Our Lady's Nation: Our Lady of Joy, #8

Chapter One

Abigail Richards had come to Weymine Manor only a month ago.

She had been hired for her culinary skills, which were considerable in the way fire is considerably warm. While normally a cheerful woman, she had found herself somewhat depressed prior to being hired, which was a very understandable thing, she felt.

Her beloved husband had passed unexpectedly the winter before last when his heart had just stopped one day, leaving her alone in their bakery in the village. Her only consolation had been when the war had come and she had not had to watch him leave only to lose him there. But some days, she wondered if that might not have been better, at least for the extra time they would have had together.

Once he was gone, she had eventually become overwhelmed and disenchanted producing endless loaves of bread for daily sale in a shop that reminded her of her dead husband. While Our Lady’s Blessings had helped her so that she could function well enough to keep going, they did not heal her. She needed to make the decision to move on, she had finally decided. If she didn’t, then this grief would eventually grind her down past even her considerable fortitude, cushioned by Blessings or not.

While John had been alive, there had been time for her to create, which always inspired her. That had meant the tedious work necessary to keep the bakery going did not weigh her down. Rather, it kept her hands busy while her mind spun in happy circles, endlessly concocting her next great creation. But once it was just her, she had no time to enjoy herself in the kitchen. So she had quickly soured on the work now that she was all alone.

At thirty-six years of age, Abby was a practical woman who understood that genuine enthusiasm and pride of ownership were required to maintain a successful business. A business run and staffed solely by a red-eyed, miserable and exhausted widow had no future, she knew. She didn’t want the business she and John had built together to fail, because that felt like an insult to his name. But even still, she no longer wanted to be involved in the bakery, tiring and hurtful as she found it.

Everything there reminded her of what she had lost, down to the bowls and spoons.

So she had called on her brother, no fool in the kitchen himself thanks to their mother’s teachings. Wildly excited at the chance, her brother had sold his hardscrabble farm and arrived on her doorstep with his large family, full of hope for this new opportunity to maintain an already thriving business and reap a healthy portion of the rewards. As she had hoped, given a profession that truly suited him in a way farming never would, her brother had righted things soon enough with the help of his wife and five children.

Righted them so well, in fact, that Abby had felt comfortable moving on.

She was grateful to leave the business in her brother’s capable hands and think about what she could do next, her simple needs easily met by her share of the bakery’s profits. She had retired to her little house and spent an enormous amount of time with her brother, which had helped. But soon enough, the solitude, combined with all the free time, had weighed on her for the worse.

With no one to talk to, she was horribly lonely even in their home, surrounded by nothing but memories and with them, endless regrets. In fact, that may have even made it worse, reminding her daily that she had never considered being a childless widow so young. Now that she was, she was heartbroken to have lost her best friend. When she looked to the future, that grinding loneliness had been all she could see. Worse yet, with no one there to tell her that she was being silly, those thoughts tormented her constantly.

In an effort to cheer herself and stop from thinking about anything hurtful, she had spent the winter baking the most decadent treats for the simple joy of it. While it had helped when she was actually baking, that peace never lasted once her hands were still again, because no one else was there to appreciate it. While at first it had been funny to see the birds and squirrels feast on delicate cakes, cookies and pastries, soon enough, it too only made her think of the futility of life. By late spring, she had been bored and restless, wondering if she had made a horrible mistake in retiring from the bakery. But despite that, she had no desire to ever go back to working there, owner or not.

So when there was a position open for a pastry chef at the big house, she had decided to apply.

When the day of her interview had come, she had arrived with a large wheeled handcart full of her creations, certain that she would impress. She might not get the position, but it would not be because her skill was deficient, she had believed, inspired as she had been by this opportunity. In preparation, she had spent the two days prior in her kitchen in a private celebration of all she knew and loved about food, John’s spirit feeling so close she could have sworn he had been there, helping.

As a result, the cart had been overflowing with representations of her finest skills, from the flakiest pastry and creamiest fudge to the richest, most intricately decorated small tea cakes suited for nobility. The more delicate savories had been wrapped in cloth napkins and carefully packed into small boxes to keep them from being damaged by her walk from the village. The air had been brisk that morning, keeping her complexion rosy and her creations lightly chilled. As when she had been in the kitchen, she had felt John there, inspiring her to move forward with her life. He had loved her dearly, she had known, just as she had loved him. He would want her to be happy more than anything.

That awareness had given her all the confidence she had needed.

Upon introduction at the servants’ entry, Abby had given Rupert, the Master of the House, a cheerful smile before passing him the handle to the handcart. She had suggested he try some of what she had brought and then perhaps they could speak. In the meantime, she had said with that same smile, she would wander in the lovely gardens. Before Rupert could even reply, she had been headed away into the kitchen garden with a quick, happy step, waving to him as she had moved off.

As she had later learned, Rupert had rushed the handcart into the kitchen to Cook, who was eager to have the chance to inspect it without an anxious applicant hovering over him. When he and Cook had seen the size and variety of Abby’s offering, they had called in reinforcements. Fully prepared to begin finding the faults he had expected, Cook and the entire kitchen staff had begun their formal examination.

Knowing how this normally went, no one had even bothered to sit down.

At first, Cook had merely cut meticulous portions from the food, seeking to taste each item in numerous places as Rupert had watched him attentively. Then, without a word, he had passed the plate to Rupert, then around the table, one by one, until the entire staff had sampled it. Under his critical gaze, they had tested each delicacy from edge to center no matter what it was, trying to determine where the fault lay. Then this applicant could be dismissed, as every other one had been to date.

They had known Cook’s standards, after all, so they had known this would be quick.

But as the time had passed without Cook’s expected fit actually occurring, they had begun to seat themselves at the huge table, now liberally speckled with crumbs. Egged on by Cook’s demands as they had been, they had shifted into the most comfortable positions and continued tasting everything he had handed off, noting specific ingredients aloud as they had recognized them.

But even under extensive and often leading questions from Rupert and Cook both, not a single member of the kitchen staff had been able to say anything negative. All the ingredients and spices they had recognized had been used to perfection in what they had consumed. Nor could they even suggest any improvements, such as altering the proportions of those ingredients or adding different ones entirely. Plainly put, what they had tasted had needed no improvement. So they had continued to eat as much as they could, eager to find a single flaw.

But still they had not been able to complain, except of having eaten too much.

Unable to find any fault, Cook had been confused and agitated, as if he had feared being deceived. His dreams of excellence at the Manor table coming true right before his very eyes, he had been determined to be certain of his choice before he had committed to this. So he had insisted they were not yet done, nor could they even consider such a thing, with so much yet to be tasted. Clearly this applicant had brought all this for that very thing, he had stated, his voice edging towards hysteria, so they could not stop now, even as he himself could not eat so much as another bite.

At his urging, Rupert had called for the housemaids, repeating the experiment with them, encouraging them to eat as much as they could, even as he had questioned them with each bite. When the women had failed to find any flaw either, he had called for the housemen, who by then had been highly aware of what they had been missing. In an excited group, they had surged into the kitchen and eaten the considerable amount still left.

Soon enough, only crumbs had been left. When the maids, kitchen staff and housemen had been slumped around the room, leaning into walls and sitting on the floor as they had rubbed their swollen bellies, Rupert had interrogated them for their opinions of what they had eaten. When they could not answer him except to claim complete satisfaction, Cook had taken over.

While everyone had looked on, tolerant in the way that only a full belly can produce, he had raged in the limited space still available to move, as if certain they had been withholding information from him. He had demanded they tell him everything they had noticed about what they had just consumed. But once they had, he had become more irate at their vague but delighted answers until finally, only his wife had been able to quiet him.

Aside from groans of bloated satisfaction, no one had been able to suggest a single improvement to anything which Abby had made. Eventually, even Cook had to admit that what he had consumed had been an offering of superior quality not seen since his training. Having found fault with every applicant so far, he had sworn this woman was a genius.

The staff had cheered lightly in languorous, distended encouragement as he had announced it, a decidedly mild reaction for their true feelings. It was well known that no one prior to this had offered more than two or maybe three items. That was all it had ever taken before Cook had declared they were not qualified, storming out of the kitchen and screaming about the abuse of his art as his wife had cheerfully followed to soothe him, used to his artistic temperament as she was.

So when he had approved of this specific applicant, the staff had been delighted.

The kitchen had been quite crowded by then. All around the room lounged people who had eaten better than they could last remember. Recipients of a gigantic feast of sweet, rich flavor, they had been contented and enriched by the experience. When Rupert had announced that he was going to the garden to hire the woman who had created this magical food, they had followed. Trailed by more than thirty people, Rupert had strode through the gardens until he had found Abby, weeding a patch of iris in the formal garden.

She had climbed to her feet and dusted her skirts as she had seen them approaching, pleased that her confidence had not been misplaced. Abby had known that walk. To her, it had been just as informative as the most detailed conversation.

It had spoken of a good meal, the instinctive pleasure of knowing that the wolf is one more night from the door. But even more, it had shouted that not only has the wolf been banished for the night, but what had been used to banish it had brought such joy as to be the reward in of itself. She had tossed the weeds into the sizable pile she had created in the time she had been there and smiled.

You look well fed, then, she had said, her cheerful voice loud enough that they all could hear.

She had not been sure who had started the cheer, but it had quickly spread. By the time the group had reached her, they had been clapping, talking excitedly and gently patting her on the shoulder in congratulation. She had turned to Rupert.

I’m hired, then, I gather, she had said, still smiling. Just a warning. What you ate is what I will cook here. No more cheap bread or limited ingredients to please the masses. I want access to everything in the kitchen. I want the best raw ingredients you can get and a free hand to create what I wish. If you give me that, I will make sure you eat very well.

Cook himself had come forward then, taking her hands. Trained in the Marches and well-known as temperamental with those who did not value the culinary arts, he had been roundly cheered as he had kissed her hand and welcomed her into the kitchen. He had spoken of her genius, predicting that together, they would create art like none before seen in the Manor.

His wife Tania, who assisted him most aptly and was herself a kind and generous woman completely tolerant of the eccentricities of her husband, had been just as delighted. She had kissed Abby’s cheek and warmly welcomed her to the staff, even as Cook had continued his enthralled recitation of all they would accomplish together. So it was in a bustle of new friends that Abby had been welcomed into the Manor as if she had always belonged there.

And it had helped, at least a little.

There were many nights when she still missed her husband dearly and cried, unable to sleep for the pain. But even still, she found that each day was a little easier than the one before. Focused as she was on learning this new life, she had much less time to reflect on all she had lost, which had helped enormously.

Even better, rather than sitting silently in her little house and missing John, she had been forced by the very nature of her new role to interact each day with her coworkers. Helping make that even easier, they were a surprisingly cheerful lot compared to her initial expectations. Surrounded by that mood, she had felt herself buoyed along in their wake, so her grief did not so often threaten to drown her as it had in the past.

But it still hurt every day.

Despite that, she had done her best to be a positive and highly valued addition to the house staff, planning what to make each day after consulting with Cook. Passionate as he was about his art, such discussions were always enjoyable. She found his temperamental nature amusing and after years of working behind the bakery counter, she was almost impossible to offend.

Occasionally, she would debate wild ideas with him, in which proportions were theoretically upended in volume or replaced entirely. If they agreed an idea had merit, she would attempt it and often succeed. Given free rein, she had found that indulging her creativity merely caused it to grow, as if it were a parched plant finally given water.

When she was done with the day’s menu or when she could not sleep but for thinking, as often happened, she cooked for the Manor as a whole. It made no sense to her to lie awake in her bed crying when she could be feeding someone hungry. So when the memories threatened to drown her, she struck out for the safe haven of the kitchen and often stayed there until just before dawn, working feverishly to keep her mind blank of anything but that.

As a result, the Manor was soon stuffed with bakery sweets like never before.

Cookies, pies, cakes and sweets appeared throughout the Manor’s various buildings, all the way to the garrison. Everywhere on the grounds, there were tasty baskets of pastries and muffins to be found wherever people might gather, covered with a linen cloth to keep them fresh. By afternoon, there might be sweets like cookies, brownies and little pastries, as well. If not in the first location checked, surely by the second.

They had all initially contained the same things, which Abby then used as a measure to determine generalized preferences. So within days, they had been customized for each specific location, so that the soldiers might have something completely different than the housemaids. After all, like any artist who valued her craft, Abby worked to please her audience.

As a result, she took note of which offerings were accepted with such relish that only crumbs remained and which were tentatively tried before being returned with evasive answers as to the reason for what remained. She understood. People all had individual preferences, some for sweet, some for tart, some for smooth, some for texture. So she noted and baked accordingly, turning out vast batches for the kitchen staff to load into the ovens each morning.

The house itself needed a variety. She made flaky morning pastries, moist fruited muffins and fruit tarts for morning consumption. For mid-day, she chose vanilla wafers dusted with sugar and small round cookies studded with nuts, candied fruit bits and fudge. For evening, she made pies, cakes and delicate desserts so pretty it was almost sinful to eat them.

Then, like lures, she put them out, waiting to see who she might catch.

That was how she had determined that Marcus Weymine, the Lord High Commissioner, had a sweet tooth of the chocolate variety once he was finally back in residence. Though it had only been a few days since he had returned from Eastlake and she had not even seen him yet, already she had noticed a distinct pattern. The days that he was in the study in the afternoons, anything resembling chocolate disappeared from the tray she had taken to leaving in there. The days he was not, the chocolate remained untouched, his daughter Millie preferring vanilla sugar wafers herself.

So that was how she found herself heading to the study with a plate containing both sugar wafers and chunks of nut-filled fudge. She had outdone herself with this batch of fudge, she believed. A deep, rich brown that darkened to near black in the center, its creamy smoothness was only marred where nuts had fallen. Flavored with rich overtones of vanilla and a hint of orange, it was a gift to honor life from an exceptional artist in the only medium to which she was drawn.

And she believed that, like all true art, there was a spark of magic in what she produced.

She knew that it was no such literal thing, of course. She was hardly a child anymore to have such fanciful thoughts. But she did believe that when she cooked, her honest well-wishes for the recipients of the food did make a difference, even if just in intangible ways that mattered only to her by inspiring and rewarding her emotionally.

But even still, it did matter, she believed.

So when she worked, she always tried to focus on how someone would benefit from her efforts and in making this food, she was playing her part in the cycle of life. From farm to mill to kitchen to table, it all mattered equally, she knew, as none of those single steps were enough. But together, they made the bread that kept people from starving and in turn, gave them the strength to contribute their own efforts at bettering the world, so that it was a self-contained cycle in which everyone benefited.

Everyone played a valued role in life, she believed, even if it was hard to see at times.

And while she knew that some might call her ignorant for thinking a baker of equal value to a king, she believed it so and always had. Raised by a proud, confident woman and her equally kind husband, Abby had been the lucky recipient of such important knowledge from the time she was small. No matter what had gone wrong in her childhood, her parents had always assured her that she too had a valuable and important place in the world, as did everyone, no matter how it felt at the time.

So even now a widow, her parents long gone, Abby still believed that fiercely. And because she did, she always focused entirely on what she was making, thinking of how her actions would bring joy into the life of another, even if she had not felt such a thing herself in some time. Even still, with her efforts, happy herself or not, she could make another happy, she always told herself.

And she believed there was value in that, connected as the world was.

Unable to stop herself this time despite all her efforts, Abby had thought about her life as she had made the fudge. As she had measured ingredients, she had thought about her wonderful John. He had been a kindly, intelligent man inclined to quiet contemplation with most people, but with whom she could talk endlessly, so well-suited were they. As she had stirred the batter over the fire to avoid burning it, she had focused on her hope that someday, this pain she felt each time she thought of him would somehow fade.

As she had let it cool, then beat it, she had thought of her wedding day.

She had recalled again the joy she had felt to pledge herself to John, to know that she had found her best friend, the one she treasured above all others. With him at her side, her life would be even brighter than she had ever expected, she had known that day. With each nut dropped into the dark mixture, she had thought of a glance, a touch, a kiss that day, a few of the many moments when they had known that this was right for them. As she had quickly dropped the last nuts, she had felt again the burst of joy in her heart when he had kissed her as her husband for the first time, the way she had known that this was everything she would ever need.

And try as she might, she could not help the tears which had filled her eyes.

By the time the fudge had just needed to cool, she had set it aside, then started to cry. She had brushed off the concerns of her helpers and had just let the tears come. When her sadness had mistakenly caused both Cook and Rupert to panic about losing such a valued member of the kitchen staff, she had reassured them and allowed them to send her for a walk in the kitchen garden. Outside in the bright, sunny air, she had let the wind dry her cheeks, feeling John all around her once more. By the time she had reentered the kitchen, she had again been her cheerful self to all outward signs.

She had been much happier lately, she had to admit as she climbed the stairs to the study now. Or if not happy, at least more at peace. It had helped that she had been so welcomed here and given complete freedom to set her own schedule. The ability to use the massive kitchen as if her own personal bakery had been a relief, keeping her busy and feeling needed from her very first day. She had been given a small but pleasant chamber on the third floor with all the servants. Devoid of memories as it was, it suited her aptly, so she had no complaints so far.

But then again, she still had not even met her employer yet. Certainly, her contentment with this arrangement might change now that he was finally back from Eastlake. While the Lord High Commissioner had a reputation among the staff for being polite and gracious, she didn’t know what that meant, exactly. She wasn’t really sure if that meant the same thing for toffs as it did for normal people, or if it just meant he wasn’t as rude and uppity as most of them were supposed to be.

Abby had never worked for a toff before, nor had she had much interaction with them prior to this. And he wasn’t just some random toff, but the Lord High Commissioner. So she had been uncertain about how different it might be, now that he and his daughter were back. She had worried on that for a time, but to her relief, nothing appeared to have changed once they were back in residence. Nor did the staff act concerned in any way as far as she could tell, so that had helped immensely.

Still, it was rather strange now that they were here.

That was due, of course, almost entirely to the Lord High Commissioner’s daughter, little Millie, who was an Animal Conduit and the first of her kind, shockingly enough. Even more remarkable, that very same little girl had been at Eastlake with her father when Our Lady’s Hound of War had led the nation’s dogs in defense of their country and slaughtered the invading army. While Abby never liked to think of the war, it was not something that was easy to ignore, just passed and with all the devastation still being repaired. To protect their rights as a free nation, the Western Marches had gone to war to stop the Marches from taking their native daughter, Our Lady of Joy, as their own and they had won.

But it had not been without cost.

The fatalities had been staggering, so many families torn apart by the loss of one or more beloved family members as patriots and soldiers alike had all raced to Eastlake, intent on making a final stand for their country’s independence. But in the end, it had not been those brave men and women who had made the difference. Instead, it had been Our Lady’s Hound of War and the nation’s beloved dogs who had saved them, drawn there to help by the little girl living right in the very same house with her now.

Even after witnessing it firsthand, it was still almost unbelievable, Abby had finally decided.

She had seen Millie running about now that she was back. It was impossible to miss, after all, since the little girl in question routinely rode her pony inside the house. Despite that, there was never any damage, nor so much as a single accident of any sort, not even the kinds she would have expected when a pony was involved. If that were not enough to suggest that Millie was not your average child, she was trailed even on foot by a sizable pack of dogs at all times. Used to it as everyone was, no one even blinked as that chunky little pony bounded up and down the stairs like a child’s toy, the dogs surging along at its heels like a hairy, yipping wave.

But she had gasped aloud the first time she had seen it.

Even more shocking still was that little girl riding that pony right back down the stairs, but so slowly and carefully that she barely swayed, all without so much as a halter, her dogs eagerly following behind, their tails waving madly. It was just amazing, Abby thought again. Thinking of that as she was, she was almost disappointed to note that the study was once more empty when she moved to the open doorway and quietly knocked.

So she simply set the plate on the low table by the couches and left.

Marcus Weymine eyed the fudge that someone had thoughtfully left in his study.

Less restrained, his daughter Millie squealed in open delight at the tray of sweets, the dogs echoing her with excited little yips as they danced around. All except for Pickles, Marcus noted with amusement, who never cavorted or begged as the little dogs did. Instead of leaping about, the huge Guardian Hound seated himself at Millie’s side, a low, pained whine breaking from him as if he were in pain, his eyes fixed on the plate.

I know, I know, Millie replied as if the dog had spoken, tossing him one of the vanilla wafers before breaking apart more to feed the other dogs.

Meanwhile, Marcus continued to eye the fudge, telling himself that it was far too early for desserts. But as if beyond his control, his hand reached out and before he could stop it, popped a piece of fudge right into his mouth. Then he stopped thinking entirely, the fudge filling his mouth with the most extraordinary flavor as his eyes closed to better focus only on that.

Unable to stop himself, he ate several more pieces, his eyes only opening long enough to locate the next one. Otherwise, he kept his eyes closed as he savored that rich, sweet taste as the chocolate melted on his tongue, the faintest flavors of vanilla and orange underlying it. It was wonderful, he thought as he slowly chewed, just wonderful. Whether it was absurd or not, he was as happy as he could recall being in some time, just from fudge, he realized in amusement.

His belly satiated and that lovely flavor lingering in his mouth, he finally opened his eyes at his daughter’s giggle. Smiling at him as another giggle escaped, she reached for a vanilla wafer, cookie crumbs dotting her cheeks. Charmed, he gently dusted off her little face as he smiled back at her before settling on the couch with his ledger.

He did this most afternoons when he was in residence here. He believed it was important for Millie to have the certainty of knowing he would always be here waiting, once her lessons were done for the day. Because she truly was the center of his world, he wanted her to believe that as well. So he made sure to dote on her here, just as he had at Rosehill.

He knew from his own boyhood that no normal child would wish for material gain or social status over parental love. So as far as he was concerned, he had an obligation to make sure she did not suffer for this role he was forced to accept. Now, she quietly sat down next to him with a book of her own as she usually did, the dogs all settling onto the carpet around them, Pickles in a direct line between Millie and the door.

Seeing that, Marcus had to smile. While he had not been very enthusiastic about his daughter being a Conduit, a state only compounded by the unique nature of her affinity, he had to admit now that it wasn’t so bad. Yes, Millie was always surrounded by animals everywhere she went, but that was not far from how she had behaved before her affinity had even manifested.

From the time she was a baby, Millie had always loved animals and they had always returned that love. So in some form or another, animals were certainly destined to be in her life, he had felt. In fact, Marcus had come to realize, this was a distinct improvement in many ways.

After all, he had no doubt that Millie would most certainly have ridden her pony through the house eventually, Conduit or not, just to see if she could. She would hardly have been the first Weymine to have tried it either, horse-mad as their family generally was. The only difference would have been how messy and potentially destructive that effort might have been had she not been an Animal Conduit. But since she was, now he never had to worry about where he stepped in his own house at least, so that was a relief.

But in some ways, it was the only one.

As the father of the little girl whose unique affinity had won the war, he couldn’t help but worry about what this might have done to his child. Like all of them, Millie had been incapacitated by Our Lady of Joy’s pain when she had been injured. But before she had collapsed, Millie had released the dogs.

Feeling her pain as a command, the dogs of the Western Marches had defended their home from the invaders. For hours, Thomas and Rease had labored to keep Lira alive as everyone else had lain where they had fallen in a pained stupor. But in those fateful hours, Millie’s beloved hounds had protected their people, just as they had been born to do.

It had been a massacre, Marcus recalled now, his eyes clouding at the memories of the ruined city, bloody bodies strewn about like debris. He took no joy in the victory, present as he had been to see the cost firsthand. And though he had only just recently returned from helping Warren Davies and Our Lady’s family as they continued to rebuild everything destroyed in the war, he still felt unsettled and anxious about both what had happened and what was to come.

He had no idea what this might have done to his daughter, he agonized again, his eyes burning as he focused on the ledger in his lap so she wouldn’t notice his preoccupation. While he had tried to talk to her about it as indirectly and gently as he could, she seemed remarkably unaware of any role she might have played in what had happened, blithely announcing that the dogs had taken care of everything, as if it had nothing to do with her. Not being an expert on eight-year-old girls, he had not known what to make of that casual indifference.

Nor did she seem curious about what had actually happened in reality, a state of ignorance she shared with all the children present in the house at the time. Without so much as a discussion, the adults had collaboratively shielded the children from actually seeing the aftermath of the war as best they could. The bodies had been dragged off and the courtyard washed free of blood as soon as the house staff had recovered, fortunately.

That had made the immediate environment safe enough that Marcus had felt less guilty about the many responsibilities weighing on him as Lord High Commissioner, none of which had allowed him to focus on his child. From that point on, Millie, like Lira’s adopted brother Ibukun and Warren’s sons, had been confined to the estate. Not only was that appropriate for children their age, but it would also keep them from seeing horrific realities which could damage them forever.

Soon enough, the city had been restored to some manageable degree, a task that had taken far less time than he had feared it might, thanks to the efforts of the surviving Conduits and soldiers. Seeing their progress, he had judged it time to return to the Manor. Despite being hit hardest of all, Our Lady’s favored city was still all heart. Eastlake would rebuild both their buildings and their people to become even stronger than before, bound together as they would be by this profound experience of surviving an invasion.

The continued recovery of Our Lady’s favored city would be managed by Warren Davies and Thomas, a more than capable man aptly titled as Our Lady’s Warlord for his intellect, which had proven invaluable in the war. Between the two, Marcus had felt that the city was in very capable hands. So once he had felt comfortable he had done all he could there, he had collected Millie and her remaining pack of dogs before returning to the Manor and his larger duties to the nation.

And that was what he was supposed to be concentrating on, he reminded himself. Now, he was supposed to be reallocating tax revenue to the areas most damaged in the invasion and ensuring its proper use for rebuilding and providing aid to the families in need. He was not supposed to be fretting over a child who appeared perfectly fine.

Unable to let it go, he tried to recall his own childhood to determine if this level of obliviousness was normal for all children, or a unique and worrisome quality solely possessed by his daughter. But he could only recall his deep and persistent fear of his sister, Bridget. He had been terrified of her from the time he had seen her kill a puppy when they were very young. Despite being so young, or perhaps precisely because he had been, that memory had not dulled with the years as most did. That memory he could always recall in perfect, sickening detail.

Even now.

Despite all he had seen in his life to date, that moment still had the power to make him flinch for the sheer cruelty of it, oddly enough. He heard it in his memory again, the muffled thump of the puppy’s head into the stone floor and his eyes flashed open as he jerked upright, willing himself to forget. Millie stirred next to him, looking away from what she was reading with curious eyes.

Did you fall asleep, Poppa?

Just about, he replied, careful to keep his tone cheerful. It’s very nice to be home again, having cookies with you.

And the dogs, she reminded him in a whisper as she glanced worriedly at them, as if making sure they were not offended by his omission.

And the dogs, he agreed with a smile.

When she said nothing but continued to look at him curiously, he once more broached the topic as gently as he could.

Millie, a lot has happened in the last few months, he said softly. Are you happy? Is there anything that bothers you or that you want to talk about?

She looked at him in clear bafflement.

Like what? she asked.

Fully aware that detailing his concerns might only make things worse, Marcus simply looked at his daughter, uncertain of what he should say.

I don’t know, he finally said. That’s why I asked.

Oh, all right, she replied, sounding completely unconcerned.

Then, as he waited, she picked up her book and began reading again. When he cleared his throat so that she looked up, he asked again, still not certain of the answer as he was.

So is everything fine, Millie? Are you happy?

Looking delighted, his daughter rolled her eyes at him. As she did, the dogs surged to their feet, wiggling and dancing in pleased excitement as they milled around, Pickles included.

Of course I’m happy, Millie cried. I’m me!

Even less sure of what to say now, Marcus simply smiled weakly at his daughter.

Chapter Two

Abby sat out in the dark garden, looking at the stars and missing John.

This was when it hit her anew every day. Despite the protection offered by Our Lady’s Blessings, this time of night was always the most agonizing, because the pain would come regardless. Long after everyone else had drifted off to sleep, she would wander out here, look at the stars and think about huge, terrifying topics, like mortality. Tonight had been no exception.

She had even been sitting out here for Our Lady’s latest Blessing, given less than an hour ago. A warm, sweetly scented gust of shimmering air had swept over her like a breeze, a humming lullaby of bells accompanying it, lifting her spirits, just as it always did. Since she had recovered enough to begin giving them again, Our Lady’s Blessing no longer tore across the land. Now, her Blessing blanketed them gently, even as it lasted longer than ever before. It was as if Our Lady had shifted from force to finesse upon recovery, or perhaps simply matured from the experience. Still, she was becoming every bit as powerful as legend had always claimed.

But while Abby was pleased for her country’s sake to have such a valuable Conduit so suited to helping them as a nation, it hadn’t helped her personally as much as she had hoped. While there was no question that it did improve her mood and lighten her thoughts, no Blessing yet had stopped her from thinking entirely. And that was precisely her problem.

On nights like tonight, she would think about how John was there one day, then gone the next, which was everyone’s fate in the end. She would consider how very transient it all was, so that no matter what choices a woman made, she was simply destined for pain, life being what it was. That was also when she would regret most fiercely that she had not ever been able to get pregnant, because in the end, she had nothing left of him, not even his child.

That always made her cry.

It was not that she wept because of the pain she felt at being denied motherhood, as much as she wept for the fact that such a situation now meant that the man she loved really was gone forever. While she could always adopt a child, especially now with all the orphans after the war, it would never be John’s child. She would never see glimpses of him in their child, because she had never been able to give him one.

So he really was gone from her completely.

That was the pain that ate at her every day and which she so carefully suppressed under good cheer when around others. She understood that time enough had passed so she should not still be bursting into tears in public, so she tried not to if she could help it. But the pain of losing her closest, most dearest friend in the world without even having his child as a consolation was sometimes so overwhelming that she just couldn’t help it, she thought now as the tears ran down her face.

While she did not often break down in front of others anymore, it had happened several times already in the short time she had been here. But fortunately, no one had seemed to mind. Cook had been wonderful about that. Aware that she had run a successful business in the past, proving that her work ethic was equal to anyone’s and required no supervision, he treated her as an equal. She had complete freedom in his kitchen to keep whatever schedule she was most comfortable with, so long as she also continued to fill the Manor with her creations.

Abby was grateful for that. It gave her something productive to do on the nights when restful sleep proved impossible and even her dreams brought her to tears. So it was not uncommon for her to work into the latest hours all by herself, rows and rows of linen-covered trays ready for the oven greeting the early morning staff as they arrived just after dawn to find her gone. But despite her erratic schedule, her evident skill and Cook’s open approval made the entire kitchen staff pleasantly accepting of whatever hours she wished to keep.

So she had drifted about the Manor, being as cheerful as she could and avoiding everyone when she could not. By now, her schedule had become largely nocturnal by choice, as the isolation allowed her to focus on only her immediate task. And it had helped to some degree.

As long as she kept busy and stayed silent, she didn’t have to think past what she was doing. If she didn’t have to think, then she couldn’t descend into depression. So she rose each day and did her best, one minute, one hour, one day at a time, trusting that it would get better.

And it had, just not as quickly as she had hoped.

She still felt adrift each time she thought about her life now. After losing John, her whole world had been turned upside down. Suddenly, all the things she had thought important, like opening the bakery on time, making a profit and keeping the customers happy, hadn’t mattered at all.

At that moment, she had understood that everything they had accomplished, a successful business in which they could take great pride, meant nothing to her. Without someone to share it with, she took no joy in any of it anymore. Having spent all the years of their marriage certain that they would succeed together and be even happier for it, she hadn’t even had the heart to continue without him.

Suddenly, without him, none of it had meant anything but more pain.

So she had been grateful to her brother for taking over the bakery. It had kept the business in the family, which she appreciated. But even more importantly, it now had every chance to continue prospering. That never would have happened with her alone and still grieving, no matter how much help she eventually was forced to hire, she had long since recognized. Suddenly rudderless, she had been in no shape to care, even as she had dearly wanted it to continue succeeding and in doing so, honor John in some way.

But now she was here and while her brother and his family were not so far away, it might as well be another world. Self-contained as the Manor was with what they either produced on site or had shipped in bulk from neighboring farms, everything she needed was already here. Since she never needed to leave for ingredients, she had stayed on the estate grounds from the time she was hired, only visiting her brother at the bakery once since.

Then she had been struck with a bittersweet pleasure to see how well he and his family were doing, so that returning to the Manor had felt almost like an escape. They were keeping an eye on her little cottage for her in her absence, right down the road as it was from theirs, which she appreciated, of course. But she hadn’t even been able to check on it herself. Just seeing the bakery had upset her so much more than she had expected, forcing her to realize that part of her life really was over.

While she had been pleased to see her brother and his family, as she was genuinely fond of them all, it had just been such a depressing reminder that life goes on, regardless. Seeing her brother’s beautiful children bustle about helping him had been so unexpectedly painful that it had left her reeling for days after. Since then, she had not been able to bring herself to visit again.

She did routinely write short, cheerful notes which she left with Rupert for delivery the next time any of the staff ventured into town. Within a day or two, a reply would come from her brother with a funny anecdote or two about a former customer, along with his thanks once more for this chance. And each time, that bittersweet pain would again erupt within her to know that this time, there really was no going back. Her old life was gone.

So if she ever wanted to be happy again, she needed to build a new one.

Even now she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, she thought as she rose from the bench, heading for the kitchens. There was no point dwelling on the past, she knew. But if she must, then she should be grateful, as much love and happiness as she had been given to date.

In honor of that, she would be best served by turning all her attention to this new life she was living now, as many were not so fortunate as to have the chance. The whole country knew of the memorial park in Eastlake for the fallen, after all. If she needed a reminder to appreciate each day as she lived it, there it was, she lectured herself as she entered the kitchen.

What’s this? No one is ever here this late.

To her surprise, there was a man sitting there in the dim light.

From his neat but otherwise unremarkable clothes, he was clearly employed on the estate in some capacity, she realized in a glance, assuming he had been unable to sleep from his weary expression and the tea cup by his hand. Noting the space in front of him was otherwise empty, she felt once more confident of her role in the world. Focusing on this tired, hungry man was something she understood and which caused nothing but good feelings within her.

She bustled forward into the light as she called a soft greeting in passing, ignoring the way he startled at her sudden appearance in the dim, silent kitchen. Grabbing a plate, Abby headed directly for the large metal bread box used to keep baked goods fresh here in the Manor. Inspecting the selection, she picked the best of it for the hour. Then she headed right back to the potentially hungry person in her kitchen, determined to rectify that unacceptable situation immediately.

Here, she said, placing the plate in front of him as he looked up, clearly curious. Raspberry scones. They go well with tea and aren’t too sweet for early morning or even before that. Try one.

Then she began to measure out ingredients, hearing an occasional noise from behind her. Soon enough, she was busy rolling out another batch of scones. She was not yet bored with them and they had proved very popular here on the estate, she thought with a smile. Pleased at the idea of everyone exclaiming in delight at beginning their morning in such a way, she continued to work, humming a little as she did.

Preoccupied as she was, she never even noticed when the man left.

Marcus left the kitchen, pleasantly tired enough that he might be able to sleep.

He had found himself relaxing as one of the kitchen staff had offered him food and then quietly bustled about. It had been a relief to simply slump there, eating the most delicious pastries and quietly observing as the woman went about her duties.

She hadn’t looked familiar, so he assumed she must have been hired by Rupert in his absence. When he cast his mind back, he did recall something about someone in the kitchen retiring some time ago, but the details escaped him entirely. So he had to assume that one of the older ladies had retired, and this woman had taken her place. As Master of the House, Rupert handled any issues arising with the management of the house, including replacing any retiring staff, so he certainly could have hired someone new in the time he and Millie had been away at Eastlake.

Once more his mind shied away from why they had been there in the first place, eager to avoid any more nightmares tonight. That had been what had driven him to the kitchen in the first place. Despite leaving, he had not been able to get any distance from Eastlake and what had happened there, images intruding across his thoughts without warning.

But in the entirety of his life, he had never seen anything like that.

Born into a world in which Conduits controlled the elements and ensured adequate production of goods regardless of the conditions of the natural world, keeping the threat of war far from the populace, Marcus had not been prepared for all he had witnessed. But because of his role, he had felt it his duty not to look away.

So he hadn’t, whether through the spyglass or during the gruesome cleanup later. He had held his gorge down and done what he was required to do as Lord High Commissioner. Whether comforting a grieving family or helping load a mangled body into a cart for burial, he had done his best to inspire and aid the people left behind, trying to remind them that this too would pass.

But now he wondered.

Because for him, it wasn’t passing. Instead, it had latched onto him somehow, making him question everything in his life to date and wonder at the purpose of it all. He was not always so fatalistic and tortured, just late at night when even sleep had turned against him.

It was not so bad in the light of day, when he could look at Millie and tell himself that she and all the other children of the country were still free. Even better, thanks to the savage details of how they had won the war, they were highly likely to always remain so. But once the shadows began to lengthen, he always found himself thinking of the many lost and harmed, grief and regret rising in him like a tide, as if he had been responsible for it all.

He knew that was foolish. The conflict had been fated and expected by Seers across the globe, so he had been as powerless as everyone else to stop it, despite his vaunted position. But that it had been his very own sister who had started it all made it even more grotesque in his mind. That should not have surprised him though, as his whole life had been characterized by her from the very moment of his birth.

She was the very reason that he was named as he was and had not been given a name that began with the letter B, as Weymine tradition dictated should occur for a child whose father was named Beckett. But even though Bridget had been only four when he had been born, his father had already known that something had been wrong with her. So he had broken with tradition, naming his son after a distant uncle he had always admired, hoping it would show the boy he was not tied to his blood, but his honor.

More than anything, his father had later confessed, he feared what might be in their blood to have made Bridget as she was. By then, Marcus had already been terrified of his sister, a situation that had persisted his entire life, even as he had done his best to hide such a thing. Over the years as he had matured, he had become good enough at hiding his fear and revulsion to be able to speak and interact with her normally, as if he had not known all about her.

But he had.

Bridget had always been the single ugly blot in his otherwise manageable life. From the earliest time he could remember, she had hurt him, always promising it would be worse if he ever told any of the adults. His childhood punctuated by the nights he awoke to a pillow hovering over his face and her hissing threats, he had been her perfect victim, a situation which she had relished. Never enough to gravely injure him or leave marks that could not easily be explained away by his reputed clumsiness, she had pinched, prodded, shoved and punched him right up until he had been big enough to fight back.

But once he could, he had not hesitated.

The summer he had turned twelve, she had punched him in the back to hurry him along on their way to the stable and he had finally had enough. Despite all he had been taught about how to behave like a gentleman, he had spun around and punched her in the face without warning, hard enough to knock her down and bloody her nose. As she had laid there stunned, her entire understanding of the world upended, he had jumped on her in an absolute rage.

He had pinned her arms down with his knees and fit his hands around her throat. His face so close to hers, he had sworn that the next time she hit him, he would kill her. If she killed him first, he had continued in a cold fury that was years in the making, he could guarantee that their father would put her down like a sick dog, because he knew what she was and he would know what had happened.

He doesn’t love you, Marcus had crooned in sick delight to her expressionless face, and he never will, but he loves me enough to kill you if you hurt me. I know because he told me. None of them love you. They don’t even like you. They know there’s something wrong with you, no matter how you try to hide it from them. They already know, Bridget. We all do.

But in telling her that, he had made things much worse. Fatally so, in fact.

At first, it had seemed the perfect solution, threatening her like that. She had left him alone. So he had thought that in finally standing up to her, he had demonstrated that he was no longer her convenient victim.

But then the news had come that their father had been killed falling from his horse after his frayed girth had broken over a fence. He had seen his sister’s face when they had been told, that flash of deep satisfaction before she had covered her face, rubbing her eyes so that they would water and it would appear as if she were crying from emotion. He had watched her do that for years, so as soon as he had seen it, he had known that she had been involved somehow.

There had been a great uproar, the stable hands all interrogated as to how this could have happened, but none could recall seeing any signs of wear on the girth to account for how it had snapped like that. After that, he had known for certain that she had killed their very own father, easy as it would have been for her. As a child of the family and always in the stable as they all were, no one would even notice her slipping into the stall as the horse patiently waited for its rider, allowing her to cut through the girth before their father arrived.

Then it would just have been a question of time.

The integrity and strength of the leather destroyed, it would have been a simple matter of movement that continued to shear through that last little bit of intact material until it suddenly gave. That had been enough, sadly. Their father had fallen, striking his head and neck hard enough that he had died before they could even get him back to the house to see a healer.

From that moment on, Marcus had known that his sister could and would kill him, so he had behaved accordingly. He had always tacked up his own mount after carefully inspecting both saddle and bridle for anything suspicious, routinely checking the girth during the ride, just in case. He had made sure that he was never alone in a room with