The Edge of Change
Tupelo, Verdancia, two days later
As dark thunderheads rolled in, Lark could smell the rain before it arrived. They had finished emptying the vault and scoured the area looking for more. Wes’s metal detector found several old septic tanks and the rusted-out remains of a century-dead oil well pump, but no more treasure troves. The pigeon returned with instructions to divide out a third of everything to leave with the citizens of Tupelo. Mayor Thompson was jubilant, considering it a fair arrangement. Naturally, a few residents grumbled, saying they should get it all. Lark couldn’t argue with them. Still, the idea of sharing with all towns in need of supplies held merit as well. She’d spent the past two days wondering how Queen Frost managed to balance factions’ demands against the harsh reality of limited resources.
“It’s the old guns and butter leadership scenario,” Luke had explained. “You have one bag of money, a hungry populace, and an enemy at your gates. Do you spend the money on guns to defend your borders or butter to feed your people? Don’t feed them, they’ll rebel. Don’t defend the border, you’ll be crushed. It’s all in finding the winning balance.”
In the Reach, Lark never had to make weighty decisions. She hunted, fished, ran, and climbed, and did whatever Gramma told her to. She helped defendthe village from dangers, made repairs after storms, looked after Leif when he was smaller, and Bryn after she’d arrived. Lark figured she was a somewhat important, contributing member of society, but had never been in charge of anything. Thinking about all this discouraged her from ever wanting to be. Leading was hard.
A powerful gust blew hair in Lark’s eyes and face—again. She’d had it. Something must be done.
“The truck is loaded and fueled up,” Luke said as the team gathered around, “but the Jeep doesn’t have a roof. That storm doesn’t look good, so we’re sitting tight until it passes, drive home tomorrow morning. That means one more night of R&R before we get back to business.”
“And by R&R, I don’t suppose you mean rock and roll?” Wes wiggled his brows with a mischievous grin.
Luke smirked playfully. “If you can find anyone who’d want to dance with you, go for it.” The others laughed, and Diego rubbed a noogie on his head. “I’m heading back to the hotel for a bite and a drink, then write up my report for General Stark.”
Another blast of wind snapped Lark’s shirttails, flapping like a dog’s ecstatic wag. She pushed her bangs out of her face. “Skye, can you cut hair?” she asked in annoyance. Her shiny black ponytail seemed unaffected by the gale. A fat raindrop plopped on Lark’s head.
“Sure.” The cocky lieutenant flashed her a grin. “Race ya!” She bolted like a horse out of the gate. Lark and Tommy used to race Talon Jones’ horses for fun, but, during her few days in Nelanta, she’d discovered a racetrack dedicated to the sport, along with dedicated fans.
Lark dug in the balls of her feet and pushed herself to catch up with Skye. They bumped shoulders as both women attempted to push through the lobby doors at once. Panting and laughing, Skye admitted, “Gotta get in better shape if I’m gonna hold my title. You’re one stormborn kid, aren’t ya?”
“Who are you calling kid?” She heaved a heavy breath and blew wayward strands from her eyes before wiping them back with her hand.
Skye eyed her judiciously. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she answered as they strolled toward the room they shared on the first floor. The team, a traveling merchant and his son, and a family on their way to Stonevale were the only guests.
“Well, kiss my grits!” Skye blurted, wide-eyed. “I’m only a year older than you. And all this time, I thought you were like eighteen or something crazy.” She opened the door, held it for Lark.
“No, I’m a legal adult and everything. But I’d think twenty-five is young to be an officer.” Lark plopped on the bed, listening to the wind howl and buckets of rain batter the building.
Skye lunged to slam the window before rain poured in. “Not really,” she threw over her shoulder. “I attended officer training after achieving high marks at the Nelanta gymnasium. My teachers said they would have recommended me for college—if it’d been finished then.”
“Yeah, and your aunt’s on Queen Frost’s council.”
Skye spun, scowled, and snapped, “Don’t ever! I earned my spot on this team. It wasn’t some nepotism appointment. Aunt Camille didn’t even want me to join the military. She’s a freakin’ diplomat, for ruin’s sake.”
Lark cringed, raising her hands in surrender. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Just forget it. You want your hair cut.” Skye yanked open her pack and rifled through it, flinging socks, a shirt, a bottle of shampoo—still clearly stung by Lark’s comment.
“No, really, don’t be angry. All I had was primary school—lucky to have that.”
Skye produced a pair of scissors, giving them a few practice snips. “You never know what you’ll need on our little ventures. I’m not mad at you—just at the world for assuming things.” She tilted her head, studying Lark. “You know, if your hair were a little darker and long—and you had more meat on your bones—we’d look a lot alike. Do you know where your family comes from?”
“Somewhere near old Jacksonville, Florida. Before that, I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmm.” Skye pulled out the desk chair and pointed at it. “Sit. I can tell your bangs need trimming, but your hair’s already pretty short.”
Lark walked to the chair, but, before sitting, she locked gazes with Skye. “I want it cut like the captain’s.”
Skye’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. “You what?”
“Shave it over the ears and around the back,” she instructed, “but keep some length on top. It’s more practical, and who do I have to impress?”
Skye wet her lips, shock hardening into disbelief. “No Mr. Sutter, I presume?” Lark shook her head, and Skye’s shoulders dropped, followed by a look of sadness. “Tommy, the friend you needed the medicine for. Lark, I’m so sorry.”
