Author's Preface
“These legal battles do not occur in a vacuum,” Edgar says. “We cannot simply file paperwork quietly and wait weeks for the response. What neither of you—all three of you—what all three of you don’t seem to understand…is…I’m sorry. Remind me. Why is the Jarl here?”
Moretti, Thorunn, and myself are all present in Edgar’s conference room; Moretti to the right of my father and Thorunn and I to his left.
“I’m afraid he has made himself indispensable to this matter,” I tell Edgar. “Jarl Thorunn has met with Imogen Rossach, and he has pledged his country to aid her. Since she is still banned from the palace, Thorunn represents her interests in these proceedings.”
“And,” Thorunn adds, “Eloise is my betrothed.”
Edgar looks back and forth between the two of us. None of this should be news to him, as I wrote him a detailed letter yesterday and gave him a recap when I first walked into work. Based on his bewildered expression, he had not paid attention to either.
“Well. Hmm. Congratulations, I suppose,” Edgar mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just don’t get distracted at work. And…tell me when you need time off, please.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” I reply.
“As I was saying. Baroness, you’re what, twenty? And the Jarl, same with you? Moretti, I’m told you just finished your apprenticeship last year, so you can’t be more than twenty-five. You’re all practically wet behind the ears. But this has been my hell for almost four fucking decades, and I know how it works—nothing is won in the court. Nor is it won in the voting halls of our nobles. It is won at the king’s dinner table. On the same day that we file our petition to recover every penny stolen from the Rossachs, I intend on publicly declaring my engagement to Imogen with all the formalities of a royal bride. A big garden party, when the spring blossoms are in bloom.”
“Lady Olivia will have a coronary,” Moretti remarks.
“We can only hope,” Edgar grins. “So! Any thoughts?”
I raise my hand. “Yes,” I say. “It’s a bad idea.”
“I’m actually not taking constructive criticism at this time. Any other thoughts?”
“Per your request, I did research the issue,” says Moretti. “And I am loathe to say it, but…I agree with you, Your Highness. With a diplomatic betrothal like yours, there are only three ways to break it off: marriage to another person, a nightmare of a contract dispute, or mutual consent by the people who arranged the betrothal. You already tried eloping with Imogen, but that didn’t work; Their Majesties just annulled it. The Crown wouldn’t risk a contract dispute with the Guildensterns. For the same reason, marrying Imogen outright a second time would not work—you would be in breach of the contract, and they would go ballistic.
“So that leaves mutual consent. Your Highness, you have done many things to make the Guildensterns reject you as a potential son-in-law. None of them have worked, but this one might just. For you to shell out thousands of obols on a peasant girl’s legal battle, plan an extravagant party, and announce your engagement to that very same peasant girl—an engagement which cannot end in marriage, and thus could last until the end of time—you are sending a very strong message. A risky one. The Guildensterns may just go ballistic anyway. But there is a chance, a very slight chance, they may finally retire the sunk-cost fallacy that got them into this whole mess…”
“You would risk Lady Rossach’s life for a very slight chance?” asks Thorunn.
“They wouldn’t dare harm her,” Edgar responds. “Not at such a public event.”
“That’s true,” says Moretti. “These parties are swarming with reporters. If anyone so much as lays a finger on Imogen, the whole country will know by sunrise.”
“It was my mistake that we eloped the first time. It should never have been kept a secret,” Edgar shakes his head and leans forward against the table. “But because it was, they whisked her away and no one was the wiser. There were only nine witnesses to our humble little wedding, nine impoverished villagers who were more than happy to change their stories with a little bribe money—and that was my mistake. That was what almost killed Imogen back then. But a public event, with dozens of noble guests, possibly hundreds of witnesses…”
“Much harder to silence,” Thorunn reluctantly agrees.
“There is another thing,” says Edgar. “My father and the twins. They can only make a brief appearance, due to their busy schedules, but I need to know whose side they are on. Mine, or Mother’s.”
Queen Philomena, I have learned, is the driving force behind Olivia and Edgar’s betrothal. She is also the one who pushed for the annulment, and has been trying to purge all records proving my existence. But the rest of the royal family? It is a mystery who they support, and I must concede to Edgar—a public appearance with Imogen will catalyze all of them into action.
“Emerlane and I have always been close,” Edgar says, “and she hates Olivia too. So I suspect she will side with me. But Father and Winny are a complete tossup.”
“If Ezra and Emerlane already support you, then you only need one more for a majority,” Moretti tells him.
“But if neither support you,” says Thorunn, “then it is a tie.”
Edgar sighs. “I know.”
A tie of votes in the royal family is as good as a loss. Although most laws and disputes are resolved in the halls of the nobles, with the royal family overseeing and confirming the final vote, the affairs of the royal family are theirs alone. Matters such as succession and marriage are put to a simple vote—each adult member of the royal family is allowed one, and if the votes are tied, the highest-ranking monarch with the strongest royal blood breaks the tie. In this generation, the tiebreaker would be King Edwinn III. So if he does not support Edgar, then we lose.
“There is another complication,” Moretti muses. “The Family is posed with not just one, but three questions eligible for vote. First: whether to break Edgar’s engagement with Olivia. Second: whether to endorse Edgar’s engagement to Imogen. And third: whether to restore Edgar’s gifts to Imogen. I am not convinced everyone will vote the same way in all three questions.”
“So at the engagement party,” says Edgar, “we’ll have to find out. People will talk. Even if my family only shows up for a brief while, we can listen in on them. Watch their expressions. Track who they talk to. And see how they react to my new fianceé. Miss Odric—I trust that you can help in gathering and organizing that information.”
“If I may, Your Highness,” I raise my index finger.
“Go ahead.”
“I cannot complete such a volume of work from the records basement. I need my office—I need Pym’s office.”
He thinks about that for a long time. Just the idea of unsealing that office, that vault of priceless records, puts him noticeably on edge. He has already entrusted me with so much knowledge already, but this is a new step into unknown territory. I suppose I have not been doing myself any favors there. All I have done, at every step of Edgar’s journey, has been discouraging him from his nonsensical dream of marrying Imogen.
In my past life, my fatal flaw was that I ignored Mom entirely. I wanted nothing to do with her “delusions” that Prince Edgar would ride in on a white horse to save her. In this life…am I any better? Nowadays, my opinion of my parents swings back and forth like a pendulum, once or more times a week. When I first awoke in this life, I feared Edgar for his part in my and my mother’s deaths. As I learned more about Edgar’s efforts to gather wealth, my fear remained, but I grew bolder, and I took the clerk job in some half-baked plan to sabotage him. Then, when I finally learned the truth—that he loves my mother, and always has, if not for some mysterious force determined to pull him apart from her—I swung to the side of supporting him. But the moment I saw the fear on Mom’s face, when she first set eyes on Edgar in L’Magnifique, I became afraid with her. I have swung back to my starting position. And now I am so dizzy that I do not know where to go next.
As much as my stubborn pride hates it…I fear that, to get anywhere, I may have to take my next step on blind trust.
“Your Highness, to be clear,” I begin haltingly, “I am on your side. I still intend to serve you and your orders. But I am not afraid to express my doubts about this plan, if only for the safety of myself, of Imogen, and of Elizabeth. If the Queen’s hatred of Imogen was enough to threaten execution…I hesitate to reignite that hatred, or fan its flames.”
Edgar is quiet. He has stepped away from the table to pace, as is his habit, but even that has paused, leaving him to stand forlornly by the window.
I take a deep breath, then push my chair back and stand. “I only worry that your love has clouded your judgment. That being said…I am still your loyal servant, Your Highness. I may doubt you, but I will not betray you.”
Slowly, Edgar makes his way back to the table. Instead of sitting down again, he walks up to face me. I am beginning to agree with Ezra—the resemblance is uncanny. He and I are only a few inches’ apart in height, and I am a little taller with my heeled boots, allowing us to stare nearly nose to nose. He is pondering something. I recognize the slight, tense furrow in his brow, the dart of his gaze between each of my eyes.
“You must care deeply about Imogen,” he says.
There is no reason to deny it. “I do, Your Highness.”
“Why?”
“She is…my friend’s mother. I know firsthand how kind she is. I fear that such kindness makes her vulnerable, what with the cutthroat nature of politics.”
“May I request something?” says Thorunn.
Edgar and I look to him, both curious. “Are you calling in your favor, honored Jarl?” asks Edgar.
“No, Your Highness,” he shakes his head. “Just a request.”
“Speak, then.”
“Your Highness, I share in Miss Odric’s fear. Anything could go wrong at this party. Since I intend to return home this summer, a fleet of ships already plans to dock in your harbor. I request to call them a few weeks early. That way, my warriors may be present at the party to protect Lady Imogen.”
“How many warriors?”
“Forty. Give or take.”
Edgar lets out a huff and steps back. The number might not sound like much to someone unfamiliar, but the Northern barbarians are no ordinary warriors. One Northerner fights with the strength of ten ordinary men. Forty? Thorunn may as well have asked to move a small army of four hundred into the capital city.
“I can promise you, Ezra will not allow that,” Moretti cuts in.
“Is Prince Ezra not on our side, after all?” asks Thorunn loftily.
“I never said that,” Moretti responds. “Keep in mind that he will have his own agents present—I’ll be there as well.”
“Oh yes,” Thorunn chuckles. “With your toy dart gun.”
“Is that all you think I have?”
Thorunn scoffs. “You Saelics and your fancy guns. Fat lot of good those do you in the heat of the moment. What Lady Imogen needs are warriors, real warriors, not some nervous weasel fumbling around with a bayonet, spilling gunpowder in a panic—”
Moretti levels his arm towards Thorunn. I hadn’t even seen him reach inside his coat, but as if by magic, a sleek black pistol with a narrow barrel appears in his hand. It is indisputably not the toy dart gun that he pulled on me in his office.
“Moretti!” Edgar barks.
“It’s not even loaded,” Moretti scowls, flashing his other hand. Six shining bullets roll idly around his palm, though by how easily he pulled out the gun, I have no doubt that he could load them in seconds.
“I don’t care,” Edgar snarls. “Put that shit away.”
Moretti sighs like a scolded schoolboy, but obeys. Thorunn lets out a satisfied chuff until Edgar whirls on him next.
“You’re not off the hook either, Jarl. Be civil, or next time, the girl stays home.”
Me? What have I got to do with any of this? Besides, I am Edgar’s clerk, so it wouldn’t make any sense for me to stay home during a meeting like this. Whatever Edgar meant by it, though, Thorunn seems to understand and mutters an apology.
“Now, about your request,” Edgar continues, “I’ll think about it. But only if you two can behave. The last thing I want is the Jarl’s barbarians and Ezra’s undercovers bickering like fucking children. Like you two.”
I look back and forth between Moretti and Thorunn. Are they…sulking? My gods, they are! Edgar is right. They are being children. I can’t imagine what they have to bicker about, though. I sit back down, then clear my throat.
“Your Highness,” I say, “as long as Imogen is protected, that is all I care about. I apologize for causing a scene.”
“Trust me,” Moretti murmurs, “you caused nothing.”
“ You pulled out a gun ,” Thorunn retorts.
“What is with you two?!” I exclaim. “Do you need to go outside?”
Neither of them responds. They are committed to staring at the floor, the ceiling, the table, anything except me or each other.
In the end, Edgar agrees—I will need to get into Pym’s office eventually if we want to prepare the legal petition for Imogen’s gifts. I will need to make copies of every single document, comb through their contents, and generate a total list of everything that was lost. It is a massive task that will eat up most of my time, but he is willing to shift some mundane tasks to his secretaries if it allows me to work more on the petition. In a final show of trust, he writes me a blank check, to be used on any renovations to make my new office as comfortable as possible. I will basically be living there for the next few months, after all.
As I head towards the records department, Thorunn catches up to me a minute or so later and asks to walk with me. Of course I oblige, and as we walk, I tuck my left hand into the crook of his arm at such an angle that the light catches on my ring. Nobody that we pass in the hallways seem to care, but I like to imagine all of them are looking at the diamond in envy. Which reminds me…
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Thorunn. What on earth is so bad about Viscount Moretti?”
“What’s so bad about him?” he echoes. “I thought you despise him.”
I consider that, then shake my head. “He’s a little odd. And he gave me quite a scare that first time. But he seems to be a valuable asset, and I respect his work.”
He snorts derisively. “Respect. Pfft.”
“What did he ever do to you?”
“He shot at you, Eloise. And…he looks at you like you’re a piece of meat.”
He adds that last part as a deep red flush floods his cheeks. To be fair, I haven’t noticed Moretti looking at me in such a way, but Thorunn seems to genuinely believe it. “Are you jealous, my dear?” I ask.
“No I am not,” he says, with a pout that suggests he actually is.
“No one has ever been jealous for me before,” I smile. “How exciting!”
“It’s not exciting for me,” he grumbles.
We turn a corner into a quieter hallway. I look around for any passerby, of which there are none, before I grab Thorunn’s shirt collar and tug him down into a passionate kiss. He is surprised, but reciprocates quickly. For the briefest moment, he allows his hands to drop to my waist and squeeze me once, before a housekeeper turns the corner and we pull apart just in time.
“Now, my dear,” I remind him softly, “just remember whose ring is on my finger. Yours . No one else’s.”
When we arrive at the records office, I get an idea of something that will cheer him up. The maintenance crew has just arrived to tear down the plywood over Pym’s door, but they are more than happy to oblige when I ask them to take a break. Once they are gone, I dig around their supplies until I find a crowbar.
“What’s this for?” Thorunn asks.
“I thought this might make you feel better.” I offer him the crowbar in both hands, like a knight offering a sword.
He raises one bushy eyebrow. “You think that because I’m a barbarian, I will feel better if I break things?”
I shrug.
“Awfully reductive of you,” he mutters.
“Reductive! Now that’s a vocabulary word.”
“I’ve been…doing crossword puzzles.”
He takes the crowbar. For a few seconds, he looks between it and the plywood, examines the gaps where he could jam the tool and get leverage.
“Worth a try,” he sighs deeply, and swings the crowbar over his shoulder.
MEMORANDUM
RE: I don’t remember what the current plan is called and I honestly don’t give a shit anymore.
DATE: Saturday, January 30, 490 AR
I am typing this memorandum from Pym’s old— MY NEW office. Thorunn is quite the handyman. By the time the maintenance crew had come back from their lunch break, my betrothed had not only removed all of the plywood from the office doorway, but also begun replacing the doorframe entirely. They were more than happy to take the rest of the day off and just let him do it on his own.
Thorunn sits across from me now, reclined on Pym’s ratty old couch (I’ll leave this one as his, because I intend to strip out most of this ancient furniture and replace it soon). Thorunn is alternating between more crossword puzzles and working on his poetry. He offered to help me with the mountains of files still crowding the office, but it will be easier to keep track of where everything is if I work on it alone. And after all, Thorunn has done more than enough. Not only the door, but he has fixed the leaky window, the wobbly desk, several burnt lightbulbs, etc., etc. . . . Now all that keeps him here in my office while I work late into the night is what he calls “the idle joy of being with you.”
He does not know I am writing about him. Usually, when I am typing fast like so, I am hard at work. I suppose I should be. I originally set out to craft a tentative plan of attack against the thousands of loose papers flying around this office, or brainstorm some contingency plan to protect Mom during Edgar’s next wild and wacky scheme. I should work on both of those.
But upon my hand is a promise. It is more than just payment in exchange for my secrets — it has, sometime in the past week, morphed into a binding vow.
I have a betrothed. Not just a betrothed; I also have his army. I have a fleet of ships bound for the harbor. I have not just one man, but a whole country pledged to defend me and my mother. And, at least for now, I have ensured the loyalty of Prince Ezra and Edgar. For the first time since I have woken up in this life, I genuinely feel as if the board is stacked in my favor.
Whether this is true or not, I will leave that quandary for another day. For now, I think I shall join Thorunn on the couch and sleep soundly for the first time in ages.