was common place on the Pembrook farm, she repaired it enough, and the crops consisted of plants used for medicinal and production purposes. Most of their income came from fibrous crops used to make cloth. Consumption crops were grown in controlled conditions in New Tokyo genetically modified with nutritional absorption enzymes easily copied into household replicators.

The crops here reminded her of the rumors she heard of Jamestown. Ariel insisted they grew crops without any modifications, and used ancient farming tech. Though she doubted Pathosians shared the ideals of the backwoods territory, whose dedication to the purity of the human spirit meant they practiced archaic traditions, were notoriously poor, and scraped the land to survive. She suspected the Pathosians used their slaves to farm and cook because it was a sign of their wealth. To possess enough man power so each meal was a hand crafted elegant feast spoke of power, the riches of ownership. The Chrysostem's were obscenely rich.

Macbeth and the other women worked the fields first, harvesting baskets of ingredients in Anaon's pre-dawn chill. The plants were like nothing on New Earth, beautiful and dangerous, large purple fruits nestled among poisonous red thorns, slender blue shoots, the color of New Earth's sky, required precise extraction. The sap was corrosive enough to burn through skin. Each plant required a new technique to harvest without injuring the harvester.

Macbeth's teacher was an older female, another parbreed like Anthony. Clio walked with a pronounced limp; scars peaked from the collar of her shift but her speech was patient and precise. She made certain Macbeth knew exactly how to work on each crop and reinforced the lesson until it stuck in her memory.

With the first shimmering wave of heat from the planet's blood orange sun, the slaves headed into the kitchens to clean and prepare everything. Macbeth was placed on a grinding wheel, a primitive but efficient tool. Her task was to grind the blue stalks, called cusur, to a powder used like sugar. The slaves took up all number of tasks around her, from peeling and dissecting various fruits, to making dough for the elaborately folded pastries served every morning.

Julius lorded over them, present when they came in from the fields. He stood between the ovens, smoking a hash that filled the air with the scents of honey and something close to vanilla, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. He inspected everything produced with a critical eye, throwing out an entire sheet of food that did not meet his demanding expectations. The sight of so much wasted food made her cringe. No one ate before the Masters; it was all she could do not to salivate on the pastries.

At last, a group of slaves carried laden trays out into the dining area. Macbeth was not part of this team. She followed Clio and the others to their common room, sitting around the shabby table set with chipped stoneware bowls.

To her surprise, Julius followed them in carrying a large pot of porridge. He plunked the pot in the center, taking a seat between Macbeth and Clio, who served him a helping. The sight of the large Pathosian settled between the slaves appeared to be normal, everyone at ease with each other. Julius even produced a small vial of cusur powder, passing it around. When Macbeth went to dust it on her porridge, a red skinned hand closed on her wrist.

"That is enough. Anymore and you will hallucinate till the moons rise." Julius took the vial from her, shaking out a generous amount of powder over his own food. He grinned at her incredulous expression. "Different chemical reactions, pet. My stomach is a tridium box compared to your delicate constitution." A few of the others chuckled. The chef was easy to like, he joked and chatted with the other slaves over their meal, flirted with Clio, and allowed them a few minutes to relax after they finished meal, sharing another sweet scented hash smoke with a few of the men.

After morning meal, the slaves broke into groups, some to tend the many gardens on the grounds, others to clean the House, and two personal groups to attend the Masters. Nero's group consisted of the youngest and loveliest women while Calliope's group was a mix of tall, sinewy men and women. Macbeth was part of neither group, something she couldn't help be relieved by. Anthony's words squatted in her head, exclusion was safe.

Macbeth had her own special task. As the slaves dispersed, Julius snagged her, leading her to the corner table in the now empty kitchen.

"You, my lamb, are to learn. The Master has plans for his new translator." Macbeth forced herself to go blank and swallowed the unease sparked by the chef's statement. Julius noted her smooth expression, making a 'hmpf' of approval. "You have some skill at hiding your emotions. Calli chose well."

Calli? She filed the slip up away as the Pathosian continued. "Concealing your emotions and thoughts is part of what you need. The mistress says you managed to learn of Etria from listening to the guests talk. What you did not learn you must have guessed." He leaned in, so she could see his startling luminescent irises behind his goggles. "Etria is indeed a neighboring city state, but there are two vast ones between it and here."

"Is it close enough to be relevant?" Macbeth needed to know. If Etria was that far away, were its politics still relevant enough to interest Nero?

"In truth, no, in the city states a political maneuver like this is common practice. It will impact very little as Senator Alcon does not possess the material wealth to hold the seat for long."

"Then why-?" Macbeth cut herself off. Julius followed the direction of her thoughts.

"Untrained and with scant knowledge of this world, you pieced together a scenario to interest Master Nero. It was your aptitude for siphoning information he found impressive, not the information itself. My task is to improve the skills you already possess."

Her lessons began. Julius proved to be a well of information, spouting an endless stream of names, locations, explaining the connections between them, the complex political structure of Anaon, and the even more complex measurement of wealth. The number of slaves a Pathosian House owned was a small modicum of wealth; there was also ownership of land, production crops, ownership or holdings in trade and mines, material wealth such as tech, ships, and the size of their House. All these factors scaled against each other in an intricate game of gain and loss the Pathosian upper class played to alleviate their boredom. The Chrysostem House stood in the middle; Nero possessed many slaves, and a great deal of land, but did not have the material wealth necessary to put him at the top of the crust.

"What's the great reward for being at the top of the top?" Macbeth asked one morning. Julius paused, pinching his chin in thought.

"At the top is power, but Master Nero does not desire this position."

"You are seriously trying to convince me he is happy where he is?"

Julius laughed a full throated rumble that never failed to startle anyone in the room. "Of course not, but it is not about the gain so much as the game." He clapped his hands together, winking at her. "The wealthy will do anything to assuage the day to day drudgery."

How such a man became a cook in the patrician's household was a tantalizing puzzle. Julius didn't talk about his past, but treated the slaves as equals when not shouting orders in the kitchen and the slaves respected him. Talking to the gruff Pathosian made her miss her brothers. Her other puzzle was the green eyed beauty.

The Chrysostems hosted few guests in the weeks Macbeth spent in Julius tutelage. This meant she had little excuse to be in the dining room during evening meal, merely glimpsing the Master's pet through closing doors. She was always breath taking, clad in colors that accented her exotic eyes and dusky skin. The sight of her made Macbeth's chest tight, and left her with a mass of feeling and confusion to keep her awake long after the other slaves fell asleep.

Why did she find this woman so alluring? The intensity of her attraction frightened her, she had not had the time to entertain crushes running Pembrook farm. No one ever made her feel this way and she didn't even know the blasted woman's name. Despite Anthony's warnings, she finally broke down to Julius.

"Who is the woman at Nero's side?" She blurted in the middle of an explanation of Anoan's central senate. Julius blinked and yanked her to her feet. He hurried her into the slave's common room.

"How long have you sat on that question, pet?" He scanned her face, raising a brow. "My, my." He sighed, taking out a pouch of hash. He kept his eyes on her face, as his deft fingers rolled a smoke with practiced movements. "Her name is Lulubelle."

Julius shuddered, nearly dropping his hash. "Mac," he said in a quiet tone, "You have to clamp down on that feeling right now because if Nero gets a whiff of it he will have you flayed."

She blushed under his scrutiny. "I didn't expect it either."

He peered at her. "Have you ever felt like this before?" He swore when she shook her head. "Of all the people—Lulubelle is the worst person to fall for Mac, she is an Erosia."

"Nero's lover?"

The large Pathosian fluttered his hands about, wafting smoke in curling circles. "More complicated. Marriage for the wealthy is a partnership of convenience, not love. Both parties maintain a collection of slaves to satisfy their needs. If they become particularly attached to a slave they claim them as an Erosia, a personal choice."

"He's in love with her." Macbeth cast her eyes at the table, not voicing the other half of that statement.

Julius snorted. "I don't think the Master is capable of loving anyone. He does covet her, and his jealousy is vicious. She has been his Eroisa for a parcel of seaons. "

Her heart kicked against her ribs. Ten years as the lover of the intimidating Nero? "Does Calliope have an Erosia?"

"No, she has never taken one." The man did not look at her while he spoke, Macbeth didn't say anything. They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Will the Master really see me as a threat?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "I will have to get over it then."

He pinched the end of the smoke, tucking the rest behind an ear. "If you do not, nothing I say or do will protect you from Nero."

The lack of serving duty helped. Macbeth removed herself from the door at evening meal so she couldn't look for her. After a few days, she began to tamp down her feelings, throwing herself into the laborious routine of the House. Lulubelle did have a way of creeping into her dreams at night; it was the only place Macbeth wasn't watched.

One day Julius canceled their lessons.

"I need to go to market today; you will join Clio in the gardens. Looks like you could use some fresh air, my peaked student." He gently pinched her chin, sending her after the older woman.

Clio, the ever patient, handed Macbeth a prune shear, a weak laser that sliced through the foliage, and showed her how to shape down a massive hedge of silvery green flowers by the dining area windows. The work was meticulous and since Macbeth lacked the practice of the others, she was soon alone, the slaves scattered across the grounds.

"You're terrible at this," said a lilting female voice. Macbeth jumped. The prune sheer struggled to cut through the thin stems but managed to gouge her palm. She dropped the traitorous tool with a colorful oath. The wound cauterized but was painful and deep.

A dark smooth hand grabbed her wrist, the other wrapping a green ribbon around the wound, the silky fabric cool against her burnt flesh. Finishing with a neatly tied knot, those delicate fingers kept ahold of her hand.

Macbeth looked up into green eyes lit with mirth. Her breath hitched.

This close Lulubelle's bronzed skin was flawless; her eyes glinted like gemstones in the sunlight. The green ribbon must have come from her hair; her brown curls tumbled across her shoulders, framing her heart shaped face. She was smiling, it animated her whole face and completely blindsided the slave before her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think those bloody things could cut a person."

Macbeth swallowed, her mouth dry as cotton. "I'm an expert at clumsy." She breathed in the scent of wildflowers and sunshine. Lulubelle laughed, Macbeth felt it all the way to her toes. The woman tilted her head at her.

"Why do you stare at me?" She asked in a teasing tone. Macbeth shook herself, staring at her feet.

"You caught me off guard."

Two fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look up. Lulubelle had a firm grip on her hand and face. The humor was gone from her expression; cold calculating eyes roved Macbeth's face. "I don't mean now. I mean the many times I have noticed your eyes on me since your acquisition. Why do you stare at me?"

Caught in the Erosia's grip, Macbeth couldn't look away, and she couldn't think of an answer.