At the Queen_s command

"I am well aware of what he did." Mrs. Frost took a clean cloth and dipped it in some hot water. She pulled his hand and handkerchief away from the wound and wiped blood away. "I know what a store the Prince sets by Mr. Woods, but that hardly makes him an angel."

She set the bloody cloth down and picked up a needle. She threaded it, then held it in the flame of a candle.

Owen frowned. "What are you doing?"

"What must be done."

Caleb returned and handed Owen a small cup of rum. "Virtuan superstition. You were up to deviltry tonight, so there's demons in the wound. Heating the needle will remind them of Hell's-fire and scare them out of there."

Mrs. Frost scowled. "More than once you've been sewed shut with this needle and have barely a scar to remind you of it, Caleb Frost. Don't be mocking God's work."

"Yes, Mother." Caleb pulled back and mimed drinking the rum at a gulp. "It helps."

Owen tossed off the alcohol. It burned all the way down and exploded in his stomach. He wondered for a moment if he would vomit again, but the rum's warmth soothed things.

Mrs. Frost took the cup from his hand and poured the remaining drops on his wound. "A cup for your insides, a drop for your outsides."

"That stings."

"Good. Let it be a reminder to you next time."

It felt odd to be stitched up. Not that he hadn't before, but never around an ear. In addition to the little pokes and the tugs when drawing the stitches tight, he got to hear the popping of his flesh, and the rasp of the thread going through the hole. Mrs. Frost worked diligently, and put more stitches into that small wound that he'd gotten for a sword-gash on his thigh.

Finally she snipped off the end of the thread, then poured another drop of rum on her handiwork. She fashioned a pad out of some clean cloth, rubbed some green paste smelling faintly of mint into it, and set the cloth against the wound. She secured it in place with a bandage that went all the way around Owen's head twice and tied off over his other ear.

"I should think, Captain, that should do."

"Thank you, Mistress Frost."

"You will thank me by staying out of trouble." She turned to her daughter who was sewing up a tear on his jacket sleeve. "You will get him a pad for his pillow, so he will not bleed on our linens."

"Yes, Mother."

Mrs. Frost's expression eased. "Is there anything else you require, Captain?"

"No, I think, well, perhaps, my writing case."

Mrs. Frost's glance dispatched Caleb to Owen's room. He returned quickly with a boxy leather case. "I'll put this on the dining table."

"Thank you." Owen moved into the dining room, the rum still warming his belly. Caleb had set the case at Owen's place on the table and had lit a candle. He stood at the sideboard pouring himself a cup of wine.

Owen waved away the offer of wine and opened his case. He set out some paper and ink, then used a small knife to sharpen a quill. But who do I write first?

He saw no purpose in preparing a report on the incident. Langford would only laugh. He might even send his own version of the incident back to Launston to discredit Owen. Preparing a report and sending it directly to Horse Guards would do him no good. It would just be taken as confirmation of the craven nature of the Mystrians, and confirm him as being stupid for having been ambushed. The report's very existence would be used against him-most likely by his uncle.

And writing to Catherine would not do. She would faithfully read the letter, but would keenly feel every blow. The letter would cause her great anxiety, and that was the last thing he wished to do. Catherine would be pleased and proud of victory, but heartsick at his injury. She would blame herself for his being in such danger.

Bethany came into the room bringing another candle, his coat, and her sewing kit. She smiled. "Please tell your wife that your jacket is in good repair."

Owen blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You must be writing her, to tell her you are well despite things, yes?" She sat and hunched over his coat. "Caleb told me you are married. You must miss her."

"I do, Miss, yes, very much." Owen set the quill and penknife down. "I'm not certain she would care to know what has happened. Not about this, anyway."

Bethany looked up, surprise cocking her head. "When Ira was gone I wanted to know everything, every detail. He wrote some-had someone write I mean-and my uncle wrote. We got letters in bunches, of course. Some long after…"

"I can imagine how much that hurt."

She shook her head. "Not as much as not knowing. Men think that not telling saves us worry, but we know. We know when something is not being said, and that makes us worry more. We know you are not telling us something that will worry us, and that leaves it to us to imagine something truly terrible."

"Alas, my wife is not of a temperament to deal with visceral details." Owen half-smiled. "She could never have done what your mother did."

"I know."

"What?" Owen frowned. "You presume a great deal, Miss Frost."