Thomas Crowder to Lynde Falconer:
Lynde dearest,
Our fears have been realized, and Dumcruckle has come under attack. I hope this letter reaches you; we have to be very careful in the matter of messengers. Our attackers have established themselves in the foothills somewhere, and are carrying on a bizarre kind of siege: sabotaging the farms and manor, shooting at people almost at random from deep cover and generally making a mess, but never showing their faces so that we don’t know who they are, how many of them there are or what kind of resources they have.
Fortunately the harvest is in so we have been able to bring in the people from the outlying farms into the castle, and settled down for a siege. We are overflowing and I have had to move in with your father, but it can’t be helped. No people have been killed, I am thankful to say, but Loris lost two of his sheep to sabotage and Baines got a flesh wound in his upper arm from an enemy arrow.
We are in good enough circumstances for now, and I suppose we could try to outlast them, but something in me sours at the idea. I am normally a placid soul as you know, and “Compromise” will be carved on my tombstone, but thinking of these thugs playing with our lives until they get tired and go home keeps me awake at night. Perhaps I equate it with my duty as a schoolmaster to inculcate morals; I wouldn’t let one of the schoolboys practice cruelty without consequence – for his own good. Katti and Timothy and I know more about the foothills than any Marshweathrian savage can, just from playing among them as children; surely we can mount a counteroffense of our own and give them the surprise of their lives. The ink I have always had in my veins stirs at the thought.
Ah, well, I promise not to do anything stupid. Things are well enough with us for now except for being rather uncomfortable, so please do not waste precious resources by sending us any relief forces. From your letters, it seems evident that you will need them more at the capital, and if this strange guerilla siege remains at its present pitch, we can wait it out with no more trouble than overcrowding, and the only casualty need be my conscience.
Yours, more than ever,
Tom
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From the diary of Dulcie, Crown Princess of Bentlefay:
I used to think I was unhappy back before Lynde came, when there was nothing to do and I didn’t have any friends. I see now that I was merely Not Happy, and real unhappiness is a far more poignant and active thing.
My mind is haunted by what has happened to Rafe, and what might still be happening. I dream about horrible things at night, and wake up sweating in panic. I didn’t suppose it could get any worse, but Lynde has got word from Dumcruckle that Marshweather has them under siege. Her father and her betrothed and all her friends are living four to a room in Dumcruckle’s Manor, with guerillas waiting to pounce on them if they set foot outside. I told Lynde that we would send a regiment up to the border to make short work of the situation, but she said no: things were uncomfortable at Dumcruckle, but they were sustainable, and she had had word not to send reinforcements since they would draw down the troop count here at the capital.
I took no notice of that, but when I went to Mother she agreed. Rafe had said that the greatest danger was to the capital, and when she sat down and thought like Bleake she realized that the assault on Dumcruckle was meant for a nuisance, and we couldn’t let it distract us from our purpose. I’m afraid I lost my temper with her and demanded if she was thinking so much like Bleake that she could be a traitor to good faith just like he is, but she just threw a cushion at me and told me not to be so dramatic.
Regardless of the stout words Lynde had for me, I think she is more worried than she cares to say. She goes about with her lips hard and set, and I don’t think she sleeps well. I heard her cry out in the night once or twice, but when I charged her with it she said only that it is easier to accept danger for oneself than for others, so to pay no attention to her. And when I said “Then there is danger, in spite of all you’ve said,” she threw a cushion at me and told me not to be so dramatic. I told her she was just like Mother, and she said that was a noble goal for anyone, which was aggravating.
I asked Winnie if she didn't think it was better for Lynde to at least talk about her feelings. She had been embroidering through the whole conversation with her lips primmed up, which ought to have been a warning, and when I appealed to her she dropped her work and left the room without saying a word. She kept to her bed all the rest of the day and seemed to be back to her old self the next morning, but she won't talk to me about anything important and I can't see into her eyes anymore.
Our days are made up mostly of waiting – there are no more walks in the garden or the woods, and Mother will not let me help her with the war if I can’t keep my perspective about it, which of course I can’t. I can’t work on the tapestry; it seems so footling in the face of war that I want to rip it systematically to tiny shreds. But when I ask Lynde if I can help her with the monograms for her trousseau, she turns her head aside and doesn’t answer.
So we pace back and forth across the solar, and look out the windows at the trees growing bare, and wait. I can’t imagine anything worse, but only because I don’t allow myself to try.
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Lady Winifred Fleem to Sir Bardolph Hingle:
Dolph dearest,
The news is the worst that it can be and I feel that I can’t be the one to be strong for everyone anymore. They all come to me – the princess for encouragement, the queen for cheer, even Mistress Falconer now, for hope – and I feel myself growing ever emptier.
I’m not accustomed to needing people particularly. I have taken pride in being the person people need. But I need you now as much as I have ever needed food when I was hungry, or spring water on a hot day. “Love” is a word I have always said lightly, so I don’t know if it would have any weight with you. But I love you, as I always have, and now I need you as I never have before. Please come, if you would perform such an act of charity for me, and for all of us.
Yours,
Winnie
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Sir Bardolph Hingle to Lady Winifred Fleem:
My own Winnie,
Your letter has simultaneously made me the happiest of men and thrown me into a violent rage. Curse Marshweather that among all their damned perversities they have caused you to think your spirit broken for even a moment. And bless them that the person they turned you toward was myself! Of course I will come, and I’ll be bringing enough courage for everyone. They can continue to rely upon you as much as they need, and you can rely on me, which is all I have ever wanted.
Incidentally, I may now have to contend with a reputation for sudden and violent madness. As soon as I read your letter I dashed out of my study, ran straight into the steward and embraced him like nobody has since his mother died. When I turned away, the housekeeper was ten feet away with her feet rooted to the floor, and as soon as I caught her eye she let out a squeak and ran to the wine cellar as fast as her legs could carry her. She may be there yet. I don't care.
I will be there as soon as I can throw some rags in a sack and the sack on a donkey. A royal goods caravan passed by on the high road yesterday on their way from Seaward to the capital and I shook my fist discreetly at them because they would be seeing you before I would. A flunky on foot urging one of the cart horses caught a glimpse of me, and looked like it would make a mystery for him to puzzle over for days. Do, if you know a rawboned lad of about sixteen with mouse-colored hair and a jaw like an anvil, find him and tell him I’m not crazy.
And then tell him never to talk to my steward.
Your devoted,
Dolph
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