Chapter 25 The Edge of Change
Chapter twenty-five
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 defend the 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.”
“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?”
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.