Chapter 26 Borders of the Heart
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 could hop 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 of you?”
Azaleen jutted up her chin. “You do.”
Sabine laughed and shook her head. “What did you think of Lark Sutter’s daring hairstyle? I saw you gawking at her.”
“I was not! Just taken aback a bit was all. It’s …” She tried to think of the right word. Spunky, outrageous, alluring, sexy—no, not sexy. “Different.”
With a smirk, Sabine turned back to letter writing. “Whatever you say. She is cute.”
Heat rushed through Azaleen, fear wrapped in embarrassment tightening her throat.
She couldn’t waste her time and energy fantasizing about a younger woman, a non-noble, uneducated girl from the coast who had, in no uncertain terms, declared how much she hated her.
Yet, if she thought about it, when she looked at Lark today, that searing fire was gone from her eyes.
She acted … humble. What was that about?
“Stop trying to fix me up with people,” Azaleen snapped, sharper than she’d intended. “I have to go home now, see if Caelen’s broken something, if Eldrin’s dragged in another animal, if Mama remembers my name.”
“I’m sorry, Azaleen.” Sabine looked up at her from her desk with an apologetic expression. “I only wanted to—”
“It’s OK.” Azaleen waved it away. “I know, and I appreciate you. I just can’t. I’m queen. There isn’t room for anything else.”
Sadness pressed heavy on her heart as Azaleen straightened, pivoted, and set out for home.
Nathan was exhausted when he lay down on Henry Dawson’s living room couch, made up with floral cotton sheets and a worn quilt, handmade by Mrs. Dawson’s mother.
It was too warm for the quilt, but he loved the faded stitching and the faint scent of lavender that clung to it.
This was the first time in five nights he’d felt safe.
The more he’d thought about marrying a stranger—no doubt as brainwashed into the cult as his mother was—the more determined he was to run. He had sent a note to Soren to meet him at the docks outside of Clover Hollow, nothing else, in case it got intercepted. He didn’t show.
Maybe he never got the message, Nathan thought, head sinking into the down pillow. Or maybe he was too afraid. But after the spectacle in Unity Park … Nathan sighed, staring at candlelight dancing around the ceiling.
He’d set out with the necessities—a shotgun and some shells, a bag of food, canteens of water, and a change of clothes.
Knowing the currency would be different, he’d packed a few trinkets he hoped would be valuable enough to trade.
Fabled Southern hospitality had carried him thus far, but tomorrow would be the real test—meeting Queen Frost.
Nathan had crossed mountains, forests, and rivers, sneaked past Appalachian border patrols, and kept to paved roads whenever he could.
The borderlands had been the worst. He shot a radiated boar that charged him, hid from a traveling gang of raucous wildlings, and almost sank in a bog where the mud clutched at his boots.
Covered in scratches and bug bites, he finally found an inhabited farm.
The owner offered him a meal, a bed, and a ride to Clearwater, where he was taking hogs to market.
The trip to the city took most of the next day as his mule-drawn cart moseyed along, and Nathan helped his sons drive the hogs.
Thinking back on his journey, Nathan longed to share it with Soren. If only he knew how wrong the Oracle was. He dug a folded piece of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket and sat up to write.
Soren, why didn’t you come? You should be here—you wouldn’t believe it!
Everyone’s been so nice. I’m in a town called Clearwater where every house and building looks different.
Brick, wood, metal, stone, pre-war antiques, new builds, and there’s color everywhere—music too.
Even the people are all different colors.
A bunch of guys at a barbershop exchanged stories about the Clemson Tigers and how fierce they were.
I didn’t even know there were tigers in Ashland.
Lord and Lady Whitfield asked me to their mansion for tea.
We talked and talked. Then Mr. Dawson, the editor of The Tiger Tribune, came over, and he wants to write an article about me.
Tomorrow I’m going to see the queen. But it’s all only half as bright without you.
Please change your mind. I’ll come back for you.
The Ministry lied, Soren. The people here don’t treat me like an enemy at all. I miss you. I love you.
Nathan reread his letter, fighting back tears.
Part of him was exhilarated by his first taste of freedom.
But a hollow ache gnawed at him for leaving Soren behind.
The flame flickered across the paper, the scent of beeswax on his nose.
Nathan folded the letter, slid it back into his pocket.
How would it even get to Soren? Appalachia had closed its borders to trade, adhering to a strict isolationist policy.
Nobody from here would travel there to deliver it.
He blew out the light, reclining on the sofa once more.
“Why didn’t you come?” he whispered to the night.
The family cat slunk across the top of the couch, settling down to stare at the stranger, ready to pounce if he made a wrong move.
Nathan closed his eyes, visions of color, uniqueness, and Clemson Tigers—whatever they were.
Nathan awoke to the smell of cornbread and bacon. The cat had abandoned its post, now poised in the open doorway to the cooking porch, awaiting scraps to fall.
“Good, you’re awake,” greeted Henry, a studious-looking man with close-cropped hair and glasses.
His toothy smile gleamed in contrast to his dark skin.
He straightened a wide red cravat loosely tied over a cream short-sleeved shirt.
His tan pants were cut off at his knees.
Nathan tried not to stare. This is what a city dweller wears to work?
Considering how hot he had been driving the pigs to market yesterday, he had to admit it was sensible.