Illustration of a letter, magical wax seal, and a candle [https://i.imgur.com/uFfcQkj.png]

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May 6

Beastslayer

Somewhere in Time Strait

T:

I’ve reread your letter a dozen times because I can hear your voice in my head; it’s glorious. I don’t even care that you’re yelling at me for the first page. Yet the contents have kept me from really sleeping ever since.

Call me a chronic optimist all you want, but the arranged marriage between Councilor Erring and I was nothing, a casual favor the king granted a friend. Is the king really so rarely crossed that one untitled girl defying his wishes deserves such devoted hatred as he has shown? I don’t think he is that petulant. I’m wondering if something else is going on here, something we can’t see.

You asked what I learned of Erring in our brief encounters and honestly, I learned he’s not quite human anymore. I can’t describe the eeriness any other way. I noticed he has an aversion to touching common things or people, which I believe to be pure snobbery. Once he declined being handed a pitcher at dinner, the servant handling it being a crass, giggly girl with poor manners. I also noted his disdain for alcohol. I’ve seen him show open disgust for drunk men swigging from bottles on festive occasions.

After hours of thought this is all the insight I have to offer you, and I’m sorry for it, but I am certain of one thing: don’t spend one minute in Erring’s company, Tarisa! Hide in the potato cellar for weeks if necessary. I’m worried about Nate, but I’ve never heard of Erring becoming violent with a man (unless he’s being paid to do so). The women he’s with are not so lucky.

There are some stories you haven’t heard about him. The matrons consider me an old maid already at twenty-three, so they are apt to be more graphic in their gossip without you present. Suffice it to say, from bruises to burials, Erring is suspect when it comes to women. Nate is titled, male and he can carry a sword on his person without suspicion so if one of you must host Erring, it needs to be him. Still, start carrying a knife yourself. I mean it.

And don’t you leave things out, Ree. You never explained why you’re under house arrest and can’t flee, and you hinted at business troubles? How could Rosetree’s finances be depleted so quickly? How have you and Nate been helping Papa’s partners? You know I’ll just worry more if you don’t tell me. Mama always used to say I thrive on other peoples’ problems, so please don’t keep yours from me.

That includes every little detail about your courtship with Cam. I know you likely cut those juicy bits for sake of the seals—if only we weren’t limited to one letter per cycle! As for the seals powering for a day then going dormant at midnight for three, yes I remember, and it’s been giving me fits because the seals are obviously following Solish time. Your midnight, as far as I can tell, is my sunrise. Only, the Netherworld doesn’t have a sun, or stars, or a moon—they simply call it dayrise when the glow returns to the world. Your letter arrived just before the light, after I’d nearly despaired of getting an answer at all.

Of all the things you told me, there is something that weighs most heavily on my heart. I can’t agree with your decision not to show Nate my letter or message; I hope you’ve since repented of the idea. Because I’m not home and am unable to judge for myself, I won’t insist or demand, but Ree…what if the situation was reversed? What if you were despairing, thinking I could be suffering or even dead, and Nate hid the letter because he didn’t trust you?

I’m going to give you some advice you won’t like, but you’ll be a vile hypocrite for rejecting it since it’s your own. I know many of our friends may have cut or rebuffed you, Tarisa, and you’ve always been far more wounded by such things than I. The fact you saved those waspish scandal sheets tells me you’re hanging onto more hurt than you show. Don’t forget there are still some gems among the paste jewels. Don’t let your pride keep you from making alliances or granting forgiveness or in Nate’s case, having some faith. Surely we are not the only ones who have been hurt by the king’s actions in past years, so you may have more in common than you know. You could charm a fox into giving up goose for good, so give it a try.

So much has happened, and I’m so vilely tired, but if I start in the middle you’ll get that vexed crinkle on your brow. Where do I start then?

Your questions. I’ll start with your questions. I have them before me. From your letter, it seems you have some glowing embers of hope to launch a rescue; I’m afraid I have to smother those. Even the fastest nethership sent through the portal would take months to reach us. There’s no method of communication like our seals between ships on the Nethersea, and we’d have to know our location to even get rescued. Which leads me to: how are we going to figure out where we are? Why did they make me captain, and not just navigator, especially with my weak abilities? I’ll start with the second question, since it leads to the first.

Politics. Ancient politics, in this case. Since those with the Touch were the first to create portals to explore the Straits of the Netherworld, Touchers made the rules. Captains of a Nethersea vessel MUST have the Touch; if there is not a captain with the Touch on a vessel magicked to endure the enchanted seas, the vessel’s rudder will not move; they’re made that way. Since only a few Toucher shipbuilders know how to make ships that can withstand the Netherseas, this feature is universal.

Obviously, the Toucher-only law was intended to prevent mutiny and establish a monopoly on valuable, otherworldly trade, but the rule also has more merciful implications. Netherfolk are distrustful and dangerous; they limit the number of vessels they trade with and the ports we can enter. Traders refuse to give goods to captains who don’t understand the magic they’re buying since many magical commodities are illegal for a ship to carry; if illegal items are found on a ship, the lives of everyone on board are forfeit.

Those first pioneers knew that ordinary men would be tempted by the money to bribe their way through a portal, travel the Netherseas without any magical gift at all, and inevitably kill those onboard when their hulls disintegrated or when monsters attacked. Also, there’s always a chance someone could steal a magicked ship to harass the Netherfolk into closing their borders or declaring eternal war on otherworldly ships. So the Touch Rule stands.

Each captain carves their name on the wheel when they first take the helm. Before you ask, no, I haven’t done so! I don’t know how the binding ceremony works, how to steer, or which course to take; I’m scared to death I won’t have enough magic. Even if I do, what if I bottom out and go a little crazy? You remember me healing Maisi’s leg after the fox got to it (Maisi was grateful at least, though it’s hard to judge gratitude with ducks). After enchanting just one splint for a duck, my inhibitions swung like a pendulum, like I was a little drunk but fizzier. I can’t afford to lose my wits on a ship with a murderer but in the end, I might have no choice.

Somehow, the connection between captain and ship makes the rudder work and another Toucher can steer with the captain’s permission as long as the captain is on board. In the past, half the crew were Touchers, to ensure the chain of command would never fail, but as predicted, many captains (like Clacey) don’t want to pay the higher price to avoid the situation we are in at present.

A situation I feel helpless to navigate. I carefully asked around and discovered no one on board was present when Captain Clacey took the helm, which means no one still alive knows how a connection is forged between the Beastslayer and I so the wheel will move. Though captain in name, the men have made it clear they don’t want anything to do with me. But I’m jumping ahead; my brain is scrambled.

The first day after the deaths no one left their berths until the bodies were thrown overboard; Cook told me the surgeon, Sawl, guessed there was still residual magic on the victims, and he wasn’t sure if whatever killed them could be spread in the air or by touch (he moved the two magtox fever victims temporarily out of sickbay to avoid contamination). So Captain Clacey was buried with only one mourner, and since he and Sawl are peers in age and have famously never gotten along, it probably wasn’t much of a funeral. As for the other Touchers, with the exception of the standoffish Navigator Hoy, they were all as merciless as the captain. No tears were shed.

I rose before dawn (having not slept), searching Clacey’s quarters until well after midday. The only thing I found related to navigation was an ordinary nautical compass, but the needle doesn’t point consistently the same direction, spinning aimlessly to and fro. A strong Toucher could take this or any object and perhaps jimmy-rig a way to navigate, but starting a relic from scratch takes so much power, a feat far beyond me. I had been hoping to find an object already enchanted to do the job, one that just needs a little Touch to direct it.

My first real foray out as ‘captain’ came that afternoon. It was soon clear the captain kept no maps or instructions for piloting the ship in his quarters; what I wanted was in the navigator’s cabin as Tory had suggested. Having decided this, I wandered down to the galley.

Cook avoided my gaze, slamming down pots, obviously furious to have to work again. A few men sitting at the cramped tables cast glances at me, but there was no respectful, “Captain,” even muttered under their breaths. They simply went back to their rations, making faces now that my sprinkle of magic no longer relieved the taste of the food.

I settled down by Tory, heart pounding in my chest. The same meeting that declared me the captain also appointed Tory quartermaster, my second-in-command, yet we hadn’t spoken since the promotions. As I said before, despite the demanding exercise of a sailor he has the physique of a man who loves his ale, but still with a full head of iron hair and a beard. He was senior boatswain before the murders. I can already hear you chirping, “What’s a boatswain?” Patience, I don’t feel like explaining nautical terms now, many of which I still don’t understand.

I took your advice, trying to find allies, and spoke to Tory in the same no-nonsense tone I used at home to speak with merchants and butchers. “Tory, we should meet after your watch to discuss matters.”

“Matters?” He shoved some food in his mouth. Some men snickered behind me.

I felt my cheeks heat. You know I blush so easily, and I’ve never blushed so much as I have the past four days. “The ship is spinning in circles and we could be miles off course. We need to—”

“Don’t worry, miss, I’ll make you aware of any matters that require your input. All we need from you is to get into the navigator’s cabin and get us cutting waves again before a sea monster decides he wants a snack. Hoy’s got some fancy lock on his door so only a Toucher can open it.” Tory smiled, revealing missing teeth. To be fair, there’s hardly a full set of teeth in one head on the entire boat. Yet the smile was worthy of the snobbiest, nastiest debutante in town, putting me viciously in my place.

Giving up on Tory, I kept trying with others. It reminded me of the year when we both were out in Society, you whipping me with a fan to get me to talk to that or this young man. Correcting the horse-beater is one thing. Social whirl was never to my taste, but the despair I felt at each sailor’s rebuff was monumentally worse than any ballroom cut.

As I walked out of the galley, grabbing a chunk of hard tack, I stopped at a table, facing four younger men I had never spoken to before. I stopped myself from calling them sirs. “I don’t know your names.”

They looked at each other, one of them shrugging. “Don’t matter.”

“I’m asking.”

“We’re not important. You are, miss. We’re stuck without you, best get us moving fast.”

Perhaps you’re right, T. Perhaps I have changed, but I have no idea how to get back the me who would have sat down at their table and sweetly made them talk. Maybe she died in the past six months. I didn’t say anything. I left, and it felt terrible but inevitable.

I nearly bashed into someone in the corridor—all the corridors are so small on a ship, despite the size of the men—and found myself face-to-face with Trin. He’s always been friendly, which has made me more wary of him in a way, and I fought the urge to run back to the galley, barely able to make out the man’s face in the darkness.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry, miss— Captain.”

“For what?” I said, not very intelligently or strongly. Frankly, I’m not used to being addressed at all on the Slayer, let alone with respect.

“There was a meeting last night.” Trin leaned against the wall, arm upraised, meeting my gaze. “You weren’t invited. Thought you should know.”

“I see.”

“Do you think you can get the ship working?” he asked, low and earnestly.

I simply nodded vaguely, pressing my back to one wall and waving him on. Trin obediently passed me with a wink in my direction. He’s always winking at people. I think this one was meant to be supportive.

It took only a few hours for me to realize Trin was telling the truth. A meeting had been held—without me—and everyone on the Beastslayer had agreed to pretend I didn’t exist, or if forced, repeat back like parrots, “All you need to know is in the navigator’s cabin.”

After I sent my last letter to you, I’ve tried to break into Navigator Hoy’s cabin, but he was one of those paranoid and pretentious Touchers who never let anyone forget their superior education, assuming everyone wants to steal their treasures. The wood is special, unbreakable (I tried taking an ax to it) and the latch has words carved into it in ancient Erinay that I’ve copied for you. Whatever is written is no doubt the magical pass phrase for the door.

Eib blub a skyd bnen nwimo tiä, aho ycha a iso isåbl..

Until I get a translation, I can’t get in, so IF YOU READ NOTHING ELSE, TARISA PAY ATTENTION. GET ME THIS TRANSLATION TODAY IF YOU CAN. If I have to wait four days for the answer, I’m afraid of what could happen.

Thwarted at entering the cabin and unable to write to you until the seals recharge, I ventured above decks and onto the quarterdeck off-and-on, though I hardly know why I don’t just give in and let them have a ship I can’t run anyway. I told Tory, when he asked, that Navigator Hoy’s notes on how to determine our location magically and steer the ship are EXTREMELY complicated and will take time to decipher, promising results very soon. I wasn’t stupid enough to tell the crew that I was locked out of the only room that could bring us salvation.

Tory is a terrible fit for quartermaster but despite his experience doesn’t seem aware of the fact. Quartermasters are arguably more important than the captain, intended to be able to do any job on the ship, including navigating and advocating for the crew’s interests. The position requires mathematics, diplomacy, and leadership skills. As boatswain, Tory is knowledgeable in all the practicalities of keeping a ship running, which he does admirably, but there’s nowhere to go, no sails to trim or combat drills to run. Most of the men lounge above decks or below, playing cards or betting buttons and stolen ale, doing odd jobs or repairs. So far none have complained, but the strain is showing. Shouting matches are common, thrice coming to fisticuffs.

I saw the cabin boy crying on a pile of ropes when I went up to the quarterdeck to investigate your clue. The main deck was largely empty, the heat of Time Strait oppressive; sailors who didn’t want to be out in it didn’t have to and weren’t, so we were alone in a sea of white-blue, the waves glittering with latent magic, the sky without a sun, bathed with the Netherworld’s unearthly, daylight glow.

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Any boy tough enough to travel on the Netherseas before he could shave would resent my pity or compassion, so I pretended not to see his tears. “You’re Bunt, aye?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I corrected.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, straightening a bit.

I scrambled for something to say. His face, before he knew I saw it, had been full of fear. Papa always said the best thing for fear is knowledge, so I gestured Bunt closer. “You remind me of my brother, who’s now a strapping big man, a lord. He studied the Netherworld at university, and did you know the oceans have different monsters and fish in different depths?”

“No, ma’am.”

As I spoke, an idea occurred to me. I didn’t explain, not wanting to give false hope, but… “I have an order for you, Bunt.”

His face clouded, proving my suspicions about the sailors blackballing me had been true. Yet he didn’t dare deny me to my face, so I continued, “I want you to spread the word I’m looking for a seaman who has been traveling these seas for years, someone who can identify any creature, living or dead, that we drag out of the water. I want him to report to me as soon as you find him. ”

“How do you figure one of us knows so much, ma’am?”

“The Beastslayer has been sailing these seas for thirty-odd years. Her crew is one of the best.”

Bunt straightened even further. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, hop to it.”

Bunt nodded, sprinting off. This accomplished my second goal: to get the boy below decks without raising any suspicion. The note you decoded as ‘mizzen 23’ made perfect sense to me. The mizzen is a sail towards the aft of the ship, and the sail’s mast comes straight up through the quarterdeck. Since only officers are allowed on the quarterdeck, where the wheel and helm are, at night this area is usually deserted except for whatever officer is steering at the time.

We use twenty-four hours on the ship instead of twelve and twelve, to erase confusion with watches. Basically, dear sister, you gave me a location and a time. The captain was meeting someone shortly before he died (he was killed sometime after midnight, the ship’s surgeon is fairly sure) at the mizzen mast. But why was the meeting in code? The captain has the right to talk to anyone he likes, wherever he likes, and he often summons sailors up to the quarterdeck for an abusive chat at all hours as a form of ‘discipline’.

I searched the quarterdeck and found nothing, even bending down to run my fingers along the planks. I grabbed the mizzen rope (we sailors call them lines) to tug myself to my feet and my palm tingled. I looked closer and saw a tiny, shinier smear on the coated fibers of the rope. It looked almost like tar, but the tingling told me it was magical in nature, like nothing I’d ever seen or heard of before.

No one puts a rare magical substance on some random line of a ship for no reason. The fact it hasn’t already been covered up by new pitch proves it was put there in the last several days, perhaps even when the captain met with his mysterious correspondent.

No matter what, I now know for sure that magic had to do with the murders; and strange magic at that. It makes me wonder if I’m not the only Toucher left on board, but if I’m being honest, which I’ve sworn to do, it isn’t the murderer I’m most worried about. I’ve read accounts of ships that were becalmed, without wind to carry them, or vessels stuck in fog, where the men go mad. Sometimes they attack their captain or their officers. Tonight, I overheard the boatswains whispering about Rogers, how he tried to jump overboard with an oar and a ripped-up bit of planking, convinced it was his only chance.

GET ME THAT TRANSLATION

Maree

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May 6

Rosetree

Solan

To the Brave, Bold, Beautiful Captain Maree,

Stop shouting at me in your letters, all right? I’m not one of your sailors, to say ‘aye, aye.’

It’s well after sundown, I know I’m cutting it close again but much has happened. Here’s your translation of the latch’s writing: “pure heart and noble mind can enter, where craft and skill combine.” You’re right, Hoy was pretentious. The translation came from a strange quarter, but I’ll explain later.

I feel like you don’t understand how really battered and wounded I’ve been. Or how hard it is to keep smiling when beloved faces turn aside and pretend they don’t see you. I had to stop one of Nate’s bloody noses, sticky crimson running down my sleeve, did you know that? He banged right into a wall candelabra, drunk as a skunk on payday, plenty drunk enough to panic when he started to bleed, whispering in horror, over and over, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

I’m doing the best I can, all right?

Ach, I hate that I cry as easily as you blush. Never mind. I’ve decided to give you all the details you asked for, as long as you don’t blame yourself. I mean it. You’re a genius at taking responsibility for things that aren’t your fault or your business so resist the urge to wallow.

You asked how we’re helping Papa’s partners, assuming no doubt that we’re as clever as he was with gold and good sense. Far from it, I’m afraid. Many of the shops Papa invested in, including that delightful seamstress on Unis Street, have had licenses revoked or taxes mysteriously turn up missing, the haberdashery even closing its doors permanently. All Nate and I can really do is tell those suffering to keep the money they’d normally owe us, sending a few letters to business friends and city officials who might be able to help. As a woman, and an unmarried one, I can’t even send those letters. I can’t advise either since Nate has almost entirely stopped talking to me. I feel like shouting at him, then something in his eyes stops me—a quiet desperation, like a fox in a cage that’s given up even whining at the bars.

As for the house arrest…I didn’t want to write the reality down. I’ve always thought of myself as a fearless person, but I’ve never felt so alone before, nor faced anything like this.

Once we returned to Rosetree the attacks started to center on me. Whisper bucked me off—yes, Whisper—and we found a tiny caltrop under her saddle, sharpened spikes painted black. Arran had to explain to me what a caltrop was, a four-pointed device used in war to maim horses and foot soldiers.

Men lurk at the edges of the fields only when I am out walking or riding, vanishing into Fahr Hills anytime Arran, Nate or the groundskeepers try to chase them down. Then Whisper was found stiff, poisoned with remphor. She had a bridle in her mouth, my name messily embossed in the leather of the brow band.

Twelve years since Papa raised Whisper from a foal, it’s like losing part of him all over again. My heart’s still bleeding, and no one knows how the killer managed to sneak onto the estate. I’ve never seen Arran so coldly militant as he ordered a search, making him look like those terrifying sketches of Trifayan soldiers in books.

Before Whisper’s grave was cold, we received a second missive from King Rinlind. Rinlind “proposed” we not leave Rosetree until Miss Naman was found and the marriage to Erring finalized, promising crown assistance once the connection was official. To quote the blackguard: “with the attacks escalating, Rosetree might be burned to the ground if master and mistress were to abandon her.” By the same messenger, we received the letter from Erring, inviting himself to Rosetree.

When seen from a broader perspective, everything seems perfectly orchestrated: ruin our relationships and alliances in town, isolating us from possible friends. Force us back to Rosetree like a treed coon. Once trapped, cut off our finances and try to scare the only remaining Naman woman out of her senses, sending Erring to invade our home as a final masochistic touch. I think Rinlind’s picked me out as the weak link.

I’ve decided to make him regret it. Even if it kills me.

You recall Papa’s friend, Viscount Warren, at Yoren Hall? He’s still an old recluse, his wife nigh unto it, happily hiding from the world together on the coast. Chances are the viscount hasn’t heard and doesn’t care about the king’s tantrums. Every year he holds a summer house party, you remember? Fishing, hunting and beach combing (as much as I love Rosetree’s ocean cliffs, you have to admit we’re sorely lacking in beaches). The Namans weren’t invited this year, but I swallowed my pride and wrote the viscount, requesting an invitation, hinting at his old connection with Papa.

I drafted the missive half a dozen times. I know, it’s not like me to be so indecisive. Something about treason seems to make my palms sweat and my pen nibs dull. One doesn’t get used to it.

Despite your shouting in your last letter, I don’t see how Nate or I are going to avoid Erring entirely, since he will surely be at Rosetree before I even get a reply from Warren. I haven’t figured out either how to escape the estate without notice in the first place, or how to keep Erring from following us to Yoren Hall since we’re surely being spied on. How else could they know what horse was mine, and kill only Whisper?

Yet despite the nasty feelings you churned up like spoiled butter, there’s no denying you’re right, M— about the knife and our need for allies. Any security we feel now is only an illusion that will vanish with time, like a reflection in a rain puddle. If Rosetree fails, this visit to Warren could mean survival, and I don’t know that I’ll really sleep until we receive an answer.

At the same time, I can’t help but fear who else Viscount Warren will invite to the party. If he invites us, if Nate and I can escape our own home and evade your ex-fiancé, and if we can travel up the coast without being recognized, one of the king’s loyal stooges might be waiting to lead me into dinner anyway. The only real hope I have is that the Viscount Warren I remember hates pomp and stuffiness, and most royalists are soggy with both.

As for the translation, I wasn’t sure how to go about getting it. Usually, I’d ask Berta to find a translator, but her housekeeping headaches have doubled since Lena fell ill, plus two servants ran off with beaux in the past three months. So I went to Mr. Arran instead, hoping he would know of someone in town that was educated in the magical language. To my surprise, he could translate Erinay himself.

When I expressed said surprise, Arran merely straightened some papers on his desk and shrugged. “The late Baron Glassel knew I was interested in dead languages and magic. He funded a few specialty courses while I was at the university, indulging me in the subject.”

I expressed my gratitude politely, hoping to leave without further comment, but Arran leaned forward over the desk in the way he has, hands in fists and pressed into his papers. He lowered his voice. “What of our captain?”

I spoke very eloquently. “Er…”

“The translation is for her, is it not?”

My legs suddenly backed into the chair across from the desk. I hadn’t even realized I was easing back in the face of his intensity. I don’t know why but it irritated me. “Yes, well, it’s a bit private. I’m not certain the captain wanted details bandied about outside the family.”

As suddenly as his interest appeared, the intensity I resented guttered out like a snuffed candle. He sat with pleasant grace and wrote on a scrap the translation, passing it to me without expression.

Men. I changed the subject to his management of the estate, thanking him and letting him know I never worry about leaving Rosetree in his hands, and neither does Nate. Arran just nodded, head down, a new furrow between his brow.

At the door, I turned around. “What was the course called? The one on magical languages?”

“I don’t recall,” he said, not looking up from his papers.

We’re lucky Arran took an interest in Erinay, for its not a common skill. I forget, reading your letters, how comparatively rare magic really is here in Solan. You speak of it in the water, in the air, even smeared on rope like mud on boots, yet I remember when your Touch manifested. Mama and Papa were so in awe to have a Toucher in the family, proof that the magic in Rosetree’s land was finally soaking into the blood of its owners after three generations. To be the only debutante with the Touch during your first Season in Solis…despite your recent disaster, I wish I had the gift just for that; standing out in a sea of pastels is so difficult.

Nether products are all the rage, far eclipsing in value those made with the Touch. Nether spines in cosmetics, dragon scale powder in medicine—this season they even have a new tea, tea, that makes your tongue tingle pleasantly for hours and apparently makes you a better kisser. I have my doubts, but Kissel Tea sells for more than gold or any spice, even though you drink it away in a matter of minutes.

In short, the need for captains with the Touch makes perfect sense considering the cargo they’re responsible for. Yet the crew’s treatment of you makes me boil. I’m not sure getting the ship moving again will be enough to improve morale either. What items were you supposed to bring back on the Beastslayer? And what could that mystery stain be?

Something struck me as suspicious in your letter and hasn’t quit stinging. You’ve mentioned the surgeon a few times, as well as his dislike for the captain. It seems terribly convenient that the man with a grudge against the victim decided it was too dangerous for anyone else to examine the bodies, moving out potential witnesses, even keeping everyone in their berths for hours at a time after the murders were committed. Need I say more?

As for my “courtship” as you so generously, and yes, optimistically called it, there isn’t much to report. Despite being practically engaged I’m lonely as an owl. I call Viscount Camden by his given name Will only in my thoughts, afraid I’ll slip in public. It’s easier to say and write Camden and stay in the habit. As I said, Cam’s still in mourning, outwardly if not inwardly, trying to adjust to being an heir of an expansive estate instead of a spare. Lucky that Duke Havers is a relative or Cam wouldn’t have been at that ill-fated ball at all. Social visits to those who are not family are still out of the question.

Before the crash, we did get a chance at Havers’ ball to talk in a little alcove. I’m glad the Duke’s wife likes those giant houseplants with red streaks on the leaves. Cam and I crowded behind one, my back pressed against the marble. For a moment, we just stared at each other as if this was an enchantment we didn't want to break by speaking. His hair had gotten a bit long and curled up in sandy waves over his collar.

“How’s the estate?” It was ludicrously businesslike but all I could think to say, too busy memorizing his eyes and the little scar by his lip that I’d forgotten was there.

Camden gripped the back of his neck and shook his head, talking low. “A mess. The tenants are suspicious and difficult. The account books in particular make no sense. My brother must have been drunk balancing them. Condolences are still coming in, even four months later. I wish I was more sorry. I had resigned myself to Harris as viscount, letting our ancestral home fall to pieces but now…”

Camden took my hands, and I grew teary at the comfort of it. Gah, I wish I didn’t cry so easily. I’m not maudlin and hate to appear so, especially in public. Luckily, Camden didn’t notice. “I’m sorry about Maree. At least she will be missed.”

His bitterness was unmistakable, and I tugged him a little closer. “Yes, she will.”

How did Camden notice me? You’ve never let me say such things, but so far away you can’t stop me now: dark and pale, I look like nearly every other Solish girl. We’re like a matched set of teacups, all the more identical thanks to our tiny differences. My singing voice is ghastly, and though I paint and dance well, no one much cares for such things when heritage comes into play.

Will’s family hails from aged nobility and aristocracy, his cousin married to a duke; even as a second son to a viscountcy, he could have had any girl he chose. Your loyal heart will hate this, but it’s the truth: Grandfather was made a baron like a bone flung to a dog, and though we used to be rich, our new money is almost trade given Papa’s humble investment partners. With only one weak Toucher in the family, it’s apparent to everyone that we haven’t lived on Touched land long enough to have our blood soaked in it.

You were always determined to marry for love; I hoped for better things, having more of Papa’s pessimism. With Cam, I feel like somehow I’ve dodged a saber thrust and been given roses instead.

We spoke a little of your escape, but someone would notice us, plant or no plant, if we lingered long. Camden almost winced as he said, “Write to Beth if you need me.”

I struggled not to make a face. Did you make one too? Imagine me writing to Beth. His sister would probably roll her eyes and burn the letter. But I understood why he didn’t dare exchange notes since we aren’t officially engaged. It’s strange to think that by now, if Harris had lived, Camden would have been free to practice law and support a family, no matter what his tyrannical drunk of a brother had to say about it. Now, the late viscount can’t interfere with Camden marrying down but we have to wait for the symbolic nine months of life to pass by June.

Cam let go of my hands, but held my gaze. “Summer it is.”

I’m not so certain summer is a good idea now I’ve had time to think rationally. I’m worried that my situation could ruin him. The king won’t want an enemy marrying a very, very wealthy viscount, and I’m afraid of what he’ll do if Camden announces an engagement to me. Perhaps at Warren’s party, I can get word to Camden through a mutual acquaintance and find a way to meet in person before the dear man does something foolish.

Have I successfully distracted you? Because it was difficult to write such fluffy things, though I miss you like yesterday’s sunshine. I know your peril and saving Rosetree are far more important than Camden’s and my having to wait a little longer.

Never mind. I’ve put myself in a devil of a mood. I just realized I really, really don’t want to leave home, Councilor Erring notwithstanding. What a dreadful discovery.

I noticed you’re still eating the cook’s food. Don’t! And Maree? I’ve never seen you intimidated before, not really. Again, you’re scaring me.

T