Difficultatibus Affici

     Holding his suspenders in a light grip, Captain Decker stood on the stairwell outside the pilot house. From his vantage point, he could see down the river and up the embankment which led to the little shotgun cabin that was their port of call. Not that there was anything to see, dusk having faded to twilight. He stared up the shadowy embankment to the invisible treeline. Any time now, one of his crew would pop out, a lone torch. Who? he wondered. Doesn’t matter, he mused, soon as they’re onboard, we set sail. Waiting wasn’t the problem. Sailors know Waiting intimately. No. The riptide in his gut longed desperately to be rolling out into the Sovereign Sea where overgrown river banks would be distant memories. Storm coming, he shuddered. Taking the giant cigar out of his mouth, the captain stared at the embers a moment, and then tossed back his hand to knock the ash into the wind.

Iratae Voces

     Suddenly flooded with brilliant emerald light, the kitchen staff froze. Without giving a second thought to the sudden disco, Preston the Head Cook yelled, “snap to! Hungry people waiting! Go on!” His business as usual attitude hid his shock at seeing a young woman appear out of thin air. He spun towards her with a metal whisk in one hand, saying, “I don’t care who you are. You ever just pop in here like that again, I swear to Mercury, I’ll turn you over my knee! Do you know how close you came to making Scott drop the tray he’s carrying?” For his part, Scott had chosen that moment to disappear through the swinging doors leading into the Dining Hall. Regardless, Preston continued, “damned Royals, just come and go as they please. No consideration for those who slave away making sure they have all the luxuries they need. Ridiculous,” he shook his head as he turned back to the mixing bowl, “if you’re hungry, I suggest you find a seat out there,” he waved the whisk like a magic wand.

Pueris Problematis

     Standing in the foyer of the Chief Justice’s Chambers, Moira Thibodeaux once again stared at the depressing painting of the wrecked ship being pummeled on the rocks which served as its cause of destruction. “Osborne, do you think this place would make a good museum?”

     The young ensign looked at her quizzically, shrugged his shoulders and answered with, “yes ma’am, I believe it would. Might even quiet the rumors about it.” He smiled. “You do know your refusal to live here will cause an uproar. The papers will go nuts.”

     “I certainly hope so,” she said approvingly. “I’ve always been a simple, practical woman. I see nothing sensible about this,” she circled her forefinger, “palace.” She sighed. Turning away from the painting, she walked over to the door through which they’d originally entered. “When we get back to my house, I should like to speak with Colonel Dagon. Can that be quickly arranged?”