At the Queen_s command

"Very good, thank you." Frost clapped his hands and looked up as Bethany came in from the kitchen, fastening a light cloak around her shoulders. "Are you come to conduct the Captain about town?"

"Are you done torturing him?" A white bonnet restrained her light brown hair, save for a curl over her forehead.

"For now, yes." Frost slid his chair back and stood. "A pleasure, Captain."

Owen stood and shook the man's hand. "And mine, sir."

"Take good care of my daughter." Frost pumped his arm warmly. "Until this evening. Good hunting."

As they moved through Temperance, Owen studied people with new eyes. His red coat and even his second-best shirt had been woven tightly-more tightly than clothes worn by anyone but the most prosperous. Many men wore breeches that had been patched repeatedly, and often needed yet another patch or two. More commonly they went without shoes or stockings, and few possessed proper coats.

Prior to his discussion with Doctor Frost, Owen had been inclined to put their slovenly appearance down to their nature. Norisle's feckless and destitute-those in thrall to spirits and indolence-dressed similarly. He thought them incapable of rising above their nature, lacking character. Even those brought into the army and trained for better retreated to their baser selves when given any idle time.

"Did you not hear me, Captain?"

Owen blinked. "My apologies, Miss Frost. My mind was off and away."

Bethany laughed easily. "You are like my father in that regard. I should have expected this after his speaking with you this morning."

"He does challenge a man."

"That he does." She opened a hand toward a small alley off Fortitude Street. "You may find the journals you want here, on Scrivener Street; or you might want to obtain logs closer to the dock."

"We should look here."

"Very well. What was it my father had you thinking about?"

"Things well outside my purpose here."

A frown wrinkled her brow. "My dear Captain Strake, do not think me some addlepated girl. I am my father's daughter and capable of handling myself in discourse."

"No offense intended, Miss. We discussed the lack of a native textile industry." Owen jerked his head back toward Fortitude. "Consequently I was noticing what people wore."

"It gets very cold for some come winter." She paused before the door of Burns and Company, Booksellers. "We might try here."

Owen opened the door into a small shop crowded with shelves. A bell tinkled from above the door. A small man wearing spectacles appeared from deeper within the shop. Two large volumes filled his hands. "Good day, Miss Frost. May I help you?"

Bethany eclipsed Owen. "I hope you will, Mr. Burns. Captain Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He'll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills."

The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. "I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide."

Owen nodded. "That would be satisfactory."

"As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain." Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.

Two turned wooden cylinders rested on a red velvet bed along with three silver wedges. The man handed one of the wedges to Owen. The metal had been hammered incredibly thin, and curved along its length. It tapered to a point and had been split halfway up the middle.

"Local silversmith, he makes these. They're nibs, fit into these holders. Last longer than a quill and don't need sharpening."

"The work is incredibly delicate." Owen held it out for Bethany to see, slowly turning it in his fingers. "Do you know how he does this?"

Burns shrugged. "Not being cursed, I don't know for sure, but he uses a firestone in the process. Has it at the end of a thumb, in a glove you see, so he can work the metal while hammering."

Which is why it's silver. Iron and steel dampened magick, all but destroying the ability of any but the strongest user to make it work. Stories of heroes who could enchant a sword abounded, but Owen had never seen that ability in action.

The bookseller ducked his head. "And no offense meant, Captain."

"None taken." Owen nodded solemnly. "Soldiers greet that appellation proudly. We might be bound for Hell, but we'll send the enemy there to welcome us."

"And we are right happy you do that, sir." Burns smiled. "Will you be taking these?"

"Yes." Owen handed back the nib. "Reckon the bill, please."

"Gladly, sir. Shall I have the pens sent round with the journals?"

"Please."

The man scratched some figures on a scrap of paper. "That will be a crown, three and eight."

Owen slipped a hand into his pocket for his purse, but Bethany laid a hand on his wrist. "That is outrageous. We are leaving now, Captain Strake."

"What?"

Bethany turned on the bookseller. "Mr. Burns, my family has traded with you for many years. We recommend you highly. This should cost no more than a crown and ten, or four shillings eleven."

"But, Miss…"