He shook his head and laughed. “Silly, Mom. Of course not.”
“Why don’t you go show it to Nana, only no demonstrations, please?”
“Yeah!” Caelen dropped his backpack and raced into Nana’s first-floor room, Sabine following in case Azaleen’s mother was having a bad day.
“And what did you do at school today?” Azaleen asked Eldrin.
“All the usual stuff,” he shrugged. “We’re readingMoby Dick. Some of the words are hard, old-timey-like, but it gave me the idea that Verdancia needs some big, tall-masted ships like thePequod.”
“General Stark and I have discussed plans to build a shipyard,” she replied, resting an arm around Eldrin’s shoulder. She walked with him toward the back door, knowing in two seconds he’d be asking for food. “But it’s a process and will take a while to complete. How do you like the book?”
“It’s exciting, Captain Ahab chasing the whale and all. Mom, have you ever seen a sperm whale?” His bright blue eyes and fair face mirrored her own.
“No, sweetie. I’ve never seen a whale at all,” Azaleen admitted. “I’ve seen pictures, though.”
“Do you think they’re really giant, like Moby Dick?”
“Maybe.” Azaleen wondered how the creatures of the oceans fared, if whales still existed. When she had been a little girl, dead, deformed fish, missing eyes or scales, washed up on the beaches, leaving behind a sour, unforgettable stench. In recent years, fishers brought in catches that were safe to eat. But what of the deep-sea creatures? Azaleen didn’t know.
“You do realize that book isn’t about ships and whales, but about the danger of obsession, don’t you?”
Eldrin shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
With a laugh, Azaleen patted her son’s shoulder and steered him through the open doorway onto the back porch. “Good afternoon, Maggie. Is something ready for this bottomless pit to devour?”
The mixed-race woman, younger than herself, laughed. “Indeed. Come, Prince Eldrin. Let’s fix you a plate.” Magnolia Dawes wiped her hands on her apron and offered a half-curtsy.
“Me too!” called Caelen as he raced around the corner, nearly knocking his mom over.
“You’ve raised fine boys, Your Excellency,” Maggie praised. “I see their father in them more every day.”
Azaleen’s smile thinned, but she nodded as she recalled the successive line of male deaths in her family. Her brother, Captain Thalen Frost, had been the first, only twenty-two. That’s when Dad insisted she wed a proper husband from an important family—just in time to ward off a feud with the Calders of Highcrest Hall. Grandfather Wynn Frost was next to go. Despite the political nature of their marriage, Azaleen was sad when Aren Calder died in the subsequent outbreak of the plague that also claimed her father’s life. He didn’t get a monument like her war-hero brother Thalen. Who wants to remember a plague? Suddenly, there she was—a widowed mother of two being crowned queen amid the tragedy of loss. She’d never had a chance to mourn either of them.
“I’d better start interviewing Shaw’s references before it gets dark,” Sabine said as she joined Azaleen in the doorway, rousting her from her thoughts. Two peach trees in the backyard were laden with tiny green balls, the beginnings of a bumper crop, as Silas had predicted. Flowers and tomato vines bloomed, bees buzzing happily around them.
“Yes, thank you,” she said by way of dismissal. “Give my best to Jimmy and the girls.”
While her sons piled food onto plates, Azaleen closed her eyes, breathing it in—peace, peaches, and her sons—even if just for an instant.
Opening her eyes, she glanced up to admire her view of the historic Stone Mountain. It had endured many wars, countless changes in humanity—the injustice of slavery, the birth and death of the Confederacy, the rise of the New South, the fulfillment of Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream, the horrors of annihilation—yet still it stood, proud and immovable. How many more centuries would it witness? Would her society rise or fall? She realized the answer rested on every decision she made.
From Root, Resilience.
Chapter five
Leaves on the Wind
Saltmarsh Reach, Southeastern shore of Verdancia
Lark stood poised in the tall reeds, her arrow notched, bowstring drawn. A flap of wings, and she let it fly, slicing through the humid air to hit its mark. Before the duck struck the surface of the shallows, she’d loosed a second. Sam, the brown and white speckled pointer, bounded through the soggy vegetation to ensure no opportunistic alligator or bobcat made off with them. In wading boots, Lark splashed after him.
Somewhere between Old Savannah and New Charleston stood Saltmarsh Reach, a village stitched together from the bones of storms. Refugees from north and south along the battered coast had migrated to this patchwork of marsh and inlet, where ocean fingers met river veins to form a living tapestry—half wild, half harvested. Bald cypress, red maple, and sweet bay magnolias shaded the brackish wetlands, where honeysuckle tangled in the air over the salt and silt. Fish and small game were plentiful, as were cattails, watercress, chickweed, dandelion, and wild rice. Deer had returned alongside otters and beavers, which continued to thrive, feeding a community that had grown to over eight hundred residents.
“Good job, Sam,” Lark said, rubbing the dog’s ears. His tongue lolled, his happy eyes gleaming up at her. She secured the ducks’ feet with a cord and slungthem over her shoulder, beside her quiver and bow. “Now, let’s get these home for Gramma to cook for supper before a moccasin or gator comes along.” The dog dutifully trotted ahead on the trail home, alert for danger—or an interesting smell.
With long legs and boundless energy, Lark Sutter easily matched Sam’s pace. She’d climbed trees since she was four, paddled a canoe since eight, and hunted alone since twelve. Now, at twice that age, she was Saltmarsh Reach’s best shot and unmatched acrobat. Gramma had won quite a stash betting on her at the spring and fall games. A tan, lean woman with short brunette hair and tawny eyes, Lark was a potluck of genetics—part Cherokee, German, Puerto Rican, Irish, and who knew what else? She fit right in with the hodgepodge of her neighbors.
Breeze-shivered Spanish moss clung to centuries-old oaks like drifting ghosts as they neared the village stretched along the banks of Split Root River. Shipping crates, shattered piers, old RVs, and driftwood were reimagined into homes. Windmills groaned. Children ran barefoot across tide-smoothed boards. Chickens clucked, dogs barked, crows cawed, and a redheaded woodpecker hammered away on the side of a dying tree. It might not be as fabulous as Nelanta or New Charleston, but it was home—the only home Lark had ever known.
