So It Begins

When Edgar calls me to his chambers on Monday morning, after a full day of rest, he is sitting up in bed. To my surprise, Thorunn is also there, having arrived by Edgar’s summons just a moment before I did. We hide the automatic smiles that rise to our faces when we see each other, then stand by Edgar’s bedside.

“I must properly thank you. Both of you,” Edgar says. “I have not been well as of late. I would say that I acted unreasonably that night, but that is putting it lightly. I almost killed myself, and the two of you saved my life.”

I spy Thorunn shifting awkwardly, and I know what he is thinking because he has told me himself. When he raced into the room, it was after Edgar had already gone over the edge, so he was not even sure what was going on. All he knew was that he saw me falling. Thorunn acted quickly only to save my life—saving Prince Edgar was entirely unintentional. But splitting hairs there will do us no good. Instead he offers a short bow.

“The gratitude is all mine, Your Highness,” says Thorunn.

“I must ask, Jarl,” says Edgar, “I know why Miss Odric was present with me. But I do not recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

Thorunn offers a weak smile. I knew Edgar would ask, so we practiced this one. “I was only around by happenstance, Your Highness. Miss Odric has been consulting with me on a matter of financial interest. I had an urgent message for her, and thought it best to deliver personally.”

“Financial interest?” asks Edgar, and I step up.

“Yes, Your Highness,” I say. “The northern Ironwulf Mountains, though they are a long sea voyage from Saol Eile, are rich in prospecting for iron and coal. I am something of a hobbyist in business, you see. Jarl Thorunn has been very helpful.”

“Goodness, Miss Odric, aren’t you full of surprises?” Edgar chuckles. “Land speculation, at your tender age? Your uncle must have taught you well.”

“He did, Your Highness.”

“Though I would caution northern mining. Our shipyards build stronger, more powerful vessels every day, but few ships can bear a northern sea with a stowage of heavy iron ore.”

“I considered as much, Your Highness. But the Jarl tells me that the true value of these mines is domestic, not international. The Northmen use iron and coal to make their tempered steel. So I do not intend to transport ore myself, only to obtain ownership of a mine. Then I may lease it out to local steelsmiths, collecting profits on rent alone. I would miss out on the chance to ‘strike it big,’ so to speak, if the mine is extremely successful—but I bear much less risk if the mine runs dry, and I do not need to occupy myself with the sale and transport of its products. Master Odric calls it ‘passive income’.”

As I speak, a light begins to dawn on Edgar’s face. He looks back and forth between me and Thorunn. “Are you hearing this?” he asks Thorunn. “She is a genius! A prodigy! Miss Odric, I can only hope your skill as a clerk matches your skill as an investor. If it does, we will do great things together. Oh, but I mustn’t forget. I must ask how to repay you—the both of you.”

Now, Thorunn and I cannot help but exchange a glance. Neither of us anticipated repayment. “Like what?” I ask.

Edgar shrugs. “Anything. Within reason. I may be the insane, disgraced youngest prince. But I am still a prince, and I am free to dispense whatever gift you may ask.”

“Well…” I hesitate. I know it is usually smart to hold onto favors. The value of favors can wax and wane, just like prices upon the market, and it is best to cash them in when both the value and need are high. But the idea springs into my mind as soon as Edgar mentions it, and him being in such a generous mood right now, this might be the best time to pitch it. Later, when the country is thrown into political instability, I may lose my chance.

“I want a house,” I say. “Here. In the capital city. Somewhere I can return at the end of the day. The other senior clerks already have homes of their own, but all I have is my basement room.”

Edgar raises an eyebrow. This is news to him, I can tell. “I see,” he says. “That makes sense. I wondered how you could report to me so quickly, much faster than Pym ever could…what if I need you here?”

“I do not have to live far, Your Highness. Mr. Pym’s morning commute was half an hour by carriage, since he lived deeper in the city. But I have heard there are beachfront villas as close as a brisk fifteen minutes’ ride by bicycle, just along the coastline. And if efficient communication is your concern, the palace arcanists are experimenting with longer-range wire telegraphs, like the one that connects the offices to the records department. We could sit on the cutting edge of technology and try it out ourselves.”

“I could be persuaded to try it. And those beachfront properties are small, but very expensive…I suppose having you close by will save me money in the long run.”

“One more thing, Your Highness.”

“What is it?”

“I wish to own the property, not just live in it. Though my uncle is successful, my immediate family is not—I have no assets to my name, nothing to pass on to my children. If you gift the villa to me, I wish to own it outright, with absolutely no strings attached.”

“No strings is a hard bargain.”

“ Any gift, you said.”

“How about this: I will lease the property to you, free of charge, on the condition that you stay my clerk for twenty years. At the completion of the term, you will own it.”

“That does not sound like much of a gift, if I must work twenty years for it.”

“Ten years.”

“Five. No term of lease. I own it conditionally from the start. Ownership reverts to you if I fail to complete the term.”

“Okay. If we must. Seven years?”

“Five.”

“It comes with a title. You would be a baroness.”

“It’s a beach house, not a fiefdom. No one would call me that. Five .”

“Done.”

He holds out his hand for me to shake, but I just give him a wry smile, keeping my hand firmly clasped behind my back. “I will type up the offer first, Your Highness. Never shake on a deal until you have read the fine print, remember?”

A common saying of my mentor. I need not credit him for Edgar to know exactly where I got it from. He chuckles, then waves me off. “Of course…Baroness Odric.” As I step out, I overhear him say to Thorunn, “Now, good Jarl, I hope that you do not intend to drive such a hard bargain…”

That night, Thorunn comes to my room. He is barely— just barely—able to squeeze in through the narrow garden-level window, though not without scraping his elbows quite badly. He laughs it off, though I still fuss about it and insist on cleaning and bandaging the scrapes.

“I look forward to…not doing this again,” he jokes. “A beachfront villa, is it?”

“Mmhm,” I hum, wiping my hands with a rag before settling down next to him. He is too large for us both to fit on my narrow twin-size mattress, so we lay on the floor with his fur cloak spread out beneath us. “More of a condominium, really. They’re very small properties, for one family at most, but better than this! And so close to the sea, Thorunn! I insist on getting a property with a dock—I’ll save up for a little sloop, something we could take out for fishing or sailing…”

I have so many ideas about my new house. I know at once that I need to bring Mom to see it, though I can’t yet talk about her with Thorunn, but there are plenty of other things on my mind. I tell him how I might decorate the house, if I could turn some spare room into my personal library, and whether there is enough space for a garden; and I continue chattering on and on until I notice Thorunn’s face. He has his head propped up on one hand and stares at me with a dreamy smile.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I’ve just never seen you so happy.”

I pause and take stock. He must be right. I haven’t felt so happy in so long. Things are…different now. Is Edgar’s paranoid, delusional optimism wearing off on me? More frequently, I find myself entertaining the idea that maybe Mom and I might actually be able to integrate into the royal family—I already can’t help but think of the other princes and princess as my uncles and aunt, or their children as my cousins. I never had an extended family before. It was always just me and Mom, alone against the world. Distantly, my dreams of the beachside villa even include Edgar. Does he like sailing? Mom does. Have they ever eaten a picnic on the water together, like Thorunn and I have?

“I’ve never had anything to look forward to,” I admit. “I am always just…running away from something.”

“Like what?”

My gaze darts away, but is soon drawn back to Thorunn’s face. With my thumb, I slowly trace the paths of his scars. The largest scars are four jagged stripes, like the lash of an animal’s claws, peeling from his left brow to just behind his ear. His hair is cropped close to the scalp on the sides of his head, so it is hard to tell by sight alone, but I can feel where the flesh is too coarse to allow any hair to grow back at all. The scars are old, and Thorunn is still very young. I file that question away for some other time.

You, I respond silently. I am running from another version of you.

“I suppose I just don’t like this place very much,” I say instead. “I always dreamt of traveling the world. I’d give anything to sail away and never look back…but only if I knew, for certain, that it was the right choice.”

Thorunn ponders on that for some time. “It’s hard to know,” he agrees. “That is always the risk of the sea.”

I shake my head. I am bringing down the mood, so I change the subject. “There I go again. I’ve made myself all thoughtful and melancholy. Cheer me up—what did you ask for? From Edgar?”

“Ah,” he smiles, “that is a secret.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No. I can’t say. Not even to cheer you up, I’m sorry.”

“Thorunn…”

“No! Don’t give me that face, you are too cute, and I feel bad.”

“Good! You should feel bad. Keeping this secret is a choice you are making and that choice is making me feel bad.”

Now I am just being childish, knowing full well that I will soon reap the rewards. To cheer me up, Thorunn offers to lay on top of me and kiss me until I feel better. I gladly accept the compensation.

As much as I would like to dive headfirst into my investigation, I still have an official job to do. Edgar is in the same boat. He is still the head of the Saol Eile state church, despite his singular obsession on Imogen Rossach and his resulting mental break. If he wishes to maintain his reputation and status as a prince, he has responsibilities to fulfill. He is not excused just because he is unwell about a girl.

I gently remind him that Imogen Rossach has waited this long; she will certainly wait a little longer for his visit. We have also figured out a solution to the letters—they will no longer be trusted to the mailroom or any courier, but whoever has been suppressing the letters will be none the wiser, as Edgar has plenty of draft letters that will be fed regularly to the shredders. Instead, when the palace is closed for the new year’s holiday and I am permitted to go out on break, I will hand-deliver his real letters to Imogen, collect her signature to ensure Edgar that she received them, and set up a meeting between them. I have not yet figured out how I plan to set up a meeting, nor have I told Mom in any of my letters what is going on. I will have to burn that bridge when I get to it.

For the rest of November and all of December, Edgar and I play a vicious game of catch-up in his official duties. It is strained, in no small part, by the fact that I am brand-new to this kind of work. Papers and financials I am generally good with, but church administration is new territory.

Edgar’s realm of oversight is utterly massive. The Saol Eile “church” oversees traditional religious functions, like charity, baptisms, and marriage. But its jurisdiction also includes anything related to magic—healing clinics, educational facilities, enchanting services, research and development, regulation and registration, licensing and liability…the list goes on. Obviously, Prince Edgar does not handle all of these matters directly; the dozens of administrative agencies below him do that. But where there are issues that cannot be resolved by the agencies, they rise up to the very top.

This requires Edgar to know, with excruciating detail, each and every one of those agencies; and for me to know, by a moment’s glance, each and every one of their unique forms. The schedule of his day to day varies, but generally follows this pattern: eight thirty, his office, with both of us reviewing files for the day’s activities and drafting a to-do list. Nine o’clock, administrative hearings in the prince’s court, where Edgar sits as the judge and arbiter and I make sure every case on the docket is called and accounted for. Noon, lunch; one o’clock, sometimes more hearings, sometimes meetings, sometimes I am there and sometimes Edgar sends me back to the records office to work. The day rarely ends before six o’clock, and often, I am terribly late to dinner.

He is struggling valiantly to hide his growing frustration with me. As with any new hire, I make stupid mistakes every minute, and he pays the price for them. But he has been unexpectedly mild when speaking to me. I assumed he would be the kind of boss who threatens to fire me over the smallest scheduling conflict, but he doesn’t; he just gruffly explains how to fix the mistake and moves on.

Through the grapevine of his secretaries and my occasional breakroom chats with Laurie, I learn that Martha has occasional meetings with him. She has exchanged a few terse words with me, mostly checking on how I am acclimating to the new role. But little else. Apparently she has been saving all of her emotional energy to thoroughly reprimand Edgar like he is a troublesome schoolboy, not a royal prince.

“This is what you get for demanding a novice clerk to replace Pym’s fifty years of experience,” Laurie once overheard Martha yelling, clearly audible even through her soundproofed walls. “ You have called this upon yourself, Your Highness, so you take responsibility for training her!”

As for Martha herself, she is a complete enigma. I once assumed that she despised me for taking Edgar’s offer over hers. But if those meetings are any indication, it almost seems like she is…protecting me. For whatever reason, even though she did not want me to take the job, she wants me to succeed in it anyway. And although Edgar has sworn me to secrecy about our discussions (he is not wrong in doing so; anything on paper that we file is free game for Martha, but our verbal conversations? strictly confidential) she has not asked me about them at all.

It almost feels like she is trying to pretend that the incident of breaking Pym’s door down never happened at all. Or maybe she just knows that the coming storm is inevitable. Just before the palace is to close for the three-week winter holiday, one of the few sanctioned holidays in Saol Eile government, I catch her in the hallway outside of Pym’s office. The door has still not been fixed. The same plywood board has hung up on it for weeks. The scattered files still moulder beyond it, untouched by anyone ever since. Still, even at the eleventh hour, I have a job to do. Martha barely gives me a second glance as she leaves and locks up her office, with her winter coat and hat in hand.

“Oh, Martha,” I call out to her. “Before you leave, may I have a moment?”

As she approaches, I hand her a small sheaf of papers on a clipboard. “What’s this?” she asks.

“A litigation hold.” I fish for a pen and hand it to her. “Prince Edgar is ordering that any and all records stored in Mr. Pym’s office are not to be destroyed, and should be preserved in anticipation of a future legal case.”

Martha flips through the pages for a minute. She has taken off her reading glasses in preparation for the travel home, but when she looks up at me, I know she would have loved to glare over the silver rim of those glasses. “Are you joking, Miss Odric?”

“I am not,” I tell her.

“The clerk’s office is closed. I will not return until the end of the winter holiday; I am not doing any work for you.”

I hold up my clerk’s stamp. “No worries, ma’am. You do not need to lift a finger. I can filestamp it myself, and have already scheduled for maintenance to remove the plywood after we come back from furlough. All I need from you is one signature on this last form.”

I flip to the last one. It is a certificate of service. Martha knows damn well what that means. I am not asking her permission. I do not need her permission at all. She is signing only to admit that she knows about it.

She sits in the waiting room chair to review the paperwork, though at this stage, there is not much beyond Prince Edgar’s simple, written order. We have a saying in the records office: to write it down is to etch in stone. No longer do we live in the primitive ages where a prince can just scream for something and it happens. Edgar can rant and rave all he wants about what he wants done, yet without a written order, obedience is technically optional. I am relieved that Martha, and the records department as a whole, has respected Edgar’s wish thus far, but this written order transmutes the wish into a command. It also serves as a warning. The first rumble of thunder in the distance.

Finally, Martha signs. “So it begins,” she muses.

“Indeed,” I reply, leaning against a nearby railing to stamp and tear off her copies of the document. “We don’t plan to file anything else yet. But with such a long break, when so many of the house staff are moving in and out to clean this place…well, if anything happened to the records, we might not notice for weeks. This is just a precaution.”

Instead of giving her the copies, which I know for a fact she does not want to take home with her, I reach to my pocket and withdraw a hammer and nails. I nail the sheaf of papers into the plywood, at eye level, so no one could miss it.

“Was this Edgar’s idea?” Martha asks.

After I am done hammering, I turn back to her. “No. Mine, actually.”

“Of course.” With a heavy sigh, Martha stands. “Well. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Miss Odric. The road to the crown will be long and hard.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I reply cheerfully. “Don’t get me wrong—whatever Edgar chooses to pursue, I am obliged to help him with it. But I am not pursuing any crown for myself, I can promise you that.”

Martha frowns. She glances around, checking that we are alone. Then she beckons me closer and asks, in a low voice, “Are you certain we are talking about the same thing?”

“You mean, Edgar making me his heir?”

“Yes, that.”

“Oh, yes, we are. I’m honestly neutral towards the whole prospect. I promise you, Martha, I am dead serious when I tell you this: I actually don’t want to be Edgar’s heir. I have half a mind to sell the title if I get it.”

“Then what , Miss Odric? Is this all just some game to you?”

We have done this song and dance before. Just a few weeks ago, in the rain, waiting for a carriage. This time, I am the one who turns away first.

“I told you before, I was curious about my father. Well, now I’ve met him. He is a huge egotist, a mad genius, and a disaster human being overall. Frankly, I don’t like him very much, and more than that, I don’t like what being a prince has done to him. Mr. Pym was right. Royalty is a disease.”

I pause. I look back at the papers nailed to the plywood board.

“But…I think…I enjoy spending time with Edgar. And I have eighteen years of that to catch up on. So I might as well start now.”