If she reached the river, it would be the crime of the century. Head down, holding the heavy laundry basket tight, Amalia made her way through the bustling hallway, deferring to the strutting lords and ladies with slight bows. Messengers in house livery rushed through the torch lit halls, making for a chaotic scene. The courtiers were nervous tonight. She wondered how many of them were touching the Unseen World, with or without knowing.. 

 

    It was only the ninth of December, but the corridor had the fierce bite of deep winter. 1688 had been another frigid year, brutal cold the new normal. Sensing Mary’s terror behind her Amalia gave her a reassuring wink. The glamour her charge was wearing was a thing of craft and elegance, as it should be. It had taken days of stolen moments in the gardens. Glamours usually made women look younger, and especially, more alluring. This one turned an elegant young lady into a beaten down charwoman. 

 

    The first test waited at the end of the hall, two guards alert with crossed spears. Jake and Robin, the regulars, were here to keep people out of the State Apartments, but they had to pass them to leave. She’d been cultivating these men since she arrived at the palace.

 

     “Hello boys,” Amalia crooned, with a subtle cock of the hip, and that certain tilt of the neck. It was difficult to flirt with your arms full of laundry, but not impossible. Robin liked submissive women. Jake liked wildcats. She couldn’t be both at once, but there was always food. “Gonna be a cold one, old Gabby says. But Cook’s making her apple tarts, and she said there’ll be some extra if I’d do a load for her.”  

 

     Both men grinned. It was an hour short of midnight, and they’d been on shift since the afternoon, so of course they were hungry. That was no accident. “I might even share with my friends,” she continued, turning toward Jake and giving him her best wink. “But I have to get there before Melvin cleans her out.”

 

     “Don’t waste our time, then, Crissy,” Jake grumbled. “Be off with you and hurry back.” A light touch to the wrist, a warm smile, and she was through the inner ward. It would have alerted unless she was grounded. Touching a guard was the perfect ground. Safely across the threshold, she smiled brightly and looked back.

 

    “Oh, the regular girl’s out sick, so Lady Catherine asked for an extra from the scullery. They sent my neighbor, Regina,” she said, gesturing towards Mary. “She don’t talk much, her man’s a beater, you know. C’mon, Regina,” she said, reaching out. A scared-looking Mary took her hand and stepped across. No alarm, and they were into the Great Hall and on their way.

 

    “I’ll see you boys in a few,” she said scurrying into the expansive room filled with milling courtiers. The guards were big men, diligent and well-meaning but none too bright. They’d be surprised to learn the Crissy Hynes they thought they knew, thought they had a chance with, had never existed.

 

    Dark tapestries above the white tile floor gave the room a somber, ethereal air,  Amalia led them around the edges of the dim hall, opening a small door into a poorly lit servant’s corridor. As she stepped inside, the crack of breaking crockery echoed through the room. A large plate lay smashed across the threshold. 

 

    “Oh Christ on a crutch, dammit!” Amalia exclaimed loudly, all eyes upon her. “My pardon, your lords. Wait here, Regina, I’ll clean this up.” She darted into the corridor, and into a small pantry, where she swapped her basket for a much smaller one, full of cleaning supplies.

 

    Then she was on hands and knees, scrubbing the threshold, as servants did. The wax she applied glowed faintly in the Unseen, a potion containing silver, ground jade, and blood as well as beeswax. The entire door frame covered, she recited a cantrip, and the doorway became a hole in the outer ward that tracked the royal family. It wouldn’t last, a stray handprint would take it out. But it lasted long enough.

 

    “All done, and on our way,” she whispered, and hurried Mary through the portal, down the hall, and into the soothing smell of dried herbs in the pantry.

 

     “Easy, my lady,” she said in a soothing tone. Rummaging in the large basket, she removed a carefully packed dark lantern, only slightly distracted by Mary’s sniffling. “Almost there. It’s time to get out of household livery and into scullery togs, just like we talked about.” 

 

     Pulling clothes out of the basket, she checked its precious cargo. The babe breathed steadily, sleeping like a log. A crown prince was quite the prize. The laudanum would wear off soon. They needed to be out of the palace before then. “Let me help you with that gown, madam,” she said, and began to quickly undress Mary. Off came the mantua, overskirt, and petticoats. She handed Mary a rumpled set of the coarser gray and black versions the laundry staff wore.

 

     Mary stood in shock. “What are we doing? This is insane, we can’t do this. It will never work!” She was trembling. 

 

    “No need to fear, my lady, I’ll take care of you both. Now, we need this corset off.” She fumbled with the buttons, before quitting in disgust and drawing a stiletto from her bodice, only to see terror in Mary’s eyes. 

 

     “Be at ease, Your Majesty. This is just to get the damned corset off. Now please be still.” Carefully she slid the blade inside the row of button loops, and worked its Craft sharpened blade. How did women wear these things? In a trice the beastly item was off, and Mary was heaving deep breaths.

 

     “Now we dress,” Amalia encouraged. “We’ll take a few shortcuts. We’re in a hurry. Into this overskirt, please.” Mary whimpered, but did as told. “Have a seat, Your Majesty, and we’ll do the shoes,” she gestured to a stool. Last came the cloak. 

 

     Amalia surveyed her work. Finding it convincing, she shrugged into her drabs before settling the babe into a dish tub. A sniff of his crown made her smile. A royal babe smelled just as good as a peasant’s, yet no better. She covered him with the soiled tablecloth, arranging plates and food scraps by his feet. 

 

     Now Mary sobbed openly. “I – I’m not sure I can do this,” the young queen moaned. “I’m afraid.”

 

     Amalia addressed the woman sternly. “We have but to walk through the kitchens to the yard, and across the yard to the docks. For your safety and your child’s, we need to flee. We’ve come this far, my lady. You don’t have to talk or act. Just stay quiet, keep your head down, and follow me. If you act scared or cry, that’s fine, servants cry all the time. Try to keep it to a few sniffles. You can do this or not, but the Holy Father sent me to rescue you. The babe and I are leaving,”

     

    Mary flinched toward her child. Then she drew a deep breath, and made the effort to steady herself. “Yes, for his safety, we must do this. We will do this. Lead on.”

 

“Good. Carry the light, and stay close, please. Let’s be off.” This was her first time giving orders to a sitting queen. It gave her a thrill of pleasure. Her teachers would be proud.

 

      They hurried to the nearly deserted kitchen. A couple of guards were chatting up the head cook, but they paid the two maids no attention. Amalia left the tub on the counter, and turned to leave.

 

     “Hold right there, girl! You’re not going anywhere” The cook’s bark was angry and accusing. She felt the guards eyeing her suspiciously, but turned and bobbed.

 

     “Yes, mistress?”

​

     “Don’t you dare leave dirty dishes in my kitchen. Is this Eleanor’s mischief again? You’re going to wash these dishes, and tell Eleanor to have them here before shift’s end if she ever wants another favor from me.”

 

    Be the role, you’re a servant, servants are submissive, she reminded herself. “Yes, mistress. As you say, mistress.”

 

    “And who’s this,” the cook asked suspiciously.

 

     “She’s Regina, new to the laundry, mistress,” Amalia said.

 

     The cook eyed Mary coldly, threatening her with a huge wooden spoon. “I know your type, old woman. Don’t be making trouble in my kitchen, you hear?”

 

     Mary gave a squeak of fear, but managed to bow. With the clatter of Amalia attacking the dishes, the cook’s attention returned to the guards, Amalia cursed under her breath as she scrubbed. There was no time for this. Making quick work of it despite Mary's fumbling attempts to help, she wiped down the counter, picked up her tub, and made to leave.

 

     “You, stop.” Cook’s voice was commanding. 

 

     “Yes mistress?” She froze, fighting to breathe. They were so close! Where did she fail?

 

     “You have hustle for a laundry rat. Take an apple tart, and one for your friend,” she said, holding out a plate of pastries. “If you ever tire of Eleanor and dirty laundry, come see me.”

 

     “Yes mistress, thank you mistress,” she said, sick with relief. Yes! She moved the tub to her hip, and felt the babe sliding to the side, but managed to turn her fumble into a curtsy. She’d damn near dumped the heir at cook’s feet, right in front of the guards. Recovering, she took the offered treat, motioning Mary to do so as well. The terrified queen took her pastry timidly, and they hurried out into the courtyard. Almost there.

 

     “Well done, my lady. We’re almost home,” she told Mary as they crossed the courtyard. Scurrying and looking busy was what maids did, so no one noticed as they cut through the East Wing into the Friary Court. There, they turned to the side, out of sight beside the stairs. Taking a deep breath, she lifted young James out of the tub and summoned her reserves. Firing a spell inside the palace would bring fatal attention, but this courtyard had tested safe.  She cast her prepared glamour, relieved when no alarm raised. Wrapping her cloak around the child, she headed for Marlborough Road.

 

     It was just before midnight, and the night ladies would be arriving in the queen’s chamber, to find it empty except for several thoroughly drugged ladies in waiting. Wouldn’t that cause an uproar? They had to leave now. She sauntered towards the gate, Mary in tow.

 

     “Leaving early again, are you, Crissy?” A tall guard stepped out of the shadows, blocking their way.

 

     “Mercy, Patrick, Eleanor worked me near to death. Tabitha’s sick, so I brought my neighbor, Regina. We did the work of at least three women tonight,” Amalia laughed, turning and sidling closer.

 

     “What you got there?” the tall young guard asked, nodding at her arms.

 

     “Eleanor’s old tabby, Malkin, got too old to mouse the laundry, but I said I’d take him.” Patrick didn’t move, so with an impatient sigh she pulled back her cloak and let Patrick admire James’s disguise.

 

     “Huh, that cat’s more like too fat and ugly than too old, looks like,” Patrick grinned. “But you know I’d love to pet your cat sometime, Crissy.”

 

     Stepping back with a flounce, she said, “I don’t know you half that well, Patrick Little.” She gave him a wink on principle as she stepped past. The women turned right into the overwhelming stink of the fish stalls of London’s  Hungerford Market. 

 

    Then Darby, solid Darby, fell in beside her, and she immediately felt better. Her love sported knee breeches and a lovely robin’s egg coat. Long hair pulled back in a queue, a very London sneer on his narrow face completed the disguise. It was quite fetching, and she hoped he’d wear it for her later. But there was work to be done. They were only halfway home.

 

     “All good?” was all he said, fully alert.

 

     “So far,” she ventured quietly, then just loud enough for Mary to hear, “Your Majesty, please meet my friend, Darby. Darby, meet Maria di Modena, your queen,” Never mind that he wasn’t English, and had only the most casual respect for the authority of kings and queens.

 

     “Charmed, Your Majesty,” Darby said with a graceful bow. “I would kneel, but we must keep up appearances just a bit longer. Right this way to my ship, my ladies.”

 

     Mary had settled herself by the time they reached the dock. Darby hopped into a battered, dirty barge and offered her his hand. The queen flinched back, her face a mask of dismay. “But it’s so tiny! Is it even safe?” she whined.

 

     Amalia felt his exasperation, but he just smiled brightly and said in flawless Bolognese, “Your Majesty, the river barges are used by even the finest families, and we are both expert boaters. I have inspected the vessel to my entire satisfaction, and I am quite certain you will be safe. Please, we must be off.”

 

    Mary’s face lit at hearing her native tongue. “You are from Bologna?” she asked.

 

    “No, my Queen, from far north of there. But I love your city,” he said with exaggerated hand motions, making her smile.

 

    The young queen took his hand to sit in the center of the bow, where Darby had spread a cloak. It was too much to ask for a queen to look less than regal, even as she fled from her own palace. Bundling the babe into his mother’s arms, Amalia took a pair of  oars and bent to. They launched into the dark Thames, the tide grabbing them at once.

 

     And just in time. As they floated past Saint James Park, a hubbub flowed out from the palace. Horns sounded, and riders bearing torches poured out three different gates, spreading into the city. “It appears they’ve missed you already, Majesty,” Darby ventured.

 

     Mary looked stricken. “Are we safe?” she asked.

 

     “Safe as houses, Your Majesty,” Darby assured her. “The tide will take us to Wapping in only a few minutes. We’ll land you at Earl Melfort’s estate.” The familiar name soothed the woman.

 

    Amalia pulled hard, for the pleasure of the exercise as much as anything else. It wiped away the strain of the past days. The lap of the water was a balm to her nerves, so she dug deep for the sheer delight. And to make Darby work harder.

 

     “Save some juice, love,” Darby whispered, the sensible man. She hated it when he corrected her and was right. But all the more reason to keep him around.

 

     The rapids under London Bridge were another test. They had a clean line, practiced several times under different conditions. A calm night, a waxing moon, so the tidal bore ran as soft as it got. It was a piece of cake.

 

    A piece of cake, at least, until a tiny dinghy squirted out of the darkness on river right directly ahead of them. Amalia spotted a terrified girl child frantically sweeping the oars, doing more harm than good, spinning her boat toward the second pier. Other small figures huddled behind her in the dory.

 

    “Gods dammit, Darby, that fool kid’s gonna get herself killed!” Amalia yelled.  “Change of of plan, run hard left and pivot into the wave. Follow my lead, spin when I say and pull like hell!” Darby gave an amused grunt and pulled. “Mary, hold the babe tight,” she yelled, and dug hard to put her larger boat between the children’s boat and the pier it was about to slam into.

 

    The contact angle was good, she caught the dinghy’s bow on her right quarter, and pushed the smaller boat’s nose downstream, snugged against the barge’s right side. Real danger slows time. The steep drop down the wave underneath the bridge seemed to take minutes. Amalia wanted to say, “Hold on,” or “It’s all right”, but what came out was a wordless cry of defiance as they slid down, headed for a crash into a pier that had drowned hundreds.

 

    “Now!” she screamed, digging hard for speed, even as they headed straight at the massive stone wall. “Full back,” and expert boatman that he was, Darby trusted her and did it. “Spin right,” she yelled, and pulled with everything she had. They scraped off the pier on the left with a sickening sound, and spun forward into the huge curling wave. Water washed over everything. For a moment she thought they were lost, then they flushed into a wave train, the dinghy tight beside them, and it was over.

 

     “My pardon, Your Majesty, but your subjects were in need of assistance,” she apologized to a sputtering Mary. Darby said nothing, but she felt him shaking with laughter. Mary didn’t stop her scolding for the half a league to Melfort’s dark dock. She tapped Darby to stop pulling, and opened a bundle. 

 

     “My lady, you must be as presentable as we can manage at Earl Melfort’s.” She wrapped a fine gray cloak around Mary’s shoulders, using their closeness to remove the  glamour. Above the damp black skirt, the look was queenly. Her own cloak, every bit as nice, was black with a red lining. They docked with a gentle bump. Taking the child from Mary, she helped her onto the dock. At once four men were facing them, not exactly threatening, but not unthreatening either.

     

     “To the house,” said a deep voice. Just for his tone, she opened the dark lantern into his face. So much for night vision. “No lights,” said the voice.

 

     “Oh, dear,” she said in a flustered voice, dimming the light but holding it low. “But Her Majesty needs the light.”.

 

     “You’ve got the boy?”” the voice asked. 

 

     “Right here” she piped.

 

     “C’mon.” They hurried through a dream of a garden across a terrace into a well lit study. John Drummond, Earl of Melfort, greeted them with ceremony. Elegantly dressed in the latest court fashion, he stood with arms spread between a marble fireplace and a spacious desk.The smile never reached his eyes. Even as he showered obsequious praise on the queen, she felt his cold eyes on her.

 

     “Your Majesty,” he exclaimed, arms spread wide for full dramatic effect, before taking a knee. The fawning sickened Amalia, but courtiers would be courtiers. “The world rejoices you escaped from that Pit of Perdition. My people will whisk you to France on the next tide.”

 

     The formal setting seemed to help Mary gather herself, and she became a queen for the occasion. “Earl Melfort, we appreciate your succor in our time of need. Your loyalty will not be forgotten.” The room was almost crowded, with two ladies maids, three thugs in household livery, and two young lordlings dressed in black. Were they from the Talbot brood, perhaps? Both had the horse face. Darby, bless him, made himself small, edging away to sit mmekly in a corner. Fair enough, this was her mission, and she would do the talking.

 

     Melfort spent a few tedious minutes fussing over the queen. He finally paused to direct a lordling and two goons to ready the ladies for their departure, perfect for her plans. She took advantage of the break in the earl’s bootlicking to make her farewell.

 

     “My dear queen, it’s been my pleasure working with you. I hope you have a lovely time in France. Paris is such a wonderful city. Perhaps we’ll see you there?” 

 

Mary was speechless again, poor thing. She gave a vague nod before moving through the door. The queen was beautiful, charming, and not at all clever. She’d be fine when things settled down. 

 

     With the queen and her ladies gone, Amalia turned to the earl. “My lord, it’s been a delight, but my part is done. I‘ve met my commitment. It’s time for you to fulfill yours. We have miles to go tonight.”

 

     The Earl gave her a hateful look, rubbing his hands together. At his gesture, the remaining lordling grabbed her, twisting her right arm behind her none too gently. Amalia made a few weak, whimpering noises. It hurt, but he was in no danger of doing any real damage, so she let it be for the moment.

 

     “You’re not going anywhere, you filthy witch!” Melfort sneered. “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ You’ve been useful, but you have no further purpose. It’s time for you to die. My friend Bertie Talbot will see to that.” The goon was smirking, rubbing his knuckles. The old earl ranted on a bit, and she took the opportunity to wriggle enough to test her captor’s balance, whining all the while. “And once again a son of the True Church will be King of England,” Melfort pronounced grandly.

 

     “A word, please, your lordship,” Amalia said. “Kilmelford.”

 

     He stopped mid-rant, staring at her. 

 

  “Kilmelford,” she continued. “That’s where you’ve sent your wife and children, yes? If you cross me here, of course they’ll all be killed. And does your wife even know about the mistress and bastard child at Crinan? You’ll seal their doom as well. And the one that pains me the most is your mistress here in The City. That’s truly a shame, she’s so lovely.” 

 

  She yelled at Bertie, “Ow, you’re hurting me!”, at the same time she put a heel strike on his instep. As he flinched, she jabbed the poisoned pin from her belt deep into his wrist.

 

   Melfort looked stricken. “You wouldn’t, you spawn of Satan! How dare you threaten my family!” Bertie swore, putting real pressure on her arm, so Amalia gave him a hard left elbow just below the sternum. Breaking an armlock from a stronger opponent was always a risk, but Bertie was no fighter. He whoofed and she was free. Bertie stayed hunched over, but the remaining goon pointed a pistol at her. She raised her hands and sidled toward Melfort, making the goon track her, away from Darby.

 

   “Earl Melfort, let’s do be reasonable here. I am a professional, sent by His Holiness to do a difficult job. I believe I have done so to your entire satisfaction. And yet you, a man of supposed honor, are reneging on your commitment. I must ask you to re-think your stance, my lord, for the safety of your family, if nothing else. I am, after all, here at the True Church’s bidding.”

 

   Melfort stared at her, poleaxed. On cue, Bertie made a choking noise, and pitched forward, spasming on the floor. The brute stared at him, wide-eyed, and Darby quickly, gently, plucked the pistol from his hand and had it at the man’s head before he knew what was happening. Such clever hands that man had!

 

   Melfort’s eyes went wide with shock. “What’s happening to him?” he cried. “He’s an earl’s son, you can’t hurt him!”

 

   “I was given clear instructions to keep you alive if at all possible. No one said anything about him.” She toed the twitching body. “Serves him right. You nearly killed him, setting him against me.” Amalia’s voice hardened. “Now, we should discuss my fee. Due to a clear breach of contract on your part, there’s going to be a hefty surcharge. It will really be most unfortunate if you can’t pay the full amount right now.”

 

   “But — but, I don’t have it!” There was panic in the earl’s voice, and yes, a whiff of fear-sweat. “I — I can get it, I just need some time.” Darby had Melfort’s servant lying prone now, hands tied behind his back. Amalia motioned him towards Melfort. Darby steered the lord to the chair in the corner, then handed her the pistol.

 

   “That’s very disappointing, Earl,” she said in a sad voice. Then, in a harsher tone to Darby, “Start with the desk.” It was a lovely thing, old and huge, made from a dark walnut and polished til it glowed. It looked formidable. Darby locked the door and hefted a poker. With a quick, savage swing he attacked a leg of the desk down low. The back panel cracked and separated from the side. Darby used the poker like a crowbar, revealing the entire side of the desk.

 

   Melfort sprang from his chair, only to find himself looking down the barrel of his man’s pistol. “You know I will, Drummond. Sit down.” 

 

Melfort sat, his face ashen.  “We — we can work something out,” he managed.

 

     “I’m thinking about taking all your correspondence. I can sell it for something approaching my fee, don’t you think? I’ll bet there are several Protestant Members of Parliament who would love to know who the leading Catholic supporter of the king corresponds with, and what he says. Maybe we’ll have an auction?”

 

     Melfort’s hands were clutching each other, and for a moment she thought we would throw himself prostrate in front of her. “No, no, please. You’ll ruin everything,” he pleaded.

 

     “Well, I certainly don’t want that. You need to get Mary to France. And I need to get paid.” She lowered the pistol. “Whatever can we do?” she asked.

 

     Darby, meantime, was humming a drinking song and bashing the desk to bits. He began removing drawers from the wrecked desk. “Just pack everything,” she told him. Eying the drawers, she saw bundles of letters, a book that looked like a ledger, a pistol, a knife, and several invitingly plump cloth bags.

 

     “I’ll give you money!” Melfort sounded desperate now. “Those letters will destroy me. They’ll destroy the king. Let me give you the money!”

 

     “That sounds promising. Where is it?”

 

     “There.” He gestured to a tapestry, and made a move toward it. Instantly, the pistol was back in his face.

 

     “Oh, no, John Drummond. We know how you like to hide weapons,” she said, gesturing at the drawers. “Are there traps?”

 

     “No.” A pause.  He fidgeted, sweat showing on his forehead, She scowled and raised the pistol.  “Yes. There’s a tripwire. Pull the tapestry back and you can see it.” She motioned to Darby, and he gently pulled back the fabric to reveal a deep alcove holding a large strongbox.

 

     “Take it out, and remember there’s a pistol at your back,” she said, jabbing him hard  in the kidneys to keep him from forgetting.

 

     Melfort fiddled a bit at the side of the alcove, then slid the strongbox forward. “Open it, please,” she encouraged. The earl fumbled in his waistcoat, producing a large and ornate key. It slid into the lock and turned with a satisfying click.Gold coins gleamed, a lot of them, beneath a beautiful pair of pistols.

 

     She smiled at Darby. This was going to work. She gestured to her man. “Count out my fee, please.”

 

     Melfort trembled, white as a ghost. “Who are you?” he asked.

 

     “No one of consequence. But if I ever find out you or any of yours are looking for me, I’m your death.” She kicked the still-twitching form of Bertie, “I won’t show mercy next time.”

 

     Darby raked coins into a couple of sacks, while Melfort sat dazed, making a small keening noise. She took the opportunity to fondle the bags in an exposed drawer, and palmed one that had the slithery feel of raw stones along with a handful of letters bearing the fleur-de-lys seal of France.

 

     “This way, please, Earl Melfort,” she said sternly, and gathered his left arm into her right, pressing the pistol in her left hand hard into his ribs. “You and I first, then the servant. We’ll say our goodbyes on the dock and be on our way.” Luck smiled on them. Commotion sounded from the boathouse, but an empty dock awaited. 

 

     “See you in your nightmares, scumbag,” she said, shoving Melfort back sharply as soon as Darby settled into the boat. 

 

     No sooner had she bent to the oars than Melfort ran, crying out, “Help, thieves, to arms! Help! Get a boat! Shoot them!”

 

   She screamed loudly, and yelled, “Help! Fire! There’s a fire! The house is on fire!” just to sow confusion.

 

  Getting into the spirit of the thing, Darby yelled, “Help, the French! The French are attacking. Help, to arms! The French”  Then in a deeper voice, “Attaquez-les, mes garçons! Attaquez!” Perfect accent, good command voice, a little over the top, perhaps, but appropriate. It made her laugh. 

 They slid into the black water. In a moment, the dock receded to a far away anthill of running figures against the black night. They rowed for a bit, then stopped, drifting between the faraway lights on the riverbanks.

 

     “That went well,” Darby finally broke the silence. The night was too dark to see his face, but the satisfaction in his voice was almost a purr. Time seemed to stop, the two of them drifting with the tide down the dark river.

 

     “Fantastic! We stole the Prince of Wales!”  

 

     “And robbed an earl! You’re amazing,” he said.

 

     “You’re good help,” she demurred.

 

     “You called me a servant, you know I can’t stand that.” Oh no! This was no time for him to be getting prickly, she had plans for him.

 

     “I wanted you to be inconspicuous. Just looking out for you.”

 

     “How do you do it?” Darby sounded reflective.

 

     “Do what?”

 

     “Get people to believe everything you say and do.”

 

     “It’s all stories. I tell them a story, my story, and make them a part of it. Then they stop questioning, and see what they want to see.”

 

     “Anybody can tell stories. Why are yours so special?”

 

     “I grew up in an acting troupe. Actors make people see what they want them to see. Posture, gesture and voice flow together. When everything fits the story, people want to believe.” They drifted down the black water. She felt him weighing her words, but he said nothing.

 

    Maybe it would have been different if she’d kept rowing. It started in her hands, just a twitch at first. Then she was shaking, and crying.

    

    “You’ve got the bleaks,” he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It happens to soldiers. They’re hell on wheels in battle, but when it’s over and they’re safe, they break down. You were months behind enemy lines. That’s a hell of a lot harder than marching around getting shot at. We’re safe. Let it out.”

 

“This is not how I want to live. I’m sick of the deceit. France leans on the Church, the Church calls in a favor, and Venice sends me in. Melfort would have killed us. I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to heal people.” 

 

    He was quiet, then started rowing, leaning into the stroke. “Neither of us has clean hands. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done some killing in Turin.” 

    

“Those weren’t humans.” The rush of the mission was gone. It all seemed so pointless.

 

    “They were once human, part human, what’s the difference? We did what we had to do,” he said. Always the practical one.

 

    “It’s just — it’s feeling wrong, doing dirty work for old men with no moral compass. I’m on the wrong path.” Having said it, she felt better.

 

    “There’s a place for you in the world. We can find it.” 

 

    They rowed in silence, cold sea breeze freshening their faces.

 

     “I hate English winters, so damn dark and dreary. Paris is a great city to be rich in!” She felt the boat surge forward with his enthusiasm.

 

     “You’ll go with me to the  opera?” she asked.

 

     “What about the new world? I’d love to see those Indian cities the Spanish write about!” The boat leaped forward with his enthusiasm.

 

     “Oh my Gods, no, absolutely not! I have it on excellent authority that in the lowlands, they have rodents of unusual size. And in the highlands, their only livestock is rodents. I will not — we will not, go to such a benighted place.”

 

     “I love Paris, and we’re rich! Just tell me we’re not going there to do more dirty work for old men with no moral compass?”

 

    “This one involves an old woman with a real moral compass, someone I respect a lot.” 

 

    “That’s good,  a good change. Maybe a better path?” He was such an optimist.

 

    “Oh, and she hates me. Or hates what I am, anyway.”

 

    The Thames was widening, the chop starting to slap the bow. Darby was quiet, matching her strokes precisely. It was tiring, but there was a deep companionship in the shared effort, and she began to feel better.

 

    “It’s not easy being different,” he said at last. “There are those who hate us for it. But we can’t change who we are. We can only cherish the better angels of our natures, and imitate the great ones, like St Francis and Hildegard of Bremen. If we can stay true to that, then no regrets.”

 

    “What’s this? Suddenly you’re a philosopher?”

 

    “I never told you about my school years. I studied philosophy in Edinburgh. I thought it might be my calling. There’s something going on there, Amalia, they’re working out a philosophy that doesn’t need kings, or gods.” There was a seriousness in his voice she’d never heard. ‘You’ve never told me your troubles before, love. That’s a big step, so I wanted to share back.’

 

    The breeze was cold, now. “So tell me some philosophy, lover boy,” she said.

 

   “Someday you and I will merge. Everything that rises must converge.”

 

   “What does that even mean? Who are you, and what have you done with my monster hunter?”

     

  He laughed, and it was good. “It’s a long story. Where’s your ship?”

 

  “It’s the Magicienne,” she said. “She’ll be off Greenwich, flying two blue and two green lights. Our cabin should be nice. Eyes peeled, any time now.”

 

  “Back to Paris,” he sighed. There was a deep contentment there.

     

  “Paris, we celebrate there. This was a lot of trouble, but it’s a fine night’s work.’