Side Quest: Avington

The journey across the channel and up the eastern coast of the country went smoothly. The sky was already dark and brooding. Fucking dreary ass England. My friend Aoife lived near West Mersea. She and her husband had a small place with a dock, a fishing boat, and barely enough money and food to scrape through the seasons. If Seamus had sailed far enough to make it to Little Jean it was due to them having a particularly difficult season. I filled another purse and roped the Try Your Luck off. 

Aoife met me with a stiff one armed hug. She’d lost the other arm, an eye, and her partner and co-captain at Kings Bay. She managed to keep her life which is more than most of the others in that battle could say. Seamus had been present there too. They’d fled the battle together. 

“Captain,” she greeted me, “I was happy to see your sails. Seamus is out on the water already but I expect him back after noon.”  

“Nice to see you, Aoife.” After Kings Bay I had checked on her and Seamus as soon as I got word they’d survived and were living together in England. Neither were in good shape but they leaned on each other for support and were eking out a life as best they could. “I brought you some gifts, a few tasks, and money to pay you for them.”

“Ah Captain, we’ll accept them all.” Her mouth was a hard line. She’d been alive on the sea, captain of her own ship, and now, here on this spit of land, she was a ghost before her time. I picked up my crate of gifts and goods and kept pace with her slow shamble back to the shack just off the water.  

Inside, the shack looked hardly better than the outside. The cracks were hastily daubed with mud and hay mixtures, the fire pit was centralized in the home under an opening that kept neither wind nor rain nor cold out. Due to the lack of chimney much of the place had a veneer of peat soot. It was a place to sleep, to huddle, and to avoid. I pulled a bottle of wine out and poured her a large cup and myself a much much smaller one. She drank gratefully. I’d packed some groceries for her and Seamus, as well as some soap, extra clothing, fishing nets, and tools. 

“I have good news for you," I said as I unloaded the supplies and tried to find places to organize it. 

“Oh?”

“I slit that thieving rat bastard's throat a few months ago.”

“Good.” She drank. 

The clouds made good on their promise and the rain began soon after her second cup. We sat in silence waiting and drinking as the rain pounded on the weather beaten slats. Aoife wasn’t much of a chatterbox before her injuries and she was much less of one now. She smiled every now and then about Rat’s murder and toasted me. She was languid and drunk by the time Seamus returned, drenched, and smelling like fish. 

As little as Aoife spoke, Seamus spoke less. However, with a little wine in him he became more verbose; a condition I was all too familiar with these days. He shook my hand and took the glass I offered.

“I need passage to a place called Avington. Do either of you know it?”

“Avington? There’s an estate with a shipbuilding yard not far from here. Lots of people living on the land. There is discontent among the renters.”

“Discontent? Isn’t there a whole war going on?”

“This is something different,” Aoife sat up, interested in the anticipation of violence. “Man was down here stirring up all kinds of folks. Mostly the unhappy ones already put out by their position in life.” She drank and let a dark laugh escape. “The man wants blood.”

“In town there is talk of a militia going up there and taking the family out,” Seamus continued Aoife's story. “The upstart is exciting the townspeople with Cromwell’s talk. Has grand ideas of turning the hierarchy on its head.”  We all frowned at that one. Turning the hierarchy upside down was an old tale that had gotten us all in trouble.

This must be why I needed fountain. The place was going to be attacked, the upper echelon assassinated and that could include the young lieutenant. I grimaced. My plan was to lie to Izzy about his death, not tell the accidental truth. To be this close and not help…I was a liar, not negligent. If I’d been paying attention I suppose I’d known I’d end up there. The note told me where to go and what to bring. Which meant I’d gone there. Which meant Ian needed help at that moment. Which meant I’d helped him. Rule number three: there’s no changing anything. So I’d go save Izzy’s stinking husband and make sure that when I subtracted myself from her life, he’d be there to take care of her. He was a good strong protector who loved her and wouldn’t leave her…assuming she didn’t leave him first to go home.

Again, I wondered where Izzy might be here in 1650. I hoped it was home.

“When are they planning this attack?” Dammit, I didn’t want to get into a skirmish. I wanted to go drink more wine with Little Jean and Bessie.

“Tomorrow evening, I believe.” Seamus refilled his cup and I brought out another bottle. 

“Can you get me there?” I asked him. Seamus had a horse and cart and allowed me to hire him to drive me places.

“Still not riding horses, Captain?” 

“Not unless someone straps me to one.”

“Are you planning to fight?” Aoife slurred, her head rested back against the wall.

“No, there’s an…acquaintance I need to get out of there.” Stupid forced-upon-me brother-in-law. I got up and reached in the crate for another gift. Into a small lidded crock I’d put a portion of Izzy’s concoction with a drop of Little Jean’s perfume. I warmed the solidified oils between my hands like she’d taught me and went to Aoife’s half dead face. My old friend jumped when I touched the scar tissue then immediately relaxed (just as I had done) as the soothing oil eased the hardened tissues around her eye and cheek.  

“Thank you, Captain.” Aoife whispered as she drifted off under the weight of the wine and soothing oil.

“I have payment for use of your dock and passage to Avington.”

“Of course, Captain.” Seamus refilled his glass again. Although it was barely afternoon, both of them passed out. I put blankets over them and went out to check on Seamus’s fishing boat. I assumed the two of them would be out all night. They had little to drink of quality out here and I’d brought them some excellent wine. Just in case, I left out a few of Izzy’s loaves and a wheel of cheese.  

When the rain let up a little, I went to work on several repairs that Seamus’s ship needed, hull, nets, and sails. I slept on my ship that night so as not to stress their already limited resources. When Seamus woke up and dressed the horse and cart for departure, his ship was in much better repair.  

I went onto my ship to dress and prepare for the days ahead. 

The young lieutenant is in Avington Estate, England. 

Oct 13th 1650. Full dress. Bring your guns. 

Wounded badly. 

You will need Fountain. 

Don’t play cards with Elizabeth.  

I dressed in my full regalia: heavy leathers and boots, my holsters for the pistols, my short sword, cutlass, dirk, mace, kevlar lined trench, wide brimmed hat, and gloves. I grabbed my satchel and filled it with my flask of fountain, a small coin purse, a few provisions and a skin of water. I was ready for battle. 

Seamus drove me across the English countryside. For once the rain held off but the skies were gray and the roads muddy. Neither of us spoke as we crossed the hills where serfs worked the hot and humid fields. I paid for the ferry to get us across to the mainland but otherwise it was an uneventful journey.

It was only an hour into the drive when Seamus announced we were now in the bounds of Avington estate. It looked like a fine land to raise a strapping asshole who would slaughter my friends and steal my sister.

Once we passed through the outskirts of the property we found a tavern that sat at a crossroads. The place was clean and warm. It was fine as far as these things went. A few quality whores, a good kitchen, strong drinks. Seamus offered to stay and wait for me till my mission was completed and I accepted. 

Lucky for me there was a woman tending the bar. She side eyed my attire but not the absurd amount of money I pluncked down for two rooms, food, drink, and a stall for Seamus’ horse. This is what Catherine didn’t understand…and perhaps, by extension, Izzy. They saw me moving about with supposed freedom in this wide world of men, but did not see that I paid triple for what should have come to me free of charge. I paid extra in collateral for their attention, loyalty, and disbelief. When the gold didn’t earn me their society, blood did. Most of the time it wasn’t enough. 

This past lifetime with Graham I’d been able to do business under his name and that had bought me access I wouldn’t have enjoyed otherwise. Now I’d need to start over somewhere. Likely I’d just end up back with Zheng trading peppercorn across southeast Asia. She operated with less scruples than I did; she openly demonstrated to her followers that she was a god and demanded their adoration. Zheng operated from atop a mountain of fear and peppercorn.

The woman tending bar, a bitter crone before her time, poured Seamus a strong drink and he took the tankard over to a table by the fire and left me to wait for the food as he drowned himself. He’d be passed out before long. As long as he could direct the horse back to Mersea after this I didn’t care how sauced he got. I asked that there be more food and drink delivered to his room throughout the night.

“Stay over if you dare but I’d be on my way quick,” the bar harpy croaked out. “There’s trouble here.”

“I’m here because of the trouble. Trying to keep my family out of it. But thank you.”

“May you have better luck than I did.” She put two bowls of stew down in front of me and I paid her generously for them. Seamus polished his off and I gave him the rest of mine before he went up to his room, beckoning a girl for companionship as he traipsed up the steps. I sat by the fire and contemplated the evening ahead. There was talk of trouble on this estate as far away as Mersea and Saint-Brieuc. Whoever had been stirring the locals up had been at this a while. I wondered if the young lieutenant’s family truly had no idea of the danger they were currently in. Their obliviousness wasn’t surprising. Nobility wouldn’t be nobility if it deigned to look into the lives of those they stood upon. 

Whatever was about to go down would not be going down in the bright sunshine of day. These operators would need the cover of night to conduct their dirty deeds. I went up to my room and took a little nap - something to brag about to Izzy in case I needed to forestall my sister’s sex stories. 

“Nan,” the voice reached out and tried to hold onto me. We were too far apart. “Nan, I tried.” The voice begged for my understanding. 

“You tried. I know you tried. I’m so sorry.” I reached back for him. We found each other in our shared grief and held on, standing together on our home’s small shore. We held on. We just held on.

Commotion in the tavern common room below woke me up. There was lots of yelling and shouting. Some loud mouth was stirring the crowd into action. I redressed in my full regalia, fully arming myself, and slung my satchel across my shoulders. Looks like I’d get a front row seat to the revolution tonight. I listened at the stairs for a second. The loud mouth was louder out here in the hall.

“Seamus?” I knocked on his door. “I’m heading out.”

“Fare you well, Captain.” Seamus grumbled from beyond the door. He’d be fine in there, I was paying the tavern staff to keep him fed and watered while I was gone. I pulled my hat lower and took the stairs down into the main room.  

There were easily a few dozen men drinking and carousing, whores on their laps and weapons of peasant warfare in the air. They sat there listening to a man shouting about turning the regime on its head, taking back the land they rightfully worked, and getting rich, fat, happy, and old. All the usual dreck that small despotic hacks used to rile up the uneducated masses in order to convince them that they should sacrifice their lives to further the hack’s own selfish goals.

I went to the bar where the bitter harpy looked upon the show with pursed lips. “Different face. Same song,” I griped.  

“Might as well go swallow poison now and avoid the rush,” the harpy agreed. I put a coin down and bought a drink.

“Who is the angry one?” I asked.

“Some third cousin or other of the Coventrys’. Wants more than the lord saw fit that he could handle.” She spat in a tankard and wiped it clean – well, wiped the visible dirt off. I left my drink untouched.

I moved down the bar to get a better angle on this dude. The man was textbook. He was a young, clean, well fed, educated man in crisp clothing, catering to an audience who likely owned one change of clothes and couldn’t afford salt. He was spouting the words of equality without detailing the exact cost. He stoked their ire and their egos and left the ending open to interpretation. He was a hack shamelessly catering to cannon fodder, cannon fodder with the power to launch him into the status he desired if they agreed to pay for his ticket with their lives. The story was only too easy to finish. Once this hack was in position he’d drop the needs and pains of his supporters back down to earth and comfort them with platitudes like, “hard work will be rewarded,” and “I made it without anyone’s help, so can you,” and “take pride in overcoming your hardships; pressure and stress create diamonds,” or possibly “pull yourself up by your bootstraps and be proud of your beginnings.”

Rule number three: Nothing changes. This young man could be running for the House of Representatives as easily as he could be stirring up the impoverished French neighborhoods or clutching the second amendment to his breast as he wrote theses within the dark corners of the internet. 

“They sit up there in their ivory thrones, served wine and bread, while you toil their land for them. God gave them their place of birth and they use it to keep you hungry, cold, and poor.” This man looked familiar. I couldn’t quite place him. He brought what looked like a hardened ploughman up beside him. “You know Angus.”

The crowd did know Angus. They cheered the toughened man as he took the stage next to the third cousin. “Let’s talk about God’s so-called favor. I say that favor has run out!” The crowd cheered and stomped their feet and banged their steins on the table. “The fruits of the Coventry family tree have dried up! Three wives and no children for Lord Parque!” The crowd seemed to take this as a revelation, a pure, hardened piece of unquestionable evidence of God’s displeasure. “Angus’ dear sister was taken by Lord Parque, told to lie down and serve him between her legs and still no child. Now dear Lisa –”

“Leah,” Angus corrected.

“Leah. Has had her womanhood violated over and over again and God has still not seen fit to continue this family. And now, poor Leah is ruined and worthless to any husband who might try for her hand. I say we help further God’s plan. I say we speed God’s plan along. Reduce the Coventrys in number. Reduce them in status. Make them feel the sting of the people they’ve kept downtrodden.” The third cousin pulled out a sword and the crowd was frothing at the mouth. 

“I have yet more evidence against this family, my friends. More evidence this land no longer belongs to the Lords and Ladies who play at ruling your lives. The second son, Commander Ian Alexander Coventry. Many of you know him, a soldier, a Royalist! Fighting against your kith and kin who support Cromwell. Many of you know him, consorting with the sisters and daughters who work the rooms upstairs in the taverns across this land. He has married!” 

The crowd slurred some sounds of wrathful discontent. This third cousin had me there. I’d met one of the young lieutenant’s conquests in prison. It made sense he’d whored around his homeland too. 

“He has married a foreign woman. A woman with skin so dark you could stumble over her in the night and not know her from a stray cat in your garden. Is that who you want mothering the next Lords of this land? A woman with savage ideas of punishment and retribution. A woman who put three men into graves by her own hand in the colonies. Is this to be the mother of the heirs to your land?” The crowd shouted back their disgust and horror.

How. The fuck. Did this dipstick. Know my sister? I gripped the handle of my dirk, ready to run this asshole straight through his gullet. My memory ticked away faces from my time in Bermuda. He did look semi-familiar. The harpy had said he was a third cousin? The man had echoes of the young lieutenant…

That’s when I realized I’d met him before. This was the brazen fool who’d slapped me on Andrews’ dock right in front of Magnus. Well well well, not content with beating women anymore, was he? He wanted to take on Olympus himself with a team of wax winged drunkards from the boonies. I relaxed. There was a grave opening up in the ground for him as he spoke these inflammatory words. I could practically smell the freshly dug earth reaching out to embrace him. Live long enough and you get to watch plenty of people fall victim to their own destruction. This third cousin of my brother-in-law was no different. I could be patient. He continued stirring up the masses and buying drinks I doubted he had the coin to cover.  

It was easy to blend in with the crowd and their torches and pitchforks as the Third Cousin led the mob out of the tavern. I tucked my hair up into my hat and kept my head down unless someone bumped into me, in which case I grumbled something loud like, “let’s get ’em!” I had no love for social hierarchies and top heavy wealth and power structures. History worked hard to erase and minimize the few eras where society functioned in a sustainable form. Spoiler alert: man was not wearing a crown in these places. 

The mob grew as we went down the road with actual torches and pitchforks. In my mind we were hunting down Frankenstein’s monster not a family of soft bellied nobles swathed in silk.  This social set up was fascinating. This one family owned the land but employed all the people living on the land to tend to their needs. Women to wash their clothes and linen, men to groom the horses, boys to stock their firewood, girls to wash their dishes, and more and more and more. If the family died, the employment died, and the estate would be absorbed into neighboring lands where there already existed enough washer women. And therefore those washerwomen now did what to feed their families? I watched a woman up ahead of me in the crowd. Her arms bore evidence of her time in the laundry. Lye is strong and chapped her skin enough to scar her in places. If she survived this night, where would she go? Did this third cousin have a plan in mind to provide for her needs? Somehow I doubted it. Men of all classes never seemed to question how their clothes were cleaned. What was she fighting for tonight?

We rounded a bend in the drive and the rooftops of Avington appeared. The crowd frothed and began to put torches to brush. I stopped and gawked as the burning foliage lit up an enormous mansion. The mob flowed around me as I stared. This place could eat and shit out Heron’s Landing. It soared several stories high with chimneys marking out the multitudes of rooms within. Glass reflected the burning fields as the fires began to spread. We were still a distance off and already the place was overwhelming. A large contingent of the mob broke off and headed towards the stables. Whatever could be set on fire was lit aflame along the road – so much for subtlety.  

As the stables went up and the mob cheered, my own dark memories of smoke and flame and jeering crowds began to peck at me. I smoothed the fabric against my legs and held tight to my mission here. The sooner I found my damn brother-in-law and got him to safety, the sooner I could quit this country. Horses began screaming and whinnying and the house awoke. 

Guards and servants still loyal to the ruling family started appearing from the massive mansion, outbuildings, and stables. The young grooms who boarded in the stables were the first casualties, as young men always are. Musket fire slammed into the night and alerted both sides that the smoke and bravado had now turned the corner into blood. There was no going back now. All pretense of an organized attack disintegrated.

More gunshots rained out and the screaming began. That was my cue to separate myself from the crowd. I ducked along a line of manicured hedges ahead of the spreading flames to make it to the house. The bulk of the mob were making for the front door like a good polite English mob queueing up to ring the bell first. I clung to the stone foundation and rounded the manse looking for an open window or door. 

The front doors opened as scared maids and other live-in labor tried to escape the madness only to run head first into it. I kept quiet as they were thrown through the crowd and beaten on the front lawn. If they were girls they were carried screaming away by power hungry males. Humans may be top of the food chain but at heart they are prey animals, slaves to their instincts. When in a panic, follow the person in front of you because they know what they are doing…surely that isn’t a cliff we are running towards…surely there isn’t a crocodile filled ravine at the bottom. The person in front rarely knows the route to safety; they are just running because they saw a glimpse of reflected light.

Gunshots rang out intermittently accompanied by cries of pain and terror as the land was burned and the house smashed. Finally I found an open window and hoisted myself through. The room was decadently appointed, perfect for sitting and sipping cordials and twittering at the low born. I padded my way over to the double doors leading to the hallway and peered out. There was as much chaos inside as out. With the front doors now open the halls were ringing with shouts and cries. There was no order, no purpose, no plan for tomorrow. Men and women on both sides were resorting to shooting, looting, and running. They would sort out which side they claimed to fight for come sun up. Whoever held the house would hand out the judgment.

The third cousin and his mob were only moments behind me. I needed to find the young lieutenant and stick to his ass until, and if, he (or I?) needed Fountain. I dove into the hallways, shoving people aside and seeking out staircases to the upper floors. The family would have been in bed asleep when the attack started. 

The manse was huge. My feet echoed along the cold stone flooring. The first floor seemed mainly ballrooms, parlors, dens with tapestries and chaises, and dining rooms. Suits of armor lined the walls like I was in the Met. Huge tapestries absorbed the sounds of rebellion and hid me from violent sects of men that burst through the hallways seeking to be satisfied by either blue blood or gold. They and setting fire to what wasn’t either of those options. I raced from behind my tapestry before I could be immolated. The heathens.

I knew from experience with these old mansions that they were riddled with back staircases and hallways for servants’ use. God forbid a commoner be seen and wreck the illusion that the lord’s evening meal did not, in fact, appear via the hands of angels. I finally found an unadorned door to one of these humble narrow stone staircases and sprinted up the steps two at a time. I found myself in a back hallway for servants and followed along until I could exit. I was just above the foyer area now. 

Up here, servants and people clad in loose nightclothes ran about. Men were shouting and women crying. The sounds of glass shattering ricocheted up from the first floor. Since no one was dressed it was unclear who was nobility and who was hired labor. I prayed that I would recognize the young lieutenant when I saw him. My memory tended to let go of people who I didn’t care for or who had little bearing on my day-to-day life. I tucked myself into an alcove to avoid attracting attention. I was not dressed in night clothes and would not blend in up here. 

My alcove had a window in it and I cracked it to get some air. The grounds were burning. A huge outbuilding was on fire and the smell of burning oranges drifted up to me. Horse screams mingled with women’s screams and the mob found more glass to shatter. The odd musket fired, stoking even more noise and terror. This estate would lay in ruins come morning. If the third cousin was successful he’d be lord of a pile of ashes. Idiot.

Down the hallway to the left a deep voice was shouting orders. Blessedly I remembered that haughty tone of voice. It was my brother-in-law at last. There lay my goal. I launched myself back into the hallways lit with the flicker of firelight from Avington’s burning outbuildings. A few younger women shrieked at my sudden appearance but otherwise didn’t pay me any mind. None of the rest did either. I’d reevaluate later whether I needed to update my wardrobe if I couldn’t even inspire a little fear in a scullery maid. My time with Izzy and the other passengers must have blunted my edge. I shoved them out of the way and tried to locate the direction of Ian’s voice.

“Annie?” An all too familiar voice called out to me from the rushing hallways. I stopped dead in my tracks. What the ever living hell? An eerie feeling of summoning omens stitched my nerves together. I’d only just told Izzy about him and here he bloody was. Speak the name of the beast…

“Marco? What are you doing here?” Fucking Marco. He was dressed but unkempt, as if he’d thrown on his breeches and tunic in a hurry. Was he living here? Did he get married again? How - why - what? “Last I saw you, you were sailing away on that rat bastard thief's ship.”

“Last I saw you, you were in my bed, under my sheets –” I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. 

“Tell me you are lying,” I demanded. He only smiled, as unperturbed by my aggression as the musket shots out on the lawn. He caressed my hair and pulled me in for a tender and lingering kiss. I had forgotten how good he was at kissing. His body pressed against mine and his weight settled against me in such a familiar way that I let him go on a little too long…let his hands run up and down my back, let him pull me closer. He smelled just as I remembered. My hands left his chest and went up to hold his face against mine. We let it go on a little bit longer. He pulled away first.  

“I’m not the liar, Annie,” he murmured and grinned.

“Don’t call me Annie,” I said breathless against his lips. 

“Why are you here?” His hands lingered on my hips.  

“I’m checking on Izzy’s husband. Making sure he stays safe.” I brought his lips back to mine. It all felt so good, so familiar. Ian’s shouts and other sounds of men struggling sounded from the foyer, the third cousin had found the family. There were more gunshots and women’s screams. “Oops. Shit.” 

I kissed him one more time before tearing down the main staircase and out the front doors.  

Some douche with a pitchfork chased a maid up the steps and I tossed him over the rail. Someone was hot on my heels behind me and I checked myself just in time to realize Marco was following me. “Get to safety!” I yelled to him.

“Always safer with you, Annie!”

“Don’t call me Annie!” I blocked a farmer who tried to gut me with a rusty knife, disarmed him and shoved his own dirty knife into his dirty belly. A series of shots were fired out on the lawn and I sent another upstart to his grave to make it through the door. The foyer was now a mess of bodies and blood. I idly wondered whose job it would be to manage the clean up of this mess. 

I arrived at the top of the steps to view a grisly sight on the drive. Lit by burning trees and fields, I saw an older woman fatally bleeding out her life next to a body that must have once been her husband but was now a pile of blood and skull. 

Next to him was a younger man also shot through the head. That fatal shot had been the final but not the first injury to his person of the night. I felt a moment of sympathy for these three bloodied nobles. Pain for the sake of pain was an ugly sight.

The third cousin stood over his final victim. The man shouted demands at my brother-in- law. Ian was bound and held kneeling in front of his cousin. When the cousin didn’t receive answers to his demands he beat Ian over and over again till the man doubled over in his bonds, heaving and spitting blood. As Ian struggled back up he spotted me and his eyes flashed. I’m sure I must have appeared like the angel of death to him. I gripped my satchel close. 

Wounded badly. 

You will need Fountain. 

The Fountain was for him. He was surrounded by a large posse of goons. He was already wounded and even if Marco agreed to help we’d struggle to get to him before he was killed. I handed Marco a sword and he nodded. We’d need to go in hot as soon as this pack of idiots dealt their final blow. Ian still had his eyes on me even as his cousin shouted at him. He flicked his eyes back to the man and spat at him. 

The third cousin struck him across the face then wrenched his head back by the hair so Ian couldn’t look away as another goon approached with a loaded musket. The goon started to aim for Ian’s head like he had the others but the third cousin got a wicked smile on his face and took the gun himself. He lowered the gun to just below Ian’s heart. He whispered foul words into my brother-in-law’s ear then fired point blank.

Ian dropped. 

How many times had I wished him harm? How often had I prayed for death to hasten her way to his side. I grit my teeth; he was family now. I leapt off the steps and into the fray, firing my fully loaded pistols into his assassins. All twelve bullets found happy homes. Those of the posse who could scatter, sprinted away and left their comrades to die. Marco managed to bloody a few of them himself before the crowds dispersed. The third cousin managed to escape. He wasn’t my problem though, the young lieutenant was.

Ian lay on the ground bleeding profusely. Marco and I rolled him to his back as he used his precious air supply to groan. He was a mess of bruises and blood. My initial assessment concluded that the bullet had pierced his lung and diaphragm. His eyes twisted and wheeled in pain as I checked him out. More and more blood pumped out of his body with every heartbeat.  

“Ian. Ian!” I shouted at him and attempted to get his focus. He looked at me with a mix of betrayal and hate.

“That wound will kill him. Did you bring Fountain? Get it in him quick if we have any hope at all of saving him.” Marco maneuvered himself behind Ian to hold him upright so we could get at his chest easier. I unscrewed the cap on the flask and poured some over his wound to seal it. Topical application would not be enough but it was a start.

“Where’s Isabelle? You should –” Ian stopped to groan in pain. “You need to keep her safe.”

“She’s safe. She’s fine.” Probably. “I’m here for you.”

“I’m already shot. Your work is done.” He gasped out. I rolled my eyes, apparently a year was not enough to soften our relationship.

“Shut up. You’re not dying. Although you are probably going to wish you were dead after this.” I reassured him. Marco looked the young lieutenant over for any other grievous wounds and shook his head. “Hold him still.” I doused his wound a second time to be sure the blood clotted sufficiently. On regular, untempled, mortals, the Fountain was less effective than on myself and my friends. Ian’s breathing steadied as the pain eased.  

Unfortunately for him, a deep wound like this meant he needed to drink the Fountain. Placing the liquid skin deep was a flimsy bandaid on a wound that needed surgery. Marco sat my brother-in-law up and I put the flask to his lips. “Drink,” I ordered him. He was in too much pain to make any sense of the situation and took a swig. “Another.” Ian drank.  

“That’s a lot.” Marco watched nervously as Ian swigged the Fountain. I was nervous too. I’d never given an untempled individual this much Fountain nor had I or any of my family ever taken this much internally. My stomach gripped in sympathy.

“He needs a lot.” This was a Hail Mary attempt at saving him anyway. No need to conserve at this point. “One more drink, Ian. Come on.”

He chugged the Fountain a third time. Even I grimaced and gagged. It was a lot. Marco looked green too in the sickly gray light of predawn mixed with fire. If Ian hated me before he was really going to stop liking me now. I screwed the top back on the flask and stood up.  

“We can’t leave him here.” Marco scanned the brightening sky and the milling shell shocked victims of the uprising. “There’s a pond just beyond. Help me get him there.”

Ian writhed in a mixture of pain, anguish, and the beginning effects of Fountain but between the two of us we got him to the lake and dumped him on the shore before the main show began. 

“This makes two large favors you owe me.” He had about a minute until he’d wished he’d never been born as the Fountain scrubbed him with a steel wool pad from the inside out. Marco and I walked away from him and back towards the edge of the property. 

“Think he’ll ever forgive you?” he asked as we heard the sounds of retching and horror emanating out of my brother-in-law. I was gleeful at the concert, a little schadenfreude after everything he’d done to me was justified.

“I don’t really care what he thinks. I did this for Izzy.”

“Where is she?”

“Greenland. About a year ago.”

“I see.” We walked in silence for a moment until we reached the end of the drive. “Where are you staying?” he asked.

“That tavern at the crossroads. You?”

“I’ve got a room here.”

“Yeah about that, how did –” Marco interrupted my question with a swift, hard kiss. He pulled me tight against him. It felt so nice to be held this way, as if someone else cared to help hold me together after so much struggle to keep myself from falling apart on my own. 

“Come find me soon, Annie,” he said as he broke the kiss.

“Don’t call me Annie.” I wasn’t ready to let him go. I brought his lips back to mine until he pulled away with a slow chuckle.

“Go back to Greenland, do what you need to, and come find me.” He kissed me lightly, leaving me breathless, and turned and went back in the direction of the house and the last of the lingering musket fire. 

That was just like him. Show up. Remind me how much we once meant to each other. Give me hope that we could reclaim our old friendship, if nothing else. Then leave for the life he preferred. He sought out simpler wives than me. I was too much work for him and filled with too many painful memories. Till death do us part was too much of a commitment for him now that we understood what all that entailed. It didn’t stop me from missing him.

I stayed until the sun was up and struggling to break through the smoke. Since I’d done the job I wanted to see it through, get full confirmation for Izzy that her stupid husband survived the night. The young lieutenant arrived on the front drive shaking, pale, and dressed in new clothes. He kept looking around, scanning the place for who knew what, only to have his attention recaptured by the bodies on the ground. When he was hale enough to start shouting orders at the floundering household staff, I was convinced he’d survive. It was time to leave.

I shouldered my satchel and began the trek back to the tavern. The events of this past evening clamored for my attention but I decided I didn’t want to give them consideration. Just as I did when I fought with Maui, I watched the birds instead as they hopped from branch to branch. I would release the memories from my soul. I didn’t want the memories. I didn’t want them in my head or heart. It was too much. I’d let the birds take them from me. They could hop away with the images of assassinated bodies, screaming maids carted off into the trees, shattered glass, and burning land. The birds could have it all. I wanted none of it. I’d work to forget this night ever happened. With a clear conscience, I could return and tell my sister that her husband survived the night. The rest was welcome to disappear into the deep.

One memory though…

Seeing Marco…kissing Marco…

Grief wrapped its fist around my heart and begged me to explain why I was betraying Graham. It squeezed until I had to stop walking and find somewhere to sit.

I had to leave, I tried to explain. 

You didn’t leave, you abandoned them. Now you betray your life with Graham by jumping into the first man’s arms you run across mere weeks after stabbing Graham in the back. How could you? You are vile. You are reckless. You are unworthy.

I gasped and tried to see straight. I wanted to go home. I just wanted to go home.

You abandoned that home. You betrayed him. He will think on you with fear and hate. Hate you deserve.

It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t true…it felt true. 

It is true. 

For what felt like the millionth time, I sent a useless prayer to Helene that she would take care of him. She hates you more than he does. I couldn’t argue with that.

When the smell of smoke overwhelmed me and my eyesight got too blurry to see through and my thoughts too dark to manage, I rummaged in my sack for the small thermos Bessie insisted I bring and I took a sip. The medicine took longer than usual to take effect. Either it was weaker than normal or the darkness had too firm a grip. I took another sip and begged for it to work. 

        One more sip. And one more. 

Drink it all, you’re still a piece of shit.

Nanette…

Annie…

The smoke swirled around me, through me. I choked and saw Closer To You My God’s face staring at me as he lit the tinder. I am not dealing with your fucking bullshit again. Closer swung his cane into my ribs and I couldn’t breathe.

[Heeny, stop. Rest. You aren’t alone.] Maui’s spectre overwhelmed the darkness and left me sitting with him by my side on an English country road. [You aren’t alone. Let go. You won’t fall. You are not alone.]

I missed him so much. The severe thoughts finally retreated to a place where I could manage them. The smoke and tears eased and I got back to my feet. I was at last able to continue my walk back to the tavern.  

“Back already?” the harpy greeted me.

I nodded to her and went straight up the steps. The medicine was making its play for my mind and muscles in a strong way now. I didn’t plan to spend a second longer than I had to on this land I intended to forget. 

I knocked on Seamus’ door until he roused and answered it. “We are leaving. Now.” I leaned hard on the door jamb and struggled to keep my eyes focused.

“Aye, Captain.” He packed his few belongings and helped me out of the tavern and into his cart. I passed out.

Seamus and I returned to his and Aoife’s shack on the water in time for a dinner of fish and what was left of my bread, cheese, and wine. I stayed with them for a week, helping repair the house, stock the larder, and fix their clothes. Our final day, they both walked me out to the Try Your Luck and sent me off with an “until next time.” 

I sailed away, back across the channel. I was not wholly upset to see their land disappear from my sight. Too many bad memories were wrapped up around them, choking off their vision of a future. Between them and Avington I might as well have spent the past week in a graveyard. It was good to be back on the water.