“Amos, I can’t do this.”
Emily’s voice was tight with panic as she turned sharply and paced across the room. Her green dress swished softly with each step, the embroidered hem whispering against the stone floor as she reached the far wall, spun, and paced back again.
I leaned against the table, watching her wear a faint path into the room. “You’ve got this, Em,” I said lightly. “Benjamin and Catherine have fewer complaints about your etiquette than they do about mine.”
“That’s not hard,” she shot back, a hint of irritation slipping through.
“Ouch.” I grinned.
She stopped mid-step. Color crept up her neck as the words caught up with her. Emily lowered her head, fingers tightening in the folds of her skirt. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “You’re nervous.”
“No, it’s not.” Her voice dropped. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
I waved it off. “Why not? This whole situation is my fault anyway. I made you a noble because I thought it would be nice, without stopping to think about what that actually meant.” I straightened a little. “But really, don’t worry. The Bolsters are good people. Even his cousin, who was so stubborn about the math this afternoon, turned out fine once she stopped arguing with me.”
Emily exhaled, but her pacing resumed, slower now. “I’m still going to mess up.”
“Yep.”
She looked up sharply, startled.
I met her eyes. “And so will everyone else at that table. I once insulted all the women at a formal ball without realizing it, because I didn’t understand how tightly a woman’s dowry was bound to her identity in this world. Word spread. People whispered. And then, eventually, it stopped mattering. Life moved on.” I shrugged. “There’s nothing you could do tonight that wouldn’t fade with time or be simply overlooked.”
She hesitated, then glanced down at herself, smoothing the front of her dress. “Does it really look all right?”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “For the last time, yes. You look stunning.” I gestured toward the embroidery. “The stitching alone is better than anything most of them have ever seen, and Roger outdid himself with those dyes. But that’s not the important part.”
She looked up.
“You’re intelligent. You’re polite. And you’re beautiful all on your own,” I said gently.
She crossed the room in two quick steps and wrapped her arms around me.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re not going to embarrass yourself,” I said quietly. Patting her on the back. “And no one is going to embarrass you either. Not if they want to remain in my county.”
She pulled back, nodding, still nervous but steadier now.
I smiled and offered my arm. “Come on. Let’s go pretend to be proper nobles. I even wore shin guards.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Amos, we’re going to dinner, not a football match.”
“I know,” I said solemnly. “They’re just in case you decide to kick me under the table when I make a terrible joke.”
She put her head in her hand and shook it. “How did you ever convince anyone in Kimton that you were a noble?”
I chuckled as we headed for the door. “How indeed.”
*****
We walked into the town hall, where the dinner had been set. William Sr., Jr., and their cousin Heather, the scribe, were already seated and deep in conversation when I entered, Emily only a few steps behind me. The party stood and bowed to me.
"My lords and lady, may I introduce Lady Paper?" I said as Emily stepped up next to me.
Emily bowed low, showing that her station was below them, and they nodded in acknowledgment.
Two servants came over and pulled out our chairs.
Emily was the picture of serenity. Her earlier nervousness was tucked away as she sat.
"Lady Emily, I assume you are from the noble house that made the paper." Baron Bolster said, starting the conversation rolling.
I could tell Emily was going to have a tough time figuring out a proper way to respond, so I spoke up. "Actually, Emily was the one who did most of the work in the creation process of the paper. Her and a handful of others from around the barony of Bicman."
Baron Bolster's eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. "I thought you had mentioned the person who invented paper was a serf in your manor."
"And she was," I said.
William Jr., who had not taken his eyes off of Emily this whole time, asked, "Was she made a noble for inventing paper?"
"No, she was made a lady for killing an assassin while protecting my nephew," I said with a satisfied smirk.
Emily's calm exterior cracked, and her face started to turn a crimson color.
Sorry, Emily, it was bound to come out.
I was proud of her for keeping her posture and body language calm, even though I am sure her heart was ready to beat right out of her chest.
"I don't mean to doubt your claims, but you are telling me that a child killed an assassin,” the baron said in shock.
I leaned forward. "Let me tell it to you as it was explained to me."
So for the next ten minutes, I gave a dramatized retelling of the story as it was told to me. The audience was spellbound, and when I was done, I leaned back in my chair, satisfied.
Emily had regained her calm as I spoke, and when I was done she turned to me. "My Lord Bicman, I believe that your story is somewhat exaggerated."
"That is nonsense, Lady Emily," I said, waving off her objection. "Did you not get thrown against the wall and break your arm while protecting Aaron?"
"Yes, but—"
"Did you not grab his knife and kill him with it?"
"Yes…" she said hesitantly.
"So the story is accurate," I said as if the matter was settled.
I could tell she was trying not to let exasperation leak into her voice as she said, "My lord, I am only concerned with the fact that some of the story is quite embellished."
"What is the point of telling a tale of heroism if you do not add a little seasoning to it?"
Both the Baron and his cousin Heather nodded while Will continued to stare open-mouthed at Emily.
"I agree. And even without the obvious exaggerations, the deed is worthy of the title you received, Lady Paper." Heather said. Heather was all sharp angles and gave off the air of severity upon first meeting her, but she was actually quite meek once the wall came down.
"Thank you for the compliment. Receiving the title was quite a surprise. The name Paper also feels undeserved, especially since most of the work was done with assistance."
"Do not sell yourself short, Lady Paper. I am sure the count is not exaggerating in his praise of you, neither your bravery nor your creativity. What you have accomplished at such a young age is quite astounding," Heather said.
It was at that moment that the food arrived, the tension at the table easing as servants stepped in with trays of steaming fish soup, which was set before us first, fragrant with herbs. Next came Mary’s meat pies, their golden crusts still crackling softly as heat escaped, it was partnered small dishes of a new seasonal experiment—an emulsion of oil and eggs mixed with finely chopped herbs.
My people never ceased to amaze me. I had once described mayonnaise vaguely, explaining that it was made from eggs and oil beaten together, along with other ingredients they would just have to make up. They had taken that half-formed idea and turned it into a quest. What sat beside the pies now was as close as we had come so far.
I felt a surge of relief at the sight of it—and a familiar pang of frustration. Eggs were precious this time of year. It had been a rude awakening when I’d finally accepted that animals didn’t lay year-round. I’d known it in theory, of course, but the reality hadn’t truly struck until the end of the previous summer. Even the kayvers, our most reliable layers, rested through the late fall and winter.
That truth had shattered my assumptions all at once, leaving me with a sudden, profound respect for the endlessly productive chickens of Earth.
I reached for a meat pie and set it carefully on my plate, then added a modest spoonful of the proto-mayonnaise beside it. The pies were still too hot to eat properly, so I turned my attention to the soup, lifting the spoon and taking measured bites.
Lisa’s cooking never disappointed. The broth was rich without being heavy, the fish tender, the herbs balanced just enough to invite another taste. I forced myself to slow down, matching the rest of the participants, mindful of my guests' posture and pace. However good the food was, this was still a formal dinner.
Will was completely focused on the food. Baron Bolster, however, had set his spoon aside. He was studying the dark-amber glass bowls before us. Across from him, Heather lifted her goblet, turning it slowly so the candlelight fractured and danced through the mostly clear glass.
“My lord,” Bolster said at last, tapping one thick finger lightly against the rim of his bowl, “this is the second time I have seen glass at your table. The first was the dish that held the gravy at lunch. Now I find four nearly identical bowls—darkened, heavy with impurities, yet well formed. They even hold hot liquid without shattering.” He looked up at me. “Where did you acquire such pieces?”
That wasn't exactly true. Extreamly hot liquids still shattered, the soup had rested a bit before we poured it into the bowls, but it was getting better. This was just another modern convenience I had taken for granted.
I dabbed my lips with a linen cloth. "Actually, that is the work of our glass makers. They have been working relentlessly to add just the right amount of impurities, as you call them, to get that color."
Bolster’s brow creased. “I would have assumed the color came from poor-quality sand.”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t care for seeing light pass through my broth while I eat. The glass is darkened on purpose.”
Heather let out a short breath, still holding the goblet up to the flame. “William, why concern yourself with the bowls?” she said, her voice edged with quiet excitement. “These cups are the true impossibility.”
Bolster chuckled softly. “I was beginning with what I hoped had a simpler explanation. But you’re right. I’ve never seen glass this clear, nor drawn so thin it nearly disappears when held to the light.”
I smiled inwardly and said nothing.
If they had known how many hundreds of hours had been lost to cracked forms, collapsed walls, and glass that slumped into useless puddles, they would have wept. The set of six cups and six bowls they finally presented me with represented failure piled upon failure—days of experiments, ruined batches, burned hands, and exhausted men squinting into furnaces. Even now, my glassmakers claimed success came as much from luck as skill.
Still, they were getting better.
Bolster smiled and sighed in defeat. "Lord Amos, I believe you made your point."
Heather's face took on a look of understanding, but Will looked between the two of us in confusion. "I am sorry, Father, I do not understand. What point?"
"That he does not need the pass or the wealth that is beyond it. That what we have to offer may not be as valuable to him as we thought. He has shown us where our true value lies. It is in the alliance. An alliance that I am less favorably inclined to take now, might I add."
"Why?"
I grinned and answered for the baron. "Will, there are always risks in life. A treasure is only truly yours if you can defend it against those who wish to take it from you. I have a small population and a few people who can actually make this glass. It means that it becomes almost priceless and only the upper nobility can afford it."
This caused the young man's eyes to go wide. "If anyone discovers you have this…"
"Exactly, and by aligning your House with mine, you share in the risk of sharing my enemies."
Baron Bolster leaned forward. "Therefore, you would have served us with regular tableware unless you were confident you could defend what you have. Or believe that you and your allies could."
I nodded, "In a way. But I cannot truly defend this. There will always be jealous people willing to kill me for the secret. Once it is found possible, people will stop at nothing to acquire that knowledge. They will either steal it or, with enough time, recreate it."
"So what do you propose?"
"With the small number of people I have, I cannot satisfy the needs of everyone. What I could do would be like giving a drop of water to a man in the heat of the day. I need people. You send me glassmakers, and I will turn them into master craftsmen. Two years. You will get 10% of the goods they produce, and after two years, you can have them back when you send them, though I will also need one woodcutter and one miner to assist."
"Only two years. That is quite generous of you. However, you have proven you will soon have enough wealth to not need to hoard your knowledge."
"Yes, I plan to turn North Cove into the greatest center of learning in the world."
"You will still gain enemies even if you share your knowledge," Heather said.
"Of course, but I will soon have allies that no one will want to go against. But that is neither here nor there. What do you say?"
"I assume that this is also for the other things you have as well?" The baron asked.
"Some."
He grinned. "I believe we have a deal.”
"My lord, if I could have the secret of these pies, I would be satisfied," Will said with a slight smile.
I chuckled at the boy's change of topic. He had finished two while the rest of us had not even taken a bite."
Emily gave one of her musical laughs, and Will's ears turned a bright red.
"I am afraid that is outside of my ability to help you with, but perhaps if you ask my cook, Mary, nicely, she will share her secret with you."
The key to the flavor of the meat pie was not just its herbs but the meat grinder I had built for her. Well, actually, it was a bunch of other people who had built it, but I get credit for the idea. The grinder blended the fats and muscle together smoothly, making it rich and flavorful. A huge step up from the hand mincing.
I doubt Mary would let anyone near it, though, not even the king. Especially after those idiots from the demolition team blew up the first one and nearly got themselves killed. Version two, the one created after Lefty blew up his hand, was even better. It was easily disassembled for cleaning and had interchangeable plates.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said.
Rick stepped inside, a grin plastered across his face. “My lord, we’ve received a pigeon from Plimgus. Three Rabiss ships have arrived in Oceanside.”
I waited patiently. Rick would not have looked like that if the news were bad.
“Our people are back,” he said. “All of them.”
The table went very still.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and allowed myself a small smile.
Saran Plimgus
Saran walked into the study that had once belonged to her father. The sharp edge of grief that came with being the last Plimgus had begun to dull, worn down by exhaustion and necessity. She had been given more than enough work to keep her occupied.
Until recently, her life had been carefully prepared for marriage. Mornings spent at the loom, refining her weaving and embroidery. Afternoons practicing the lyre. Quiet meditation. The monotony of keeping the ledger was meant only to ensure she would not embarrass herself as a noble’s wife.
That life no longer existed.
With her family gone, she had become one of the people holding the barony together. For a time, it had been Frederick, Catherine, Elizabeth, Benjamin, and Jacklyn. Then Frederick had departed to reclaim his position in Vaspar. Catherine had left with her cousin John. Benjamin and Jacklyn had been called away to assist in negotiations with another baron who had arrived through the pass unexpectedly.
Now it was just her, Elizabeth, and a handful of trusted individuals, doing their best to keep Plimgus standing.
The weight of it all pressed down on her shoulders, almost crushing in its quiet persistence.
Elizabeth sat at the new desk—one of the Count’s innovations—its surface orderly, stacks of fresh paperwork arranged with care, older records filed neatly away in the drawers beneath.
“Why are you smiling?” Saran asked, eyeing the grin Elizabeth was failing to suppress.
“The village reports came in,” Elizabeth said. “Not a single child died this month. Not even a newborn.”
Saran’s breath caught. “That—that isn’t possible. How?”
“It was Amos,” Elizabeth replied simply. “His inventions. His laws for health care. Every sick child survived. There were deaths, yes, but not one child under the age of ten.”
Saran shook her head slowly. “Is he truly a man,” she murmured, half to herself, “or one of those magicians from the stories he writes? I don’t think anything he does will surprise me ever again.”
Elizabeth only smiled, knowing.
A moment later, Saran was proven wrong.
Voices echoed from the corridor. Footsteps. Saran turned just in time to see a ghost step into the candlelight.
All color drained from her face.
Her brother walked toward her, posture straight where once it had slumped, each step measured, weighted with purpose. The candles along the wall caught his features, illuminating a face she knew down to the smallest line.
But the eyes were different.
No longer trapped. No longer hollow. They held resolve—eyes that weighed the world.
“Kevin,” she whispered, the name tearing free as a broken sound.
The hardness vanished at once. His expression softened into the smile he had always reserved for her.
Her strength gave out.
She sank, palms striking cold granite as tears blurred the world. She couldn’t look up—terrified this was a trick of exhaustion and candlelight, something that would vanish the moment she dared believe.
Then hands caught her. Strong arms lifted her, and she pressed her face against a chest broader than she remembered but unmistakably his.
“I missed you too, Saran,” Kevin murmured, his voice vibrating against her cheek.
She had not believed Amos. She had thought his promise a convenience, a lie meant to keep a traitor’s daughter obedient.
She would never doubt the people's whispers again.
He was more than a man.
He was a Chosen of the Endless One.