Sarah rolled her eyes. “I must go.”
Clara nodded, holding back laughter, and Sarah leaned in, giving her cheek a kiss. The door closed, and Clara watched Sarah regain control of a classroom run amuck.
Clara whirled, galloping down the stairs in a near trot—very unladylike, and certainly un-royal—for the pier. As she neared it, she could see the poles marking the fields, the water lapping the shore. The sand here was not that of the great sea that Father spoke of, but it was a respite from her life, one she would gladly take.
She could just make out the dark forms of Russel and Sydney. Their poles were buried in the soft muck. She slowed her pace, seeing their laughing faces. They thought that she was most un-royal in her bearing. Clara agreed. Billy's sons waited for her as she approached the pungy. She used Russel's arm for balance to enter the boat, hopping down with expert grace, having done it a thousand times before.
“High color for your Highness.” Russel laughed at her rosy cheeks.
“You were running again? A Princess running!” Sydney teased.
“There will be hell to pay if the Queen sees you, Princess,” Russel stated.
Sydney flicked the collar of Clara’s blouse, noting the bruise. “Looks like there already was.”
The laughter faded as the men regarded her. She looked down, embarrassed. She should have insisted on a different garment, one that could hide Ada's fingerprints.
Russel used a finger to tilt her chin up so their eyes could meet. “No, Princess, do not be ashamed. It is not you who should feel guilty. It is she.”
Sydney nodded agreement. “She needs some of her own handiwork laid upon her. She would understand better then, methinks.”
“Shh, do not say such.” Clara put a finger to his lips, and Sydney grasped it, kissing it then letting it fall.
Clara's blush deepened. Sydney had made it clear if she were not Princess, he would have courted her. It made things vaguely uncomfortable between them, but Clara maintained more friends were better. She needed all the allies she could manage.
Russel cleared his throat. “Let us cast off.”
Sydney looked at his brother sharply then nodded. “Yes, alright.”
They untethered the lines, and Clara took stock of the wooden pails. She counted only one.
“Where is the fresh water bucket?” She set her lunch pail in the box built for such things.
Instead Russel was all for asking after her lunch, “What have you in your pail today, Princess?” Russel asked in that sly tone she knew well.
Clara laughed. He was after her tangerines to be sure.
Sydney wound the rope on the brass cleats, watching the interchange closely. “Do not take what little food our Princess eats, brother,” he sounded with disapproval. His eyes roved over Clara's slender form.
Undaunted, Russel pushed the boat toward the fields with his well-worn pole. “Ah, the Princess has packed extra of the sweet gems of orange, yes?”
Clara smiled. “Yes, I may have enough to spare... if you behave yourself.”
Russel grinned back at her, ever the jokester. His and Sydney's muscled forearms strained for just the right momentum as to not over shoot the first of the fields. The familiar woven fences came into view, and the men stabbed their poles opposite each other to stabilize the pungy alongside the fence containing the oysters. Clara looked at their ghostly white forms under the shallow waters of the Great Lake. She held fast as the brothers used the stern to leap into the shallow water up to their calves. Clara readied herself to grade the first of their efforts.
The men searched the baskets for the largest and oldest oysters in the cultch. There were few to be had. The basket held with less than a dozen. Clara sighed. She would need to use divers at the center of the Great Lake fed by the Ohio River. It was there that she would possibly meet the quota the Queen had set forth. Ada wished to have the rare, round pearls instead of the baroque pearls that were the natural shape. The round were lovely, but at what cost?
Clara hated the need for divers. Sometimes these men held their breath to a depth of over forty feet. For what? A pearl to satisfy the Queen's need for yet another strand about her neck? Foolhardy was a word she assigned to the Queen more often than not.
Clara gazed toward the middle of the lake. Small sphere-dwellings surrounded the deepest trenches of the lake. By week's end, she would take the pungy to meet with the pearl divers to inform them their services would be needed again. That would also mean a meeting with Ada. Clara supposed she could not avoid the Queen all the time.
Russel leaped back into the pungy, making it rock chaotically to and fro. Clara's footing remained true. He reached for the basket and dragged it inside, placing it on the floorboards. Clara looked at the biggest of the oysters. She grabbed her glove, and using her left hand, held the oyster tightly. Grasping her oyster knife, she worked the tip in at the most open part by the hinge, moving back and forth until she finally flipped the knife vertically, breaking the stubborn shell open. She let the muck drain while pressing the knife against the creature. Russel handed Clara the oyster fork so that she might search for the pearl.
There! It was in the interior fold closest to the back of the shell hinge. She moved it forward with her fork. The creature seemed to be trying to suck it back into its crevice.
Clara plucked it out and gazed at it, holding the fat, pea-sized gem above her face. Both men eyed it critically. She studied it. The size was perfect with the classic baroque “pinch” just off center. This field was cultivated for a perfect cream color and size, but as with any organic thing, this oyster was not cooperating by yielding that butter color with a hint of pink. Clara brought the pearl down beside her and raised her eyebrows at the brothers.
“Pink,” Sydney said.
“Aye, it be pink, Princess,” Russel agreed.
She nodded. The Queen would wish the crop to yield that which was commanded, but Clara knew that these results could be tipped. Perhaps it was the item placed in the oyster that had caused it. She asked the brothers.
“Glass, Princess. We use it always. It is what the Guardians instructed for uniformity,” Sydney said.
It was confounding. Clara couldn't explain the color.
“It is not overly pink,” Sydney said.
“Just a sheen, is all,” Russel said.
“She will not like it.” Clara’s stomach became tight as she thought about the Queen's displeasure.
No one asked who She was.
The remainder of the day was spent thus. Each field was checked, and all but the pink were in order. Each field represented different colors at different levels of maturation, but only the first field had a mysterious color result.
Drat.
After lunch, which was quite late, Clara used the fresh water bucket that she found in a dim corner of the pungy to rinse her hands of the sticky juice of the tangerine. Russel was not bothered a bit and indelicately sucked it right off his fingers.
Clara laughed. “You enjoy the tangerines more than I!”
“Aye, ʼtis true, Princess.” Sydney chuckled at the two of them with their tangerines. He was not a bit fond of them.
Clara saw through the thick air of the sphere how the sun had descended from its highest point. “It is time to get back.”
Clara looked at her timepiece... half past four o'clock. Ada would most definitely demand an audience with her, wishing to know how the fields faired, or rather, what they yielded.
Sydney, who read her well said, “Let us return to the pier.”
Clara nodded, wishing very much that she’d had the forethought to fetch a flat stool upon which to sit. Her legs were tired from standing the entire day. Tomorrow, she would not be in the fields. Instead, she would attend Trading Day and see what wares the Royal Manse might need. That brought her round to thinking of Charles. Where must he be? She wondered if he was busy in the other fields. Just as she thought it, there he was, skippering his own pungy.
“Hail Princess!” Charles cal
led with a shout and a wave. His breeches were tucked into supple leather boots of the deepest chocolate, tied in the front with laces wound like Xs up the front. His shirt billowed behind him, and his forearms bulged as he manned the pole. His younger brother, Alex, worked the stern as he worked the bow, only ten and two years and already a deck hand.
She raised a hand in greeting. “Greetings, Charles and Alex!”
Charles’s good will for her was plain on every angle of his face with Alex a smiling mirror behind him. They pulled beside the starboard side of her pungy, the brothers fixing large hands against the boats to keep them from hammering the sides together. Alex steadied the stern to anchor it.
“Are you heading back to pier?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Excellent, I will accompany you.”
Sydney gave a glower, failing to hide his displeasure at Charles's interruption.
Clara sighed and thought that her life was unduly complicated.
They moved alongside one another with Charles at their stern with Alex still aft. “What say you, Princess? What of your yield this day?”
Alex was a dear. “Yield is as expected, however...”
Charles glanced her way then back ahead of him, keeping the boats separated as the pier came into view. “What is it?”
“A cream field that has a pink wash.”
Charles made a disgusted noise. “That will not be good.”
“Yes, I know.”
The brothers kept their own council, not willing to add to her anxiety. Charles didn't bother. He knew the Queen would discuss the color. She would have to place blame somewhere convenient.
Clara stood straighter, squaring her shoulders. “In all truth, I cannot control the oysters. It is inexplicable why there be a color wash.” She shrugged. There was no more she could do.
They pulled up on opposite sides of the pier where the Pier Keepers took their lines, tethering them to the brass cleats on the deck worn smooth from a million tethers.
Otis, a lean specimen of a man who was lead Pier Keeper, helped Clara out of the pungy, and she turned, waiting for a brother to hand off her lunch pail. Russel did so with a wink and a grin. “I do adore tangerines, Princess.”
Clara smiled, turning back to Charles, who was already on deck. “Let us walk together.”
She gave a small wave to Sydney, who looked forlorn.
Charles turned to Alex and dug around in his breeches pocket, finding his time piece on its copper chain. “You have the pungy and one hour until supper. Do not be late, or Mother will have your hide!”
Alex ducked his head, and Clara realized that the admonition must be warranted.
Charles whispered, “He does tend to dawdle.”
She understood completely as she could be a champion dawdler when so disposed.
He, of course, knew that about her and his look caused a bubble of laughter to escape from Alex.
Charles frowned. “Dear Clara, do not encourage him.”
“Yes, I mustn’t encourage his dawdling.”
Alex giggled behind them as Charles swept her down the pier and away from the bad example she was apparently setting. The evening was shaping up nicely. Sarah would come calling at seven or so this evening, and she had managed to poke at Charles. Marvelous.
They walked quietly together for a time, looking at the houses, some with candles glowing as the supper hour drew closer.
“She will be angry, our Queen,” Charles said.
“I know. I cannot help that, as well you know.”
“Let me accompany you as you explain the yield, the pink pearls.”
Clara thought about this. She mustn’t give him opportunity to avenge her in a fit of emotion. No, she would hope something else would assist her this evening.
“I think she may be deep in her cup. This will be the case each day that King Otto and Prince Frederic dawdle here.”
A huge grin broke free across Charles's face. “Yes, they may dawdle about, but I do not care for their dawdling half so much as yours and that of my dear brother.”
Clara had made a joke at the neighboring monarchsʼ expense, and it felt like a small blight was erased from her mind. She had only her mother's love of wine to possibly give her grace. With Frederic here, she was not sure how things would come to pass.
They had passed Sarah's school, and this was the fork where Charles needed to split from her to continue to his own dwelling. “I do not require safeguarding this night, Charles.”
They stood underneath the street lamp, which came on as dusk approached with a soft hissing.
Charles reached out a hand and pressed his palm to her face. She loved the warm, dry hand that had helped shape games when they were young, guidance as they grew older, and tenderness when there was no one else. “You seek to protect me from myself, Your Highness.”
Clara lowered her eyes. Was she as transparent as all that? Could she not better contain her expression?
“Do not self-recriminate, Clara. It is who you are to think of others first. But think on this: what friend would I be to you if I allowed you to go to the Royal Manse unescorted, to face certain persecution for things that are not of your making?”
Clara did not have a fair rebuttal. She knew if their positions were reversed, she would not leave his side.
“Alright, you may come with me. But I implore you, say nothing. Do nothing. Promise me.” Her aqua eyes focused on his dark ones, hooded by the approaching twilight. He nodded once.
He had meant it when he agreed. Some promises a person could not keep, even if his life depended on it.
CHAPTER 10
Bracus, Matthew, and Stephen slowed as they broke into the clearing. The clan fire burned brightly, a beacon of welcome after their long journey.
Members of the clan were gathered at the fire, but it was members of the Band whose eyes Bracus sought. There they were, their height and throat slits obvious markers of their status within the clan, noticeable even in the dim light. Bracus thought of how much the clan would benefit from additional Band members. But a strange twist of genetics made the choice for them. With only eight members, they protected the clan. Other, neighboring clans had near the same number, which led Bracus to think that it was not sheer coincidence. His thoughts traveled to the Evil Ones. They were somehow mixed in these processes. There was no record of this manifestation of physical differences before the Days of Ash.
Philip was even taller than Bracus and had a way of standing that made him unique amongst them. Philip turned and saluted. Bracus nodded in return, then realized he might not be seen in the dim light and gave a short wave. Philip strode to Bracus, clapping him on the shoulders. “How goes your scouting?”
“Very well,” Bracus said, grinning. This was his childhood playmate, the one Bracus spent much time beating on and winning and losing battles with—practice for real war. Philip's hands fell away. The callouses of his dominant hand scraped slightly against the bare skin of Bracus's shoulder. Years of archery had beaten their hands into submission.
Matthew and Stephen walked toward the fire, shifting their weapons in preparation for disarming for the day.
Philip's broad shoulders blocked the light of the fire as he walked in front of Bracus, barring his words and expression from onlookers. “What of the female?”
“Can you not wait, brother?”
Philip grinned. “I cannot. I must know... what does she look like? Different from our females?” he asked, his head tilting to include the few that drew warmth from the fire.
“Much.”
Both men turned to look at the lone pair of females near the huge community fire, its crackling presence flickering on the faces of all who were close. Bracus appraised them. Jack Blythe’s mate leaned in against Jack, the newest member of the Band. His forearm wrapped protectively around her collarbone, and he stood behind her with his chin touching the top of her head. His eyes met Bracus’s, and he nodded, watching Philip and Bracus closely. The
Band was protective of their mates. But only one of them was mated at present. Lillian stood in Jack's embrace, relaxed in the knowledge that her mate was a superior fighter. She had a skilled protector, a good thing for a woman of the clans.
The other female, Anna, stood apart from all. She had escaped a clan she would not name where a male had tried to force her affection—an abomination. Anna glanced warily at the two Band members, acting as if she might flee if they moved in the wrong direction.
Months she had lived here with his clan, and still she did not trust.
Philip sighed, sensing his brother's thoughts. “She wants no one. But there are ones who would want her if she was so inclined.”
“She is not yet ready.”
“Agreed.”
“Her fear is a terrible thing to see.”
Philip looked at him. “Yes, it is. But there are some males...” He let his voice trail off. Bracus was well aware that some clans were not run as uniformly as theirs. President Bowen wished to gather the clans together and institute a Police of sorts, unifying the Bands of all the clans as a universal protector.
Much to consider. It was a matter of priorities, the current one being the clan's sustainability, It was threatened by the dwindling numbers of females.
Philip and Bracus walked side by side to the fire. Bracus felt reluctant to disarm. He wished to take a bath in his dwelling. He would lay his weapons down at home. Matthew and Stephen's quiver and bow lay at their feet as they sat on a log.
Matthew watched their approach, his backside tight against the ground and his feet crossed at the ankle, arms resting on the log. “Tell us. Our weapons finished... our day done.”
Stephen gave a sour look, obviously tired of being left out of the immediacy of the president's inner circle.
Anna watched the group of huge men come together near the fire. The Band. She scooted back a few steps, giving up the warmth of the fire for the feeling of security the distance gave her. The captain, Bracus Goodman, was the only one she might trust—might —and one other, her mind whispered. Bracus was their leader and had earned respect through his treatment of others. He even took time with the children, a true and decent thing. Memories of her clan hovered near her, threatening to suffocate her with sheer terror. She had prevailed, narrowly escaping. Anna forcibly relaxed her shoulders. Near a half year she had been here. She would not be able to keep her clan of origin secret forever. Possibly, the one who had abused her would find her and kill her.
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