Opening her underwear drawer, Amaretta rifled around, pushed a button, and a secret compartment clicked open. She drew out a small tube, a square of paper, and a pen, and carried them to her antique secretary’s desk. Considering what to write, she recalled her early days with Luther. He’d started out as a businessman, running a dry-goods store in Dominion back when it was called Wellspring. He had been so handsome and charming, a very likable fellow, who treated her like a princess. With ambition and a good head for business, Irons Mercantile expanded from one store to three. He could sell a fellow the shirt on his own back.
She recalled how happy he’d been when Colt was born and how he showed him off, bragging about him every chance he got—the same for Jace. Luther was always a good provider and used to be an occasional churchgoer until one day he attended a Quell revival. The reverend had taken him aside afterward and told him what a marvelous politician he’d make. “Think of all the good you could do,” he’d urged in temptation. Luther didn’t give it serious consideration until Quell sold him on his belief in Manifest Destiny. Colt had been in his early teens, and Jace an awkward tween, when Luther ran for his first election and won. There was no stopping him after that.
Amaretta read back over her note, ensuring it was legible. Outside, the crowd roared, followed by a collective gasp. She was glad Colt had already boarded his train for the frontier.
Crane dead. Irons mobilizing. Invasion two weeks. Swinging north, crossing in the borderlands, spearheading south to hit Marchland. Coastal incursions, probable.
There wasn’t much room left on the scrap.What went wrong?she wondered in despair. It hadn’t happened all at once—a compromise here, turning a blind eye there, an insincere handshake, the adoration of the masses. Somewhere along the line, he stopped being her husband and transformed into a monster.
Outside, a band struck up the national anthem. A hollow ache tore through Amaretta. Colt and Maddox were right. This had to end.
Taking the pen, she added one more word. —Whisper
Chapter forty-one
Thread of Accord
Aurora, the day of Crane’s execution
Lark leaned back in a rocking chair, her feet crossed on the front porch railing, enjoying the pleasant weather while people-watching. Even though Luke had estimated the meeting lodge to be at least thirty years old, the wood still looked and smelled fresh. She’d walked with Azaleen from the inn a short while ago for another day of negotiations. While the queen continued to say everything proceeded smoothly, Lark could tell her nerves were frazzled. Last night after dinner, she just sat in the lobby for an hour, staring at a cedar knothole as if in a trance. Finally, she’d dared to disturb Azaleen, to ask her if she was all right. “Just thinking,” she’d answered.
“Look over there.” Skye, occupying the neighboring rocker, pointed to a rectangular concrete slab past the garden, sprawling before the capital building. Luke and Diego, sticks in hand, tussled over a puck with street hockey players. At the opposite end of the plaza, Harland looked at home chatting with a wire-bearded fellow who could pass for an eighteenth-century French fur trader. Wes, smoking one of his homerolls, laughed with a trio of tech nerds drooling over electronics.
Aurora presented a splendid vista—a lush valley crossing a pristine river, framed by tree-covered mountains, and cottony clouds painted on a bright bluecanvas, with warm sunshine, never oppressively hot. Historic churches rose between log cabins with stone chimneys, wood-plank businesses beside painted stucco facades. Closer to the river, warehouses and waterwheels dominated, providing goods and services to the community. The smell of smoking fish drifted by from somewhere.
“My money’s on the captain,” Lark said. “Diego’s meatier, but Luke’s got moves. Where are the skipper and Flynn today? They finished reoutfitting theHalcyon, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Skye flicked her a glance. “Rory said something about a salmon run and lit out before dawn. Oh my God—here she comes!” Skye straightened, trying three different poses before settling on a standard leg cross.
Lark grinned as the shawl dancer—long legs, sassy hip-swing—strode up the steps. “Hi again.” Skye waved, offering a friendly smile.
Playful lights danced in the woman’s eyes. She tossed her hair back with a careless flick, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Good morning.” Sashaying past them, she glided into the lodge with honey-badger confidence and snow-leopard allure.
Skye exhaled, tipping her head back and closing her eyes while Lark’s suspicion turned to certainty. “You like her.”
“Don’t be silly,” Skye quipped. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Azaleen said it’s Renée something. She’s the high chief’s granddaughter. You should get your aunt to introduce you.”
Skye craned her neck, gaping at Lark. “Azaleen, now, is it? Just who has eyes for whom?”
“Queen Frost,” Lark rushed to correct, dropping her boots from the rail to the deck planks. She buried nervous fingers in the longest strands of her hair, fluffing them for no reason. She had to turn this conversation around.
“I didn’t know you were attracted to women.”
Skye laughed, flashing pearly teeth. “I appreciate the finer aspects of all genders, and Renée has a mountain of fine aspects.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Well, what have you been spending the whole week with me for?” Lark asked. She waved a hand at the closed door behind them. “Go for it.”
“Yeah, like you’re going for it? Furtive glances, longing looks behind the queen’s back?”
“Hey, I talk to her, and it isn’t the same,” Lark explained. “You have a chance.”
“And you think you don’t?” The laughter evaporated from Skye’s manner, replaced by a reflective expression.
Lark shook her head, lowered her chin, heat searing her cheeks. “Of course not. Even the thought is ludicrous.”
“I don’t know,” Skye speculated. “I think you’re exactly what Queen Frost needs, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
