“It wasn’t like that,” she answered mistily and sat down in the chair. “There was someone back home, but it was a one-sided attraction. I’m not looking for anyone right now. I just want to do some good, experience life, see what lies beyond the marsh.”
“You sound like me—only I’m not chopping off all my hair. Sheesh! Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Lark was ready for some changes in her life. Cutting her hair was part mourning for Tommy, part penance for her anger at Queen Frost, and part craving a taste of how men lived. She’d never be a man—obviously—but nothing stopped her from cutting her hair like one. Sure, plenty of guys wore their hair long, but not in the army, and Lark was in the army now.
They chatted while Skye snipped away. Lark learned that Skye liked men plenty, just as side interests, not for settling down. It was just as well. Lark wasn’t drawn to her that way—not like to Queen Frost, which was a riotous joke. She was so far above Lark’s station she might as well live on the moon. Besides, it was too soon for her to have feelings for anyone but Milena. It would take a little time for Lark to give up her dream.
Nelanta, the next day
“Close the door,” Azaleen commanded, sweeping into the war room. General Stark complied, following her to a small table with two chairs by the open window. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what Whisper wrote on the message a pigeon just brought in.”
“I want to see it.” The news piled another layer of dread onto the queen’s shoulders. It took extreme effort to sit with regal grace when all she wanted was to rip that pigeon’s head off and fling it into a lake.
The still muscular general lowered himself into the opposite chair and unfurled a scrap of paper onto the table facing Azaleen. Worry lines carved deeper than hers across his face as he watched her with shadowed eyes.
She read the message silently, then aloud. “Irons planning invasion. Mass-producing ammunition. Timing unknown. Confidence high. —Whisper.” Azaleen met Stark’s gaze with steel and grit. “What about our other spies?”
“The last I heard from Fox, Colt Irons was transporting more weapons and ammunition to Fort Rustin.” Stark rubbed his chin, bushy gray brows narrowing. “We already know their military outnumbers and outguns ours, but moving it to our shores remains their obstacle.”
“Reports on the Iron Realm’s navy?”
The crusty general dropped his hand to the table, a faint smile warming his face. “Last message puts the count at two seaworthy trading vessels—could double as troop carriers—and six refitted fishing trawlers patrolling the Gulf. Maybe a handful of amphibious crafts. They couldn’t transport the bulk of their army with that but might use it to open a second front by landing troops on our southern shores.”
“Do you know the true identities of any of these spies?” Azaleen inquired, ensnared in a quagmire of distrust.
Stark shook his head. “For their safety, their true identities are confidential. I do know Fox was born in Verdancia and Whisper wasn’t, but I’ve never had cause to doubt either. Their information has always held.”
“Planning invasion, but no date,” she muttered, lips pursed, her jeweled fingers curling into a fist.
A knock at the door startled the queen for an instant. Recovering quickly, she lifted her chin. “Enter.”
“My queen.” Her chief of staff slipped in, hands folded in front of her, head bowed. “The Recovery Team has returned with the vault findings from Tupelo. What should I do with them?”
“Medicine?” Expectation gleamed in Azaleen’s eyes. “Ammunition?”
“A little,” Sabine answered in disappointment. Azaleen nodded. She never expected much, but she always hoped.
“Send staff and capitol guards to unload the goods at the Royal Distribution Center on Main and Capitol. Tell Mr. Dupré to catalogue everything and add it to the shelves. Oh, and remind him to put together a variety of supplies to ship to Saltmarsh Reach. I’ve set aside some medicine for the coast as well. Then send the team into the parlor downstairs and ask Lou to pour them refreshments. I’ll be along to learn their findings firsthand.”
“Yes, my queen.” Sabine closed the door on her way out.
Azaleen met General Stark with a hard stare. “We need to convene a council meeting tomorrow morning. Send word to whoever is in town. I’m going to have to make a hard decision, and I’d prefer to do it with the council’s backing.”
“I’ll round up the strays, Queen Frost,” he said with a wink. Rising, he held out a gentlemanly hand to assist Azaleen.
“Ever chivalrous, eh, General?” She returned his wink with a smirking smile. “Let’s see what the team recovered.”
Azaleen entered the parlor on Reuben Stark’s arm—poised, polished, in command. The members of her elite squad were chatting, laughing, but all jumped to attention when they spotted her. Each hand flew up in a salute, which the general met and dismissed. When Azaleen lowered herself into a cushioned armchair, they quietly returned to their seats.
“Now, I want every detail about your trip,” Azaleen instructed as she inspected the soldiers. Her gaze snagged on Lark—Luke, Lark—and confusion flickered. Her mouth dropped as she stared at Lark, a quickening pulsing through her veins. She blinked. “Ms. Sutter, is that you?”
Azaleen had never seen a woman with hair cropped into a long fade before. It bristled above her shaved nape, riding high over her ears. The floppy part on top looked so soft and inviting, it enticed Azaleen to touch it, run her fingers through the brown tufts. Heat rushed to her face as she realized she was staring. She closed her mouth, blinked again.
“Yes, Madam Queen,” she answered shyly, dropping her gaze. She brushed tan fingers over the buzzed hairs above her ears. “I cut my hair. It was getting in the way. I hope I didn’t break a rule.”
“No, not at all,” Azaleen replied, trying to regain some sense of why she’d called them here. “Here in Nelanta, as well as in the outlying regions of Verdancia, people’s personal choices—including hairstyles—are their own. I believe it suits you. Now, on to business. Captain Moreau?”
