by Claudia Dain
Her mother had tried very hard to make it so. She was of England and the children of her body were of her place.
The Iroquois way. In that one instance, the Iroquois way had eased her mother’s heart.
Yet what would ease her heart?
The man who had killed her mother was dead, and dead by her hand, as was only fitting. That thread was finally snipped off, a heavy pack laid down, a low-burning fire put out. Her heart felt the release of a burden she had grown long accustomed to carrying.
She had attained her mother’s dreams for her. She had come to England, come home, and become a countess. She had, with a great many exceptions, lived the life her mother had wanted for her. Her own children were English, fully planted in the soil of their country.
Was England her country?
Was she her mother’s daughter or her father’s daughter?
“Sophia?” Freddy asked, his voice betraying his confusion at her silence. “A good day’s work today. I need to get off a pack of letters, let my friends know they need not keep watch for that one any longer.”
When she only nodded, Freddy said, “Tea when we get home, with a good dollop of whisky to warm it up.”
Home.
“Freddy,” she said, looking at the masts in the distance,
“I’m going home.”
