She smiled and kissed him. “Owen, I have been horrible to you. Evil and vile. I never have given you a chance. I haven’t given Mystria a chance. I couldn’t see what you did in it. And then, today, I saw Miranda staring at things in town, and I asked her why. And she said she wanted to remember everything so she could tell people in Norisle about her home. And when she said it, Owen, she was so sincere that I knew to take her away would be to crush her heart. And a second later, my husband, I realized I had been doing that exact thing to you.”
Catherine slipped her hands down his arms and took his hands in hers. “I owe you an apology. I promise, I shall be better, Owen. I shan’t be perfect, but I shall try, really try. I will be a good wife to you and a good mother to Miranda. I shall even suggest that we care for Becca and make her part of our family. I just ask, Owen, please, for you to give me this one more chance. Don’t say no. I couldn’t bear it if you say no.”
He looked down at her, not sure if he could trust her, but desperately wanting to believe she was changing. He was too soul weary to fight her, and questioning her would trigger a fight. Though dread trickled through him, his desire for peace pushed him toward believing her. “You will have all the chances you desire, Catherine Strake.”
She smiled and pulled him toward the bedroom. “Come, Owen, make me your wife again. Remind me how much you love me, and how much you want this to be our home.”
1768
Chapter Forty-three
17 March 1768 Government House, Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria
The day Prince Vlad had been dreading had arrived. The courier, wearing the uniform of the Fifth Northland Cavalry, had brought him the pouch of dispatches from Launston, then retired to report to Colonel Rathfield. Vlad had taken his time working the worn leather strap free from the brass buckle. At another time he would have found the heavy pouch laying on his office desk pregnant with possibility, but instead he imagined it infested with disaster.
Few had been the ships coming into Temperance from Norisle in the latter half of 1767. Unusually stormy weather off the Norillian coast had been credited with delaying the shipping schedule, but that should have meant the Crown had more time to get messages aboard ships. Even correspondence from his father had slowed to a trickle, and most of it cautioned him against heresy and exhorted him to find “the heretic” as soon as possible. Vlad could not help to wonder if the slowing of communication was meant to send him a message in and of itself, or if governmental uncertainty had caused his father’s keepers to withhold all but the most innocuous missives.
Even information from informal channels had been scarce. Prince Vlad felt less that friends were distancing themselves from him than there was just no news to relay. This was remarkable in that it meant the Crown was being exceedingly tight-lipped regarding him and Mystria. That did not bode well.
He poured the correspondence in a pile onto his desk and pulled his glasses on. Each letter had been folded within a sheet of blue paper, bound with twine and sealed with red wax. Vlad sorted them by thickness, being used to guessing at what they contained based on their size. He selected one of the most slender, cut the twine with a knife, then broke the seal. He unfolded the letter and pressed it flat to his desk, relishing the crispness of the paper.
As the courier’s uniform had suggested, the packet contained orders for Colonel Rathfield to take command of the Fifth Northland Cavalry Regiment, which was being stationed in Temperance Bay. This doubled the size of the military in Temperance Bay-albeit temporarily. Rathfield would be promoted to Brigadier General and the Prince’s Life Guards would be sent south to take up their new duties in Kingstown, Richlan. The notice of change of command included a request for the Prince to requisition enough horses to equip the cavalry, confirming the fact that they’d been sent over without mounts.
And there was no indication of where the Prince was to find the money to pay for the horses.
He set that message aside and picked one of the thicker ones. He selected it because, in addition to the red wax seal, purple twine had been used to bind it. That meant it was from the Crown. By rights he should have opened it first, but he was certain he knew what it contained.
Over his aunt’s signature came the response to his request for troops to fight the Norghaest. Embedded within whereases and wherefores he found a simple message: the Crown does not have money to spend on fighting faery tales. The Crown concluded that the slaughters at Piety and Happy Valley were the result of Shedashee raids, possibly encouraged by the Tharyngians. The deaths should serve to show all Mystrians why they should not stray beyond the Queen’s protective reach.
The packet included a proclamation which he was required to publish and have read in town squares and from pulpits throughout the Colonies. In it the Queen came across as a patronizing parent scolding imbecile children for wasting her time crying wolf. She threatened stern punishments were such nonsense to continue. In four paragraphs she managed to call all Mystrians stupid, cowardly, conniving, and dishonest. That single document would not only cause citizens to rally to the banner of anti-government groups like the Sons of Liberty, but would spawn many more, and create impetus for Colonies to break away from Norillian rule.
Vlad shook his head. That single sheet would do more damage than a Norghaest invasion. He also recognized that it was a test. If he chose not to publish it, he would be revealing himself as a rebel. If he did, he would be charged with incompetence when protests began. Her response to my petition casts me as a liar. The groundwork is being laid to remove me.
His fingers trembling, he picked up the next largest packet, one from the Home Secretary. It contained a proclamation of the “Shipping and Commerce Act.” It laid the foundation for the Control Acts. It required everyone engaged in the import and export of goods to obtain a license and to register with Her Majesty’s government. The legislation had been written as an anti-smuggling law but would require everyone whose products could end up on a ship to register. Nathaniel Woods, and all of the Shedashee for that matter, would have to abide by the law or their trade goods could be confiscated. Furthermore, while registration did not cost money, language was in place for the Home Secretary to impose fees and tariffs as necessary to maintain the integrity of the Norillian economy.
Vlad removed his spectacles, tossed them atop the messages, and rubbed his eyes. “Have you any idea what you’re doing?” The Shipping and Commerce Act would be more than enough to incite protests. Hunters and trappers would simply ignore the laws, which put pressure on those who bought their furs, subjecting them to possible fines for smuggling. Because the act applied to any product that could end up on a ship, the scope of its application knew no limits. The act was designed to remind everyone to whom they were subject.
Adding on top of that, the Crown’s reply concerning the request for troops and the Queen was guaranteeing rebellion. It would simmer at a low level, but as taxes and fees got imposed, the heat would rise. And if the Norghaest do attack… even if they threaten, there is no way the Queen will not be made to look the fool.
A gentle rapping on his office door caused him to glance at the clock on his sideboard. He got up and answered the door.
“Quite punctual, Miss Frost, thank you.”
“My pleasure, Highness.” Bethany entered and set the sheaf of papers she was carrying on the side table. She flipped the folio open and handed him a set of sheets which appeared to be ledger pages. He scanned the account names atop each sheet, then smiled. “You had no difficulty with the sendings?”
“Storms did scramble some things, but redundancy allowed me to correct them.”
“Any more ghost messages?” The thaumagraphs occasionally produced messages that had a rhythm and cadence all their own, but resulted in nonsense messages. The Prince feared his thaumagraphs were picking up on Church communications through similar devices-which meant his messages might trigger their devices.
“Both your wife and I have heard more of them, but they remain short and appear to be nonsense.” The woman smiled. “She can tell you more, but she thinks they might be the result of magick storms.”
“Interesting theory. I can’t wait to hear more about it.” The Prince brought the papers to his desk and then handed Bethany the Queen’s proclamation about how her colonial subjects should behave. “Take your time. I’d like your opinion.”
“Yes, Highness.” She sat at the small desk the Prince had installed for her and began reading.
From the start of the thaumagraph project the Prince needed reliable and intelligent people. He’d brought
