The Historian’s Novel

“… And with the findings to your last question being no, I was unable to uncover anything suspicious concerning the decision made by the bookstore owner named Bradley Vendor to move and take care of his aging mother, I conclude my report.”

   Thompson Brown placed a sizeable paper transcript of his findings onto Amelia’s desk. His summary might have been concise, but the details written down for her perusal proved how seriously he took even the lightest request.

   “You didn’t scare him, did you?” Amelia asked, looking up from the part where Thompson told of how his connection who knew a guy, had hired a band of mercenaries to check up on Bradley.

   “Next page,” Thompson said, slipping a finger under the paper he flipped, to where it detailed how the mercenaries had made sure to dress in plain clothes while investigating.

   “Good, then I’m happy,” Amelia said, skimming what remained, until she hit the last page which for some reason, showed only a list of very powerful names.

   Thompson tapped next to them, where it showed a method by which to contact each person.

   “Please, make use of them without holding back,” Thompson said, managing to sound both arrogant, and grateful at the same time, “By putting a roof over my head while my affairs sort themselves out… They’re already in your debt. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better place to hole-up until I can get back to the capital. The security the Strightsworth manor offers in name alone…”

   Amelia’s feet did a happy dance under the desk. She had grown to enjoy these reoccurring meetings with Thompson. Especially since he didn’t mind her having dinner at the same time.

   “I’m glad my father’s house can provide a sense of protection,” Amelia said with a smile, “Now are you sure you don’t want more maple syrup?”

   Thompson considered his plate, which held only a single pancake with barely a dollop of sugary goodness to its name. Then, he looked at Amelia’s monstrosity of a bowl upon which an island of a crepe soggily floated.

   “I don’t really have an appetite right now,” Thompson said.

   More for me then, Amelia thought, as she ate with her left hand and crossed out a few key names on Thompson’s list with her right.

   “Pardon, did I include any names who your family is at odds with?” Thompson asked, curious as to why she would do this.

   Amelia pushed the list back towards Thompson. “Oh, no. They’re just the bad ones. I suggest you cut them loose now before they get caught for collusion and a bunch of crimes I would rather not think much about. But I am thankful for the others.”

She did this, because several of the names on Thompson’s list would soon get killed by Martel Managing. After what had happened to Vanridge, Amelia felt obligated to do what she could in ensuring the safety of those on her side of the fence.

   “But I am thankful for the others.” Amelia said.

    With her recent streak of bad luck, it wouldn’t surprise Amelia to learn Martel this time around planned to kill not only those responsible for his family’s destruction, but everyone even remotely associated with them as well. Including merchants.

   The idea of exposing Martel before he could start dropping people like flies was there of course, but Amelia remained uncomfortable with sharing too much of the future she knew. And she empathised with Martel who had lost everything. Did she have the right to intervene when while reading The Historian’s Novel she had been cheering him on?

   Thompson, whose brow remained furrowed even after considering the scribbled-out names before him, took a deep breath. “I’ll… make sure to be careful,” he said, before sliding out from his chair. “Is there anything else you might want from me?”

   Clearly, the merchant held at least a few suspicions that would bring him to properly look into Amelia’s accusations.

   “Only one more thing,” Amelia said, making sure to drink what remained of the delicious syrup in her bowl before cleaning up with a napkin, “Are you certain the… ‘secret request’ I made, is being done under only your name? I’ll admit to being worried the court mage might think it a joke if he learns I’m responsible for asking he visit.”

   Chuckling as if he couldn’t disagree more, Thompson gathered his stuff, and bowed his head low. “Fear not,” he said, winking in a way that caused Amelia’s tummy to flutter, “the court wizard is a man who I’ve dealt with in the past. A bonafide bloodline specialist, who while eccentric, will not deny you. Which is good for us, because I couldn’t find any other mages not self-isolated in a magical tower.”

   “Which should take about a month…” Amelia said, recalling the details as she admired the perfect workhorse before her.

   “It might seem like a long time; however, I can assure you that for the best results, we wouldn’t want him showing up any sooner.”

   Thompson needn’t explain why. Amelia knew full well there remained a mountain of minute tasks needing doing for the princess’s unveiling to have the greatest effect. Which was fine, since it meant more time to ensure Grace developed a favorable impression of her ‘master’ before their destinies split.

   Offering a lighthearted goodbye, Thompson departed, leaving Amelia alone in her mother’s greenhouse garden where the atmosphere couldn’t be better. It had been a smart choice to let Grace into her mother’s garden; the princess’s positive reaction being the courage Amelia needed to try inviting others inside. Of course, there lay hidden in her psyche a smidgen of worry, that would second guess Thompson’s motivations whenever he showed interest in a flower or tree. Since, while she might claim Grace happened to be the king’s daughter, until the proof was in the pudding, from the merchant’s perspective, Amelia might very well look like an easy mark of a noble with delusions of grandeur.

   When she had asked Grace for her opinion on Thompson, hoping to receive inspiration on what the man might be thinking, the princess instead started ranting about how easy it was to see the reason Thompson visited Amelia every morning, could only be that he liked her. Amelia couldn’t manage a straight face when Grace made bare her feelings with utmost seriousness. Not four days ago when Thompson moved in, nor when the princess appeared soon after the merchant had left in the present.

   “I’m being serious,” Grace said, once Amelia recovered from laughing, “I can tell how he looks at you. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. The man’s got it bad.”

   “And how do you know he isn’t enamored with you?” Amelia asked in return, having caught Thompson peeking at Grace whenever the man thought himself unobserved.

   Grace crossed her arms. “Some things you just know.”

   Amelia found it cute; seeing Grace act like a cat; hissing away about the tom who would surely, any day now, reveal their true colors. Only Grace’s raving this time found itself cut short when the princess remembered her true purpose for visiting and leaned over to whisper.

   “He’s causing a commotion?” Amelia asked, finding the good mood she’d been building all day suddenly flushed right down a drain.

   Grace pulled away to nod her head with pursed lips. “Gregory Rutherford is a rude, entitled, slob of a man,” she said, appearing quite angry about their impromptu guest.

    “He didn’t touch you, did he?” Amelia questioned, worried the Marquess’s son who had shown up out nowhere, might have offended the princess.

   Shrugging as if she didn’t care, Grace suspired while checking her nails. “I’m used to it,” she said, “besides, Heimdall stepped in. And I’ve got to say, that man would make a pretty good bouncer. Also come on, I know how to play it. He didn’t even get the chance to ask for my name.”

   Perplexed, since that could mean a whole lot, Amelia followed Grace to the source of the problem. Learning with every word spoken between them, that unfortunately, the Gregory Rutherford who’d arrived hardly differed from The Historian’s novel.

   What a troublesome man, Amelia thought, when Grace recounted how Heimdall had distracted their guest away from herself, by pointing out that should Gregory wish to meet Havoc, he could always cross the border whenever.

   Heimdall’s way of telling Gregory to go stick his neck in the path of a bullet.

   Amelia could feel a headache beginning to grow as she dreaded an imminent encounter with her so called fiancé. “Can you recount the report on him Thompson gave me?” she asked Grace, hoping to distract herself while they walked.

   Grace harrumphed. Indicating Thompson’s neutral report was about to turn biased.

   “He’s a rich playboy with modestly good looks. Prone to using his father’s money to form connections through parties, his womanizing has caused no small number of terrible rumors. Obviously, complaints against him get resolved before they can become anything larger than hearsay… But Amelia, I really don’t think you should meet the man, he’s a dangerous twit. For heaven’s sake, he showed up unannounced while your dad isn’t here.”

“I think that last one is my fault,” Amelia said.

Grace scoffed in disbelief. “How?”

“A month ago, I drafted a reply to his engagement proposal, in which I tried to make it clear such an important decision would need to be carefully considered by our parents… But I never got around to actually sending it over.”

“Which makes it your fault?”

“Gregory might be here to follow up on why I never wrote back. So, yes.”

“Still don’t see how that stops him from providing due notice.”

Feeling like they might soon begin going in circles, Amelia fell into deep thought, re-considering whether the sudden visit of the Marquess’s son lay with her tepid non-answer to Gregory’s proposal, or the man now causing a hubbub.

Amelia got a sneaking suspicion there might be a different, hidden reason for Gregory’s arrival.

If her intuition were right, then most likely, the Marquess, upon learning of Havoc’s interference with his plans for a barbarian invasion, decided to send his son to find out how the Baron had done it, under the pretense of furthering an engagement.

“Either way, it’s not relevant,” Amelia told Grace, hesitating to open the drawing room door from behind which could be heard a loud voice. “Keep yourself away from him, will you? I don’t think he’ll be brave enough to try anything with me present, but I would have you out of his reach all the same.”

“Want me to bring in a drink and accidentally spill it on him?”

Amelia held off on entering the drawing room till she’d recovered her composure. Unable to stop herself from grinning all silly at her luck for having met the princess whose outlook on life was ever so charming.

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Amelia said, grabbing the doorknob, “there’s no need to antagonise him, can’t you hear the man’s already yelling?”