At the Queen_s command

She laughed and rested a hand on his arm. "I fear, Captain, that what you know of the Twilight People comes from reading books of the same caliber as Lord Rivendell's work. In the northeast we have two very large groupings of tribes: the Confederation and the Seven Nations. The Seven Nations range out further west and are heavily influenced by the Ryngians. The Confederation deals more with us. And yet, within each grouping, the tribes have their own affinities and alliances, which shift on a whim. While I never have felt in danger here in Temperance, there have been times traveling when I have not felt wholly safe."

Bethany spoke so plainly that Owen found it easy to imagine her astride a horse, a pistol in each hand, fighting off marauders and highwaymen alike. He glanced at her hands, but only caught a fleeting glimpse of her thumbs.

She caught his eye, then held her hands out, thumbs uppermost. Her voice sank to a whisper. "Yes, Captain, my family is cursed. I have shot, but not recently, as you can see."

He nodded.

She quickly caught his right hand and brushed her thumb over his rough thumbnail. Each line on it marked a battle, and the smoothness near the cuticle betrayed his long voyage to Mystria. The blood from those battles had long since faded from beneath his nail, but the nail's corduroy surface revealed hard fighting.

"The marks are genuine. I have not rasped my way to glory."

"There is none of that here, Captain." She released his hand. "The Virtuans admire courage and hate boastfulness. Lord Rivendell's book was frowned upon mostly because of its tone, not what it said about Mystrians. In Temperance, at least."

"The book had little to recommend it."

"Few here see a use for it."

Owen shrugged. "It will hold a door open in a wind."

Bethany giggled, then selected a small bundle of rosemary and added it to the basket. "So, tell me, Captain, what are you? A Six or an Eight? Caleb is a Six, though he claims Seven."

"I am actually a Thirteen."

She blinked. "Ira was a Ten and the best we had to send."

Owen smiled. "It has nothing to do with my Norillian blood, Miss Frost. My mother's people boast of being Sixes, but they lie and lie badly. Even my stepfather and the Ventnor family can produce, at best, an Eight. No matter. The measure is false."

"How can you say that? You can load and shoot thirteen times before magick exhausts you. This gives you a great advantage."

"It would, Miss, if in battle a soldier could get off more than three shots before the enemy was upon him with bayonet, lance, and ax."

From his basket Bethany took a smaller basket and began to gather a dozen eggs into it. "That was not the impression of battle given by the Rivendell book."

Owen chuckled. "Lord Rivendell saw no fighting. Those whom he later interviewed-including his son-spent time working with a rasp and then embellished their roles greatly."

"You've read it, then?"

"My wife insisted." Owen shivered. "Catherine could not bear to read it, but implored me to do so. She hoped I was mentioned. There was nothing of me in there, of course, though it did please her that Rivendell praised my uncle as if he were the very avatar of some ancient and terrible god of war."

"More of Rivendell's lies?"

Owen frowned. "No. When it comes to war, my uncle has a fearsome talent. What was written of him was likely the only truth in the whole book."

Bethany smiled and put an egg in her basket. "Is she nice, your wife?"

"Yes. We married in the spring before Villerupt. She lives at my grandfather's estate."

"And she chose not to come with you to Mystria?"

"She is not terribly adventurous, Miss."

"I had wanted to go to the Low Countries with Ira, but it would not have been proper, as we were not wed. Some of the other wives did go. My uncle met his wife there, in fact. She was widowed in battle. She nursed him back to health. I find it romantic, but do not say that in front of my mother."

"I shall heed your warning." Owen trailed after Bethany, wondering if he would have noticed her had she come with the Colonials. Likely not, though the way she moved through the market bespoke an energy that would have been welcome in the camp.

"Did Catherine go to the Continent?"

"Yes, but never to camp." Owen smiled. "She is rather delicate and enamored of dances and gowns. She eschews early morning walks because of dew and detests mud. She sometimes suffers from the vapors and to be setting up a tent during a downpour after a swampy march would lay her in the grave."

"Sounds like one of the Fairlee girls my uncle wishes to marry to Caleb." Bethany settled the small basket of eggs in his larger basket, then linked her arm in his. "It is time for us to return home."

Owen looked up and read the time from the clock on Government House. "It is, indeed. I will walk you back, then I have to meet Nathaniel Woods at the Stores Depot."

A shiver ran through Bethany.

"What is the matter?"