He recounted their trip, breaching the vault, the missing Culpeppers, and Mayor Thompson’s hospitality. Skye presented her with the family picture album. Lark didn’t say anything else, but occasionally Azaleen detected her glances and contrite expression. Surely, she didn’t fear cutting her hair had broken protocol … especially in such a bold, oddly alluring fashion. The queen found her mind wandering during the briefing and counted on Stark to remember everything that was said.
“Sabine?” she called as they wrapped up. In an instant, her confidant stood beside her chair. “Please write a thank-you letter to Mayor Thompson and mark it with my seal.”
“Right away, my queen.”
“Now, before you all go,” Azaleen began—but Lark’s jaunty hair and soulful honey eyes distracted her again.
A staff member in crisp white shorts and a blue bolero vest rushed in, clutching a small cylinder. “Your Excellency, please forgive the interruption.” He fell to one knee in front of her, extending the tube. “I work in the aviary. A pigeon just arrived with this message. It’s marked ‘urgent.’” Lifting it up, he bowed.
Curiosity and concern dispelled her fascination with Lark and her haircut. She took the tube and opened it.
Chapter twenty-six
Borders of the Heart
“We should leave,” Luke suggested, standing while Azaleen rolled out the message.
“Wait,” she ordered. The note came from Lord Rowan Whitfield, a loyal supporter and noble overseer of Clearwater, a city of nearly a hundred thousand, to the northeast along the Savannah River System. She read it aloud.
“Dear Queen Frost. I hope you are well. We picked up a defector from Appalachia, a farmer. My wife and I talked with him at some length and believe he is legit. I thought you’d like to meet him as well, since we know so little about their society. He claims not to be part of the cult and appears quite normal. Please advise. —Lord Rowan and Lady Evelyn Whitfield.”
“A defector?” General Stark wrinkled his brow, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Or a spy?”
“Secretary of Procurement Desmond Shaw defected from there some years ago,” Azaleen reminded him. “Do you still suspect him?”
“No, of course not,” Stark answered. “Suspicion comes with the territory. My charge is keeping Verdancia safe, and, with all Irons’ threats and bluster, I suspect the Oligarchy poses the greater danger. Irons broadcasts his plans far and wide, while they’re secretive and smart. If this farmer is a spy, I’ll find him out. If not, he could prove valuable.”
Azaleen considered his assessment. Stark was an excellent general, partly because he weighed all possibilities—not merely the most obvious ones.
“Lord and Lady Whitfield are not fools to be taken in by a ruse,” she said, “and they think he’s who he claims to be. I would very much like to gain information from him if he has any to offer. But the Oligarchy doesn’t like defectors. They might send an assassin after him.”
Azaleen turned to face Captain Moreau. “I’ll compose a reply informing Lord Whitfield to expect you to arrive tomorrow to pick him up. Clearwater is one of our primary trading partners, and cargo trucks regularly make that run. Oh, and while you’re there.” Azaleen glanced around the room. “Sabine?”
The clack of heels down the hall was music to Azaleen’s ears.
“Yes, my queen?”
“Please write an invitation to the Kingdom Day Festival for Lord and Lady Whitfield,” she instructed. “Captain Moreau will take it with the Recovery Team when they leave for Clearwater first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have it ready shortly.”
“Are we collecting this Appalachian farmer as a prisoner or a guest?” asked Skye Navarro. Azaleen could see a resemblance to her chief ambassador in the young officer—in face and form, if not in bearing.
“Let’s treat him as a guest unless he tries something,” she stipulated. “He’ll be much more cooperative and forthcoming if he believes we want to help him. And who knows? Maybe we do. That’s yet to be seen. Now, if you all will excuse me, I expect my boys home from school soon.”
Everyone stood out of respect when Azaleen rose. Although she was accustomed to it, she didn’t want to take their actions for granted. Scanning the small gathering, she allowed herself to smile with appreciation. “Everyone performed admirably today. Enjoy your evening.”
Azaleen’s gaze lingered too long on Lark. Jerking it away, she turned and glided from the parlor to Sabine’s office, leaving voices debating the sincerity of the runaway farmer behind.
“What a day,” Sabine remarked in solidarity with Azaleen.
“Indeed,” she agreed, closing the door. Sabine sat at her secretary’s desk, fine stationery and ballpoint pens strewn about. “Do you ever wish we couldhop on a boat and sail away without worries? No looming threats, no heaps of responsibility?”
Sabine smiled. “Tempting. If you would allow yourself a personal life, something to balance all this—”
“I do,” Azaleen declared, raising a brow, hand on her hip. “I’ve got Eldrin, Caelen, and Mama.”
“All people you take care of,” Sabine pointed out compassionately. “You know what I mean. Who takes care ofyou?”
