At the Queen_s command

"I reckon that what I choose to do with my money is my choice." Nathaniel folded his arms over his chest. "And I reckon you should leave me out of your scheming."

Quince looked from Nathaniel to Caleb and back, then shook his head. "Very well. Caleb, good day. As for you, Mr. Woods, rot in Hell."

Quince stormed off.

Caleb turned to Nathaniel. "Why did you lie about being one of us?"

Nathaniel looked him straight in the eye. "I ain't. Curiosity done got the better of me. I attended a meeting. Two. But that don't mean I throwed-in with your 'Sons of Freedom.' And there ain't no cause for someone like Quince to be even knowing I was ever there."

Caleb held his hands up. "I never told him. I barely know him to speak to. Seen him at meetings is all."

"I'm thinking I believe you on that." Nathaniel smiled. "As for Quince, I reckon he needs beating with a smart-stick. I don't reckon nobody makes one big enough."

Caleb grinned. "I'll let the right people know he has been editing A Continent's Calling."

"It was a pretty turn of phrase he used." Nathaniel nodded. "Might be he ought to be writing more than speaking."

The younger Frost nodded. "I'll mention that. Now you said you had a question for me? Back inside? I'll buy you a drink."

Nathaniel braced him on both shoulders. "Another time. Weren't terrible important."

"You'll ask the Prince about my going with you?"

"I shall. Tomorrow, maybe day after."

Caleb smiled. "You're back in town to escort the Princess to meet the Prince?"

"Could be." Nathaniel smiled. "My regards to your family, please."

"My pleasure."

The young man headed back into the Tanner and Hound. Nathaniel watched him go, then shivered. He'd wanted to ask if Zachariah Warren was still out of town, but now he was kind of hoping that he wasn't. A dust-up would suit Nathaniel just fine. If Warren wasn't in town, a Branch or a Cask might have to stand in.

He headed across Temperance toward the North End. On Generosity, where it curved toward the ocean, he came to Warren's Fine Wares. Wider and deeper than it was tall, the wooden building rose to three stories. The top two had rooms for rent and the taverns across the street did a lot of custom for the residents. The entire bottom floor consisted of an open room in which the various real goods had been arranged. Furniture mostly, with bolts of cloth, silver, and dinnerware in the back, it displayed the very best imported items from Norisle. Wide doors in the back allowed carts to load easily.

Nathaniel watched from across the street for a minute or three. He debated going in. Wasn't any reason he couldn't. Warren had never publicly told him to stay out. Wouldn't have really mattered if he had-at least Nathaniel didn't care about Zachariah's feelings on the matter.

Rachel's, on the other hand, mattered more than anything.

He raked fingers back through his hair and put a smile on his face before wandering across the street. He opened the door and a tiny bell jingled. Two people, a man and a woman, looked over. New off a boat. They studied him with surprise and interest, but they never glanced toward Rachel.

Locals would have.

She was engrossed in making an entry in a ledger book at the back counter. Nathaniel loved seeing her that way, concentrating. She wore her dark hair gathered into a bun, but wisps escaped at her temples. Full lips slightly parted, the pink tip of her tongue at the corner of her mouth, delicate fingers tracing along a page to the left. She wrote on the right page with a fluid and efficient motion as beautiful as a deer gliding through the woods.

Then she looked up, her hazel gaze meeting his eyes. She smiled brilliantly for a heartbeat, then caught herself. Her smile shrank. She set her pen back in the inkwell. She tugged at her grey dress, then came from behind the counter. "It is so very good to see you, Mr. Woods. Have you come for more trade scraps?"

"I have." He nodded to the couple admiring a silver service and crossed to the back corner near the rack with bolts of cloth. Next to it sat a box with scraps-too small for quilting in most cases, or oddly shaped and unsuited for much of anything.

"The box is almost full." Rachel smiled at him. "How much will you need?"

He smiled, his heart pounding faster. "I reckon I'd gladly take it all. I have gold." He fished in a pouch and pulled out three gold pounds, holding them above her outstretched palm. "This be enough?"

She nodded and caught the coins.

Oh, how he wanted to place each one in her hand, just to let his fingers brush her palm. He knew her flesh well, both as she had caressed him, and he had caressed her. He felt clumsy at times, for she was so small and soft, and he rangy, his hands calloused, his thumbnail usually rough and darkened beneath with blood.

She closed her hand, letting a fingertip touch his thumb. Just a tiny touch. No one watching could suggest impropriety or intimacy, no matter how strongly they suspected. And yet, for him, it was rain in a drought.