When Martha first interviewed me for my position as junior clerk, she warned me that I would face many barriers to advancement within the palace—my common birth, my complete lack of value and property, my self-taught education. She is only partially right. Ease of advancement is not the issue. People have been practically tripping over their shoes to elevate me beyond my station, be it Martha herself, Prince Edgar, or Jarl Thorunn.
But Martha was correct in identifying those factors insofar as they expose me to unusual risk. I am entirely unprotected. If I suddenly go missing, no one will cry out for justice. If I am forced into a position of bargain, I have nothing to leverage. And if I am thrust into an entangled web of half-truths, red tape, and royal family drama, I have little experience upon which to base any of my observations, except that which I have read in books. I do not know who I can trust. I do not know who can help me, hurt me, or do both with a smile.
So, in my darkest hour, I must confide in the only person even remotely close to power. Pansy. As the son of a rural noble family, he is guaranteed some shroud of protection and financial stability. He also loves my mother as if she is his own—I cannot count the number of nights he has run to her crying, and she has embraced him like he is her own son. After myself, Pansy is the best person to oversee my mother’s financial affairs. On Sunday evening, I write to Pansy, then tell Martha that I will need Monday morning off for an urgent meeting with someone who will not reschedule. Since she seems as reluctant to address the topic of my employment as I am, she lets me have the whole day.
At first, I do not recognize the person who meets me in the palace gardens. In my letter, I told Pansy to meet me by the dolphin fountain in the center courtyard, the central point of the gardens and near impossible to miss. But when he does not show up in a half hour of waiting, I assume I was wrong. It is starting to rain, after all, and a cold wind is beginning to blow through. As I start to get up, I hear a familiar, if not slightly strained and sing-songy, voice: “Excuse me, ma’am?”
I turn. Approaching me is a tall, slender woman in a delicate floral dress and suede overcoat, carrying a lace-fringed umbrella. Her vibrant red curls frame her pale, rosy-cheeked face, and her lips are delicately painted a shade to match her hair. I step back, worried that I have stolen this noblewoman’s preferred seat. Then the recognition clicks.
“Pansy?” I exclaim.
She opens her arms for a hug. I have never been so happy to be so confused. As we embrace, she whispers in my ear, “It’ll make it easier for us to talk in private. We’ll get inside, out of this garbage weather, and ask for a parlor.”
“That can’t be the only reason,” I chuckle.
“No,” she smiles. “No, it is not.”
Pansy is right; it is much easier to get a private parlor room with her fresh new look. She has mastered the affectations of a young noblewoman flawlessly. Almost as soon as we step inside the palace, male servants rush to take her coat and umbrella, ask where she wishes to be escorted, and offer to fetch tea and refreshments. With an airy giggle and a wave of her hand, Pansy seems to conjure a parlor room around us from thin air.
“I am telling you, darling, you can get away with anything by pretending you belong there,” she says, as soon as we are alone with the tea and biscuits. “I mean, I always knew that. But I never thought it would be more effective when I feel like I belong.”
“You look good,” I say. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”
“I’ve never been so happy, Ellie! Anyway. All I do is talk about me. How are you, hun? You look tired. Gods, you look like you haven’t slept.”
I smile weakly. She’s right, I haven’t slept. I toss and turn whenever I try. “I’m not going to lie, Pansy, I’ve been better. Listen. I need your help…I am about to do something incredibly stupid.”
I explain. I am naming Pansy as a trustee of my investment portfolio—in other words, she will be authorized to make financial decisions on my behalf, on the condition that she makes those decisions to benefit my mother. Originally, I had planned to wait about five years and sell elysium, making myself and Mom rich. But I am doing something so stupid that I cannot guarantee I will be around in five years. If I am incapacitated, Pansy will step in, sell my investments at their highest value, and ensure Mom is taken care of for the rest of her life.
“Ellie,” Pansy cuts in. “You make it sound like you’re about to die.”
I am silent. Slowly, Pansy’s eyes widen.
“Ellie.”
“I don’t know for certain that I’m going to die,” I say. “I just know it is always a possibility. This is my plan for the worst-case scenario.”
“Ellie!” Pansy shouts a third time, rising to her feet. “Don’t you dare joke around like that. It’s just a job, right? Right?”
“No.” As she sits next to me, I sigh. I had missed my friends. There are plenty of reasons Lucienne cannot join Pansy in visiting, mobility being one of them and her work being another, but if she was here I would want her on the other side of me. I slump against Pansy’s shoulder, exhausted. “I am taking the position from a man who is in prison. And you can’t convince me out of it. I already accepted the offer.”
Pansy lets out a very unladylike string of swear words, but still hugs me tight. “Gods, you are crazy,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I reply.
“You are crazy and I love you. We all love you. There are people who want you to come home after all this is over, do not ever forget that.”
“I know.”
“Especially your mother. Please come see her.”
I pull back from the hug. “I can’t,” I reply. “I have to pretend like I am trying to distance myself from her. But you can give her this letter.”
I hand Pansy a loosely-folded half of paper. It falls open as she takes it, and she starts to close it again, then asks, “I saw a little of it, is that okay?”
“You can read it if you want.”
“Uh…sure.” She unfolds it completely. Then she frowns. “It just says ‘ I was wrong again.’ Will she know what that means?”
“Oh, she’ll know,” I tell her. “She will absolutely know.”
After Pansy leaves, I rush back to my room to get ready. I owe Thorunn a date. Yesterday, I had been so singularly obsessed with my jigsaw puzzle of paper shreds that I didn’t even remember that we had agreed to meet. I am not doing a very good job of this courting thing. Fortunately, he does not seem to mind. He is just happy to see me. Because the light rain of the afternoon has strengthened into intermittent downpours, we rendezvous in the palace library.
A library offers many places for a young couple to do any number of those things that young couples do, but Thorunn and I are not yet at that stage. We are pleased to learn that we are both introverts. And we are both still reduced to embarrassed blushing and nervous stammering at any sort of physical contact. It will come with time, I am certain, but for now, we are content with sitting in separate chairs across from each other, working independently. He writes while I sift through my growing collection of newspapers. With my meager junior clerk’s paycheck, I have subscribed to three different publications, two local and one international.
At some point, I glance up. Thorunn is watching me intently, a silly little smile on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“So many papers,” he remarks. “What for?”
“Speculation.”
“What is ‘spek…’—no. I’m not going to try that word.”
“Speculation. Investments.” I flip to the next page. “I regressed seven years into the past and I am using my stolen knowledge of the future to buy cheap property that will surge in price later.”
He laughs. “She has a sense of humor, too! I’m a lucky man.”
My regression joke was a risky one, but I had a good feeling it would go over Thorunn’s head anyway. The Northern tribes have a famous disdain for civilized magic, including regression, which they firmly believe is a myth.
I realize that I might be coming off as uninterested, so I set down my newspaper and ask him, “What are you writing?”
“Poetry.” He turns the journal to show me. It is entirely in his runic language, which I do not understand, but I do not need to read the words in order to be impressed. There are hundreds of densely packed runes on one page, spiraling like ripples on a lake. The design is asymmetrical, but with a purposeful sense of balance across the page, the abstraction tied together by the geometric forms of the runes themselves. I could spend hours staring into it and still notice something new in every shape.
“Thorunn, this is…incredible,” I stammer. “I don’t know what it says, but the design is breathtaking. This is art!”
“You think so?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Ah, it’s a common trend in my country. I’m not good at it. You are supposed to read it in any direction, but mine sounds terrible counter-clockwise; I can never manage the rhythm.”
“You’re underselling yourself, I reckon,” I tell him, handing the journal back. “I never seriously considered getting into art trading, but there is a very lucrative market out there for foreign decorative art. Nobles love to show off how ‘cultured’ and ‘well-traveled’ they are; all you would need to do is transfer that to a display canvas, bring it to the right auction, and become a rich man overnight.”
“I would never sell it,” he declares. “It’s a gift for you.”
As he resumes working, I sink back into my chair, feeling suddenly ashamed. You’re a lot like your father, Ellie. You really think money will fix everything. In that moment, Mom’s words hurt. But she was right. I have not yet begun work as my father’s clerk, but every day, I learn his likeness through my very own faults. At this rate I may be able to quit my job and return home knowing everything there is to know about him.
Fortunately, Thorunn does not seem upset, simply continuing to write contentedly. The guilt is starting to really sink in. My gaze is drawn up to the vaulted library ceiling. What would it have been—twenty—five, thirty years ago? How long ago did Edgar and Imogen meet only a few stories above us, two birds in the rafters? How far away do I sit from where he tied a ribbon around her finger? The way Mom always told the story, it was sweet and innocent, but as of late it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It is undeniable now that Edgar loved my mother—and that he still loves her to this day. I just cannot shake the dread that there is still something missing from their story. Was Edgar’s relationship with Mom just as transactional as my relationship with Thorunn? Does he only claim to love her because he has something to gain, namely, avoiding a marriage with his childhood bully? There is only one way to find out.
I wait for a natural lull in our non-conversation where Thorunn has drifted away from his journal, and is now gazing out the window at the pouring rain for inspiration.
“Oh,” I say, as if it has just occurred to me, “I got a promotion.”
“That’s wonderful,” he smiles. “In the records office?”
“Technically. I’m going to be Prince Edgar’s clerk. The office I would normally use is…under construction, so I will be working between locations.”
He frowns, and I watch as the gears turn behind his eyes. “Edgar…the dark-haired one?”
“The one who’s always drunk?”
“Yes, him.”
“No, that’s Ezra. I’m not working for him, thank the Saintess. Prince Edgar is the head of the church; he has light hair.”
“Ah, the skinny one,” Thorunn nods. “He is weak and frail, so unlike what is expected of a prince. You should make sure he eats his meals or he will not survive the winter.”
I squint. I genuinely cannot tell if Thorunn is joking. Just in case, I offer a chuckle with my response. “I am not in charge of his diet, but I will pass that along.” I lean back in my chair with my newspaper, then sit up again as if one final thought has occurred to me: “Thorunn. You work alongside the royal family, right?”
“As a foreign ambassador, yes.”
“What can you tell me about them? Edgar specifically.” I pause, then add, “I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well…”
This is where I am truly flying by the seat of my pants, as I am still not quite sure what I am allowed to disclose about the incident. But judging by the speed with which rumors fly about the palace, I would be more surprised if nobody knew this yet.
“His last clerk, Mr. Pym, was fired. He’s sitting in prison right now—Edgar wants him executed for nothing more than mishandling files,” I drop my voice to a hushed tone. “In one way, I’m relieved, because I was getting sick and tired of carting around files all day, and the pay will be better in the new position…but I’m frightened. I don’t know what kind of man I am working for. I don’t want to end up like Pym.”
I had begun this confession with the goal of convincing Thorunn to take pity on me. But the more I speak, the more it feels genuine. I am frightened. Finding my father’s letters in the shred bin emboldened me only enough to accept his offer, but what if I made a mistake? What kind man am I working for? And what if I do end up like Pym for trying to find answers?
A shift of movement draws my gaze upwards. Thorunn kneels in front of me, takes my hand into one of his, and cups my cheek with the other.
“I gave you my word, my lady,” he says solemnly. “I am yours to call upon, and thus I shall answer, swift as the great blade of Hela . It is similar to your knight’s sworn oath of chivalry, you see—my oath, as Wolf of the Northern Seas, is to serve the will of my lady.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I reply, “but I still don’t know what that means.”
His gaze hardens. “It means that I will kill for you.”
Well. Hmm. I might be too effective in convincing him. “I don’t know if that will be necessary,” I laugh nervously, “but, um, thank you!”
He grunts, then stands. “You’ve got good sense to be cautious of these people…they are schemers and deceivers, the whole lot of them; not one of them says what they mean. They will not hesitate to silence you if they see you as a threat, so I will not hesitate to slay them where they stand.”
I am shocked at the bold statements. I have heard of people being executed for a lot less, since speaking out against the Crown is sedition. Such executions do not happen often nowadays, especially as the merchant class has significantly grown in power and influence, but the law remains on the books as an open threat. Then again, Thorunn has a unique privilege. As a foreign diplomat, an attack on him, especially one committed under a controversial local law, could be seen as an attack on the Northern tribes. So he can say anything he wants about our royalty and they may only grit their teeth and seethe. Though I doubt he could get away with murder.
“If at all possible,” I say gently, “I would avoid killing anyone. I don’t intend to start a war between our countries.”
“Then how should I serve you?”
“Perhaps…we channel your zealous chivalry into something more productive. Defending me, instead.”
“O-oh. Of course.”
He seems to realize, for the first time, that responding to a simple request for help with I will kill those people for you is a little extreme. With a red tint in his cheeks, Thorunn rubs the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “Got carried away.”
“No, not at all…I do agree with you to some extent. I don’t feel safe here.” Even though I am not cold, I shiver and hug myself for comfort. “If I require you to go scorched earth, I am glad you are so eager to strike the match. That being said, I am still a child of Saol Eile. I love my country, and I do not wish to turn my back on it without the most absolute necessity…I would much prefer a path of negotiation, bargain, and tact over a path of bloodshed.”
He sits back in his chair with a bemused chuff. “That’s what all your politicians say,” he replies, “and then they threaten blood anyway.”
“Perhaps they have a strategy,” I muse. “You are rather large, my lord. In my experience, intimidation is a powerful bargaining tool, even if no true threat is attached. What if, to protect me, all you need to do is stand by my side?”
“Then should we say it openly? That we are…courting?”
“No. Not yet.” I have more research to do on the legality of such a courtship, after all. Being exiled or sent to a nunnery would throw a wrench into my plans. “We save that card for a critical play. Naturally, people will suspect it, especially if we continue meeting in public, but that is perfect. Leave the suggestion implied, but not certain. By keeping your allegiance ambiguous, we cast a fog of doubt, causing onlookers to second-guess themselves.”
Slowly, Thorunn nods. “I am all sorts of foolish today,” he murmurs.
“Why do you say that?”
He frowns, as if confused, then shakes his head and chuckles. “Nothing, my lady.”
“No, really. I’m curious.”
“You will think me the greatest, lovesick fool of them all.”
“Try me.”
Heaving a great sigh, Thorunn rests his chin on his hand as he gazes at me. His eyes rarely rest for long, usually yanking away to hide behind his tousled sandy hair, a shy child’s habit he has not yet outgrown. This time he manages to hold his gaze a little longer. He lingers on my cheek, my hair, and at last my lips.
“I hoped you would say yes, and that we must tell everyone. I wouldn’t waste a second…I would climb the highest rooftops and shout it to the whole world that I yearn for the Lady Eloise.”
MEMORANDUM
RE: Regression Returns Strategy, Revision 4
DATE: November 17, 489 AR
For my mother, Pansy, as a diligent trustee of my investments. For myself, Thorunn, with the zealous devotion of a new lover.
I have secured protection for both of us in the immediate future, in preparation for beginning my job as Edgar’s senior clerk. There is no doubt about it. Edgar loved my mother. Learning that fact from his shredded letter was the straw that broke the camel’s back, causing me to accept his job offer late last night.
Yet I cannot relieve the paranoia that keeps me awake all night. Somehow, I know it will not be that simple. One other truth stands out from my interview with Martha, but it was not something she said. It was something I said. “Men and the market are fickle creatures,” I had told her. “I do not wish to stake my livelihood on something so capricious as a storm at sea.”
I can predict, but cannot guarantee, the loyalty of Thorunn or the success of my market investments. Thorunn could fall out of love with me and revoke his protection; Pansy could run into some unforeseen trouble and lose everything to the greedy banks. And I can guarantee nothing about my father at all, besides (1) his financial investments mirror my own and (2) that within the past week, he wrote a fevered love letter to my mother in an unknown state of mind.
Yet I am placing all of my bets on them anyway. What choice do I have? Wait idly by for my death? Watch a steady stream of clerks perish to Edgar’s madness, one after the other? No. This is the best chance I might ever get. I must sail into unknown waters, at the mercy of the storm.